Chapter 25 Beau
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Beau
Six days.
That’s how long it’s been since I last saw her. Since that night I heard her voice over the phone, sick and worried about her damn cat, and Simon rushed over before I even had the chance.
I’ve been keeping my distance, like he said we should, but I couldn’t stop myself from sending her things. Broths. Herbal teas. Fresh fruit. Little care packages I left at her door or handed off to Norah.
It was the only way I could feel useful without barging into her space.
Today, though, I finally have a free day. And nothing’s stopping me.
Levi and I push through the café doors midmorning, and the sight nearly knocks me on my ass.
The place is full. Every table taken, the hum of conversation layered over the hiss of the espresso machine and the clink of plates.
It smells like butter and sugar, coffee and cinnamon, and there she is in the middle of it all—flushed cheeks, hair tied back, flour dusting her arm.
My chest pulls tight.
She spots Levi first. I swear I see her face light up in a way that makes something sharp twist in my gut. She wipes her hands on her apron and moves toward him like she can’t help herself.
“I missed you,” she says, and then she’s on her toes, pressing her mouth to his.
I watch it happen.
The kiss, soft but certain, her fingers brushing his jaw. And instead of being jealous, I feel this low heat in my stomach because she’s ours. Mine, too.
When they part, her eyes find mine. My lips tilt, and I step in.
She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waver. She leans right into me, lets me kiss her slow and deep.
God, I could drown in the way she tastes—warm and sweet, like she’s been saving it just for me.
When I finally pull back, my voice is rougher than I want it to be. “What the hell’s going on here, sweetheart?”
She laughs, breathless but glowing. “Getting ready for the festival.”
I blink at her. “You’re doing it? Really?”
Her grin widens as she nods. “Norah registered me yesterday. It’ll be good publicity. And maybe I can make enough to cover some of the repairs.”
Excitement punches through me. “Wren, that’s… that’s huge.” I can’t stop myself from kissing her again, quick and fierce, before Levi nudges my shoulder.
“This does look fun,” he says, his eyes flicking around the packed café. “But I’ve got to head to work.”
She pouts at him, but it’s playful. “Already?”
“Duty calls.” He kisses her once more, lingering just long enough that I know he doesn’t want to leave either. Then he smirks at her. “I’ll take samples, though. Don’t think I won’t.”
She laughs, swatting his arm. “Go.”
He waves at me as he heads out. “Don’t burn the place down, Rhodes.”
“Funny,” I mutter.
And then it’s just me and her again, in the middle of this bustling little café.
“So,” I say, arching a brow. “It’s my day off. You gonna put me to work or what?”
She tilts her head, like she’s debating, but the smile tugging at her lips gives her away. “You sure?”
“Give me an apron.”
She doesn’t waste time. She snatches one from a hook and tosses it at me. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”
I slip it over my head, ignoring the way a couple of locals glance over like it’s some spectacle. I don’t care. If she wants me behind the counter, that’s where I’ll be.
Pancake is stretched out on the windowsill, looking far too smug for a cat that just scared the hell out of us last week.
I step up beside her as she kneads dough, flour streaked across her wrist. “So, what’s the plan? What recipes are you pulling out for this big debut?”
Her expression softens. “Grandma’s. Always Grandma’s.”
Of course. She says it with a reverence that makes my chest ache. I watch her hands move—confident, practiced—and I realize this is more than baking to her. It’s legacy. It’s proof she belongs here, even when she doubts it.
“Show me,” I say quietly.
She glances up. “You really want to?”
“Wren, I want all of it. Teach me.”
Her cheeks flush as she reaches for the recipe card box, the one I know she guards like treasure. She flips it open, fingers brushing the edges of yellowed index cards until she pulls one free.
“Apple butter hand pies,” she says, her smile small but proud. “These won her three Harvest ribbons.”
“Guess we’d better make sure you get the fourth.”
She laughs, shaking her head, and then she’s walking me through it. Mixing. Rolling. Crimping edges.
I let her boss me around, let her laugh at how terrible my lattice looks, and for once in my life, I don’t mind being bad at something. Not if it means watching her glow like this.
Hours slip by. The crowd ebbs and flows. Simon stops in at one point to grab coffee before his shift, and I swear his eyes linger on her longer than they should.
She hands him a cup with a soft smile, and I bite my tongue not to growl. He leaves quickly, though, and it’s just us again, covered in flour, laughing like kids.
At one point, she pulls a tray from the oven, the smell of cinnamon flooding the café. She blows on one of the pies and sets it in front of me.
“Go on,” she teases.
I bite in, the crust flaky, the filling sweet and spiced, and I can’t help the groan that slips out. “Sweetheart, you’re going to win this thing.”
She bites her lip, but I catch the flicker of pride in her eyes.
“Don’t get cocky,” she says, brushing flour on my cheek.
“Too late.”
We work until her hair slips loose, wisps framing her face, and she looks so beautiful I can hardly stand it. I catch myself staring too long, forgetting there are customers, forgetting anything outside this little world we’ve built behind the counter.
At some point, Pancake stretches, yawns, and hops into my lap like he’s claimed me. She laughs at the sight.
“Guess he approves of you.”
“Guess he’s smart.”
Her laugh is soft, but her gaze lingers. There’s something in the way she looks at me then—like she knows exactly how far I’ve fallen, and she’s not sure whether to catch me or let me drop.
Either way, I’m already gone.
By the time the afternoon rush dies down, the kitchen is full of cooling racks and the scent of sugar. She leans against the counter, wiping sweat from her temple, and I pull off the apron.
“Not bad for a firefighter,” she says.
“Not bad for a café owner,” I shoot back.
Her smile lingers.
And then, because I can’t stop myself, I reach for her hand. “You’re really doing this. The festival. The café. All of it.”
“I have to,” she says softly. “It’s the only way forward.”
“You’re not alone, Wren,” I remind her.
Her throat bobs, her fingers squeezing mine. “I know.”
I realize two things in quick succession. I am definitely in love with this girl. And I’d do anything to make sure she never doubts it again.