5. Chapter 5
Phoenix
The Honeysuckle Ridge town square looks like a Norman Rockwell painting caught in the blast of a craft store explosion.
Red, white, and blue bunting drapes from every lamppost, vendors are setting up booths selling everything from handmade soaps to barbecue sauce, and the high school marching band is tuning their instruments near the gazebo.
I’ve been to plenty of high-end charity events in my career—suit-and-tie galas, black-tie balls—but there’s something about this small-town festival that feels more real. Like it actually means something.
Then I spot Gigi.
She’s standing behind a table that looks like it was decorated by a patriotic fairy godmother, arranging what has to be at least two hundred cupcakes in perfect rows.
She’s wearing faded jeans, a red t-shirt, and her hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail under a star-spangled kerchief.
She moves with focused efficiency. The kind that says she’s been up since dawn. Or earlier.
“You're late,” she says without looking up as I approach.
I check my watch. “I’m exactly on time.”
“On time is late. Early is on time. Late is fired.” She finally glances up, and I swear I catch the tiniest flicker of approval in those sharp green eyes as she takes in my jeans and plain white t-shirt. “At least you didn’t show up in a Hart Health uniform.”
“I do own normal clothes.”
“Shocking.” She gestures toward a stack of folding tables leaning against a nearby tree. “Those need to be set up for the overflow display. Think you can handle that without pulling a muscle?”
I bite back a laugh. “I think I can manage.”
For the next twenty minutes, we work in surprisingly easy silence.
I set up tables while Gigi arranges cupcakes with military precision.
Every now and then, she barks out an instruction—“Not there, over here,” or “Make sure they’re level”—but there’s nothing mean about it.
She just knows exactly how she wants things done.
I can respect that. Even if a small voice in the back of my head reminds me that I’m supposed to be building rapport… for a reason that has nothing to do with respect.
“So, about the message from your parents…” I say.
“Not another word about that,” she commands.
“You know,” I say, adjusting a tray of red velvet cupcakes, “you’re pretty bossy for someone who owns a bakery.”
“You’re pretty compliant for someone who used to be famous.”
“Used to be? My team won the Super Bowl five months ago.”
She shrugs, not looking up from her tray of star-shaped cookies. “Fame is fleeting. Buttercream is eternal. ”
Despite myself, I laugh. “Is that going on a T-shirt?”
“Already ordered them. They’ll be ready next week.”
I can’t tell if she’s joking. “I’ll buy two.”
She laughs, and it’s the best sound in the world.
A family with three kids approaches the booth, and I watch her entire vibe shift. The laser-focus melts away, replaced by genuine warmth as she crouches to the kids’ level.
“What do you think?” she asks the youngest, a girl who can’t be more than five. “Red velvet or chocolate chip?”
“Both!” the little girl says, beaming.
The mom laughs. “You get the chocolate chip, and I’ll get the red velvet. We’ll share.”
I watch Gigi’s face as they walk away. There’s something wistful there. Not bitter—just a soft ache that says she’s imagining what it might’ve been like to have a mom like that.
Another family steps up to the booth. As the kids make their selections, Gigi chats with the parents about the festival schedule and her favorite local bands, and I realize this isn’t just a job to her. Every interaction is thoughtful. Every recommendation is personal.
It’s not like the corporate charity events I’ve attended, where every detail is focus-grouped and filtered for brand alignment.
“You’re good at this,” I tell her after the family moves on.
“Good at what?”
“Making people feel like they matter.”
She pauses mid-reach, eyes flicking to mine.
“They do matter. Mrs. Wilkinson over there?” She nods toward an older woman sitting on a bench.
“She’s been coming to my bakery every Tuesday for three years to buy a single chocolate chip muffin.
Not because she loves them, but because her late husband did.
It’s a way to feel close to him.” She points toward a face-painting booth.
“That’s Emma. She’s saving for art school.
I buy her paintings and hang them in the shop. She’s incredible.”
The guilt hits me like a linebacker at full speed.
She’s talking about honoring people. Connecting with them. Seeing them. And I’m standing here with an ulterior motive tangled around my presence like a noose.
I only walked into her shop in the first place because her parents paid me to.
The worst part? I don’t even need the money.
I was one of the highest-paid wide receivers in the league before I retired.
Between my contracts and endorsement deals, I could coast comfortably for the rest of my life.
When Catherine Hart offered me a bonus to help ease Gigi into a conversation about rejoining the family brand, I didn’t do it for the cash.
I did it for the challenge.
It sounded easy. A short detour. Win over the bakery rebel, convince her to hear them out, and walk away with a tidy bonus and a nod of appreciation from the Harts.
But nothing about this feels easy anymore.
I follow her gaze, taking in the festival around us—the booths, the volunteers, the little kids in flag shirts, the parents juggling lemonade and lawn chairs.
“You know everyone, don’t you?”
A tiny smile dances on her lips. “It’s a small town. Of course, I know everyone.”
But it’s more than that, and we both know it.
Gigi isn’t just part of the community—she is the community. She belongs here in a way I don’t think I’ve ever belonged anywhere.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. It buzzes again. Then again.
“You should probably get that,” Gigi says, nodding toward my pocket. “Might be important.”
I glance at the screen: three missed texts from Catharine Hart.
How’s it going with Georgina?
Remember, we need her to at least hear us out.
Let me know if you need any additional incentive to close this deal.
I shove the phone back into my pocket, jaw tight.
I thought this would be a professional favor—a clean assist in a family negotiation. But now it feels like a setup. One I walked straight into.
Gigi catches the change in my expression.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. Just… work stuff.”The lie sticks in my throat like a dry protein bar.
I try to shake it off. “Your parents have no idea what you do, do they?”
She stills, hands frozen over a tray of flag-themed sugar cookies. For a second, I think she’s going to make a joke—deflect, like always.
Instead, she looks up at me, eyes guarded.
“No,” she says softly. “They really don’t.”
We stand there for a beat. Quiet. The kind of silence that says too much.
Then a group of teenagers descends on the booth like seagulls on a dropped funnel cake, and the moment passes.
But as I watch Gigi laughing with them, making each person feel like they’re the most important customer she’s ever had, I realize something that should’ve been obvious the second I walked into her bakery.
I’m not here to convince her to take her parents’ offer.
I’m here because I can’t seem to stay away from her.
And that’s a problem I definitely didn’t see coming.