Chapter 26 Wren
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Wren
By the third day of pie crusts, my hands ache. My wrists are sore, there’s flour in my hair, and the kitchen smells like butter and apples, no matter how much I crack the windows.
I’ve tried lattice tops, double crusts, and even hand pies. None of them feels good enough.
Tomorrow is the Harvest Festival, and every time I blink, I see rows of ribbons and judges’ faces. So, when Norah bangs open the café door and calls my name, I almost drop the rolling pin.
“We don’t have time for this,” I protest, brushing flour off my apron as she marches toward me. “I need to perfect the crust. I can’t get the flakiness consistent. If the judges bite into a tough edge, it’s over.”
Norah rolls her eyes, seizing my hand like she’s rescuing me from a burning building. “It’s one pie contest, not the end of the world. Come on.”
“I can’t.” My voice edges on frantic as she drags me toward the door. “I need every second. The event starts tomorrow. If I don’t get this right—”
“Wren.” She tightens her grip and pulls me outside. “You’re coming with me. No arguments.”
My pulse is still racing as we step into the autumn air. The sun slants low, gilding the leaves that blanket the sidewalks in shades of amber and gold. The town square is only a block away, and as soon as we turn the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.
“Oh,” I whisper.
It’s beautiful.
The square has been transformed into something out of a storybook. Twinkling lights loop from lamppost to lamppost, weaving a canopy over the cobblestone walkways. Stalls line the edges, each one draped in rich autumn colors—deep burgundy, pumpkin orange, harvest gold.
Baskets overflow with gourds and apples. Children run past with caramel on their cheeks. The air smells like cinnamon, roasting nuts, and hay.
My heart lurches. Because in all my rushing, all my obsessing over butter ratios and blind bakes, I never thought about this part.
“I don’t have a booth,” I say faintly, panic prickling the edges of my chest.
Norah squeezes my hand, dragging me through the crowds that are already gathering to watch the setup. “Calm down. Everything is sorted.”
“How can it be sorted? I didn’t—”
We round a corner, and she stops, a smug smile tugging her lips. “See for yourself.”
I do. And my breath catches.
There it is.
My booth.
Not just a table with a cloth thrown over it. Not something thrown together at the last minute. No, this is… gorgeous.
The structure itself is wooden, with sturdy beams framing the space and a peaked awning painted a cream color. Strands of warm lights crisscross above, catching on a carved wooden sign that reads: Wren’s Café – Homemade with Heart. The letters are burned into the grain itself, dark and elegant.
The counter stretches wide enough for trays of pies, with shelves built underneath for storage. Two flower boxes hang at the front, brimming with mums in orange and gold, their blooms spilling color like fire.
I press a hand to my mouth. “No,” I whisper. “You didn’t…”
Norah grins wider. “Oh, I didn’t.”
And then I see them.
Levi is leaning against one of the posts, arms folded, his paramedic jacket unzipped, a smirk on his lips.
Simon stands beside him, in his usual button-down, sleeves rolled up, hair mussed like he ran a hand through it too many times.
Beau’s there too, towering, his plaid shirt stretched across his chest, cheeks pink like he’s been working.
My voice comes out shaky. “You—”
“Construction crew handled the heavy lifting,” Beau says quickly, but his grin gives him away. “We just… supervised. And maybe hammered a few nails.”
Simon raises an eyebrow. “Or dropped them.”
“Hey,” Beau mutters.
Levi chuckles. “Point is, it’s yours.”
I turn in a slow circle, drinking it in. The craftsmanship. The details. The fact that someone thought this through when I didn’t even realize what I’d need. My throat tightens, tears pricking at the back of my eyes.
“You did this for me?” My voice cracks.
Norah answers for them. “Of course they did. Because you, my friend, are going to kill it tomorrow.”
I laugh through the sudden sting in my chest, throwing my arms around her. Then I move to each of them, hugging them hard.
Levi squeezes me so tight my feet leave the ground. Beau smells like sawdust and cinnamon, his embrace warm and solid. Simon lingers last, grabbing something from what seems like a small cooler.
I glance down. An ice cream cone, already starting to melt.
“Thought you could use one,” he says softly.
I laugh, tears spilling over as I take a lick. “You remembered.”
“I don’t forget promises.” His eyes catch mine, gray and unwavering.
I swallow hard, the sweetness of vanilla hitting my tongue, melting faster than I can keep up. And somewhere inside me, something else melts too.
Because I’ve never had this. People who show up. Who thinks I’m worth the effort. Who believe in me, not just in what I can bake, but in me.
My father never did. He believes in control. My mother believes in surviving. I’ve believed in scraping by, in doing what I could with what little I had.
But this—this booth, this ice cream, these people—it’s belief without strings. It’s support that doesn’t demand repayment.
It’s love, even if no one has said the words yet.
I blink at the three of them, my chest aching.
Shit.
I’m in love with them.
All three of them.
The realization rocks through me so fast I almost stumble. But when I look at them—at Levi’s quiet grin, at Beau’s eager, boyish pride, at Simon’s steady gaze—I don’t feel afraid. I feel… safe. Like maybe for the first time in my life, falling isn’t the same thing as breaking.
Norah nudges me, whispering, “Told you.”
I laugh, shaky and full, clutching the ice cream like it’s proof I’m not dreaming.
I can’t believe this is my real life.
I’m still wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand when a familiar voice cuts through the hum of the square.
“Well, look at you.”
I turn, and Riley stands there, clipboard tucked under her arm, her auburn hair pulled into a sleek ponytail that makes her look like she’s about to host a national broadcast.
Her smile is warm, but her eyes have that sharp judge’s glint I’ve seen before when she’s sorting through contests and competitions.
“Riley,” I say, stepping forward to hug her, careful not to smear ice cream on her shirt. “Hey.”
She hugs me back, then leans away, giving me a slow once-over. “So, this is the famous booth I’ve been hearing whispers about.”
My stomach flips. “Whispers?”
“Small town, sweetheart. You know how it goes.” She nods toward the men lingering behind me. “Word is your booth is going to be stiff competition. But don’t worry—Cora and June are both in it too, and I’m the judge, so I’ll make sure everything is fair.”
Cora and June. Of course, they’d be competing. My stomach tightens as the reality sets in. They’ve been baking for years, their names practically etched into the town’s dessert lore.
And here I am, still dusting flour off my apron, trying to convince myself I even belong in the lineup.
“Fair,” I echo, swallowing hard.
Riley softens, reaching out to squeeze my arm. “Hey. Don’t look like that. You’ve got skill, Wren. I’ve tasted it myself. All you have to do is bring that heart of yours into your pie, and you’ll be fine.”
Her encouragement helps, but it doesn’t erase the weight pressing on my chest. Still, I smile and thank her, promising I’ll see her tomorrow at the contest.
She waves at Norah, tosses the guys a knowing look, and then disappears into the crowd with the efficiency of someone who knows she’ll be busy from dawn till dusk tomorrow.
I exhale slowly.
Norah turns to me, linking her arm through mine. “Okay. Enough mooning over the booth. We’ve got pastries to plan if you don’t want to run out tomorrow.”
That’s a good point. The pie contest is tomorrow, but the booth itself has to survive the entire festival weekend. I’ll need more than pies to keep people hanging around.
“You’re right,” I murmur, glancing back at the guys. “Thanks again,” I call, waving as they prepare to head back.
Beau flashes me that cinnamon grin. Levi lifts a hand in his quiet way. Simon tilts his head at me like he can see straight into my chest, even across the square.
Then they go, the three of them disappearing through the crowd, and I can still feel the warmth of their presence long after they’re gone.
Back inside the café, the quiet wraps around me like an apron, and I roll my shoulders. Norah drops her bag on a chair and heads straight for the counter. “Do we have everything?”
I nod. “Sugar, flour, butter. Enough for at least three batches of muffins and cookies, plus scones if I start early.”
Norah claps her hands once. “Perfect. Then let’s get to work.”
We start prepping, the two of us moving in sync, the way only best friends can. She chops apples while I measure cinnamon. She rolls out the dough while I set up the trays.
For a while, it’s just the sound of mixing bowls and the low hum of the oven preheating. But as I scoop filling into pastry shells, my mind wanders, circling back to the conversation from earlier.
“Norah,” I say carefully, “have you… seen him yet?”
Her hands still for a fraction of a second, then resume. “Dorian?” She shakes her head, tossing her braid back over her shoulder. “No. And he knows better than to come near me.”
“Are you okay?”
She chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m fine. That was years ago. We were kids who thought we knew everything. He wanted one thing, I wanted another, and in the end, we walked separate ways. Best thing that could’ve happened, honestly.”
There’s a sharpness in her voice, a shield she puts up whenever the past brushes too close. I don’t push. She’s told me bits and pieces—enough to know Dorian hurt her in ways that left marks she doesn’t show.
I nod, sliding a tray into the oven. “If you say so.”
She levels me with a look, softer this time. “I do.” Then she tilts her head, studying me. “But enough about me. How are you handling your men?”
Heat rushes up my neck before I can stop it. “My—they’re not—”
“Oh, please.” She grins, wicked and warm all at once. “I’ve known you too long, Wren. You’ve got that glow.”
“What glow?” I mutter, turning to busy myself with the flour.
“The glow of someone who’s thoroughly adored.” She laughs when I swat at her. “Don’t bother denying it. I saw the way they looked at you today. And I saw the way you looked back.”
I press my lips together, but she’s not wrong. The truth sits heavy in my chest, warm and terrifying. I’ve never been so happy. Never felt so… full.
It’s overwhelming, this sense that three men care about me, not for what I can give them, not because they want control, but because they see me.
Norah’s voice softens. “You deserve it, you know. After everything.”
I blink hard, fighting tears again. “I don’t even know how to handle it.”
“Don’t overthink.” She squeezes my hand across the counter. “Just… let yourself have it.”
The oven timer dings, breaking the moment, and I slide out a tray of golden scones. The smell of butter and cinnamon fills the air.
I close my eyes and breathe it in.