Chapter 29 Wrenley
Wrenley
I’m pacing outside a brick building with a sign that reads Batter Up Bakery with a caricature of a slightly greasy-looking man that feels more suited to a sports bar than a place selling cupcakes.
Yesterday with Ruger was both amazing and also a terrible idea.
I’d managed to avoid sleeping with him since the bridal party, convincing myself that putting a little distance between us would somehow make the decision easier.
Instead, all it did was make me miserable.
Then yesterday happened. The way he looked at me and made me forget all my troubles was an aphrodisiac I was not prepared for.
And the worst part is, even after that, I’m still no closer to knowing what I should do. Los Angeles is still sitting in my inbox while Alaska is wrapped around my heart.
The only thing I’ve managed to decide is that I can’t keep carrying this alone, so thank God I’m seeing Remi today and there will be copious amounts of cake.
I’m late! I know! Remi calls as she hurries up the block.
The relief at seeing my best friend is indescribable.
I want to throw my arms around her, but I know she’d hate that, so instead, I settle on just saying, Hey! No worries.
A bell jingles as we step inside, and I immediately do a double take.
Behind the counter, against a backdrop of mint and blush walls, stands a man who looks exactly like the picture on the sign.
His hair is long and greasy, his beard unkempt, and his whole look is less Pinterest wedding and more grunge band that never made it big.
Hey, Soup, Remi says casually. How are you?
Soup. She wasn’t kidding. Soup is real.
The man grunts, Yep.
Remi carries on like this is normal. We’re here for the tasting.
Yep. He blinks slowly, expressionless.
You know, you should probably wear a hairnet, Remi suggests.
Yep.
I shuffle closer to her and whisper, Okay, I have to know. Why is he called Soup?
Because no one’s ever seen him eat anything else. Town started calling him that decades ago.
That’s it?
That’s it.
Okay, but is he… like… filling in for someone?
Nope. He’s the baker. And trust me, you haven’t lived until you’ve had his ganache.
I stare at him, skeptical. This feels like being told Bigfoot runs a Michelin-star kitchen.
Soup. Remi snaps her fingers. Hairnet.
He disappears into the back and returns with two hairnets—one for his head and one stretched over his beard, hooked around his ears like some kind of bizarre bridal veil.
He stares at us, silent.
The cakes? Remi prompts.
Yep. He vanishes again.
Remi gestures toward a tiny pastel cafe table near the display case. We peel off our coats and scarves, shivering from the cold front that’s blown in.
I so need some cake, Remi says. This whole selling my book for a TV show thing is stressful.
What’s going on? I ask.
Remi lets out a dramatic sigh. Apparently, selling your rights is the fun part. After that, it becomes a lot of waiting while other people make decisions about your baby.
I wince. That sounds tough.
It is, she says, slouching forward and resting her forearms on the table between us. They’ve kept me on as a consultant, which sounds more important than it is. Really, it just means they occasionally ask my opinion in the million meetings we’ve had.
She runs her hands over her face, leaving her bangs sticking up in all directions.
I can tell them why a scene will or will not work, but at the end of the day, it’s not my decision.
The production company owns the rights. The writers write.
The producers produce. I mostly sit around and hope they don’t turn my beloved characters into something I don’t recognize.
I nod, completely understanding. In many ways, Remi is going through something similar to what I am. Her future feels uncertain and intimidating, but at the same time, it’s attached to an opportunity so big she’d be crazy not to take it.
Do you have a production schedule yet? I ask.
She shakes her head. Nope. Last I heard, they were still finalizing scripts and figuring out if they’re going to do it on location or in a studio. It’s very much in the developmental stages, which is apparently a lot of meetings. At this point, they’re thinking it’ll start filming in a year.
That’s a long time.
That’s television, she says. It’s crazy to think that a year from now, my life could look totally different, but right now, I just have to wait and trust the process.
Soup reemerges with a tray of bite-sized cake samples. They look divine… though I still scan for stray hairs.
So, we’ll try these and let you know? Remi asks.
Yep. He drops the tray off and disappears again like a cryptid retreating to its cave.
Does he know any other words? I ask.
Remi thinks for a beat. I’m not sure. But I usually ask yes or no questions.
You literally just asked him how he was doing.
And he answered. ‘Yep’ means good.
What if he wasn’t good?
She shrugs. ‘Nope.’
We both laugh, and it feels good to let go for even a few seconds and simply enjoy being with my best friend.
Here. Remi turns the tray so a sunny yellow cake with thick white icing is in front of me. This is my personal favourite. It’s a lemon cake with his signature ganache.
I take a fork, do one last hair scan, and pop a bite into my mouth.
Oh. My. God.
It’s velvet on my tongue, rich lemon brightened by silky ganache, balanced by cream cheese frosting that’s so perfect I might cry. I close my eyes and let out a small, involuntary moan.
Good, right? Remi grins.
I nod furiously. Words are pointless now. Cake is life.
Remi tries a chocolate piece, melts into her chair, and sighs. Chocolate espresso.
Remi is scanning the tray for her next victim, but I just pick at the icing on the cake currently on my plate.
I watch as she selects two different samples, one white with some kind of fruit in it and another chocolate with a layer of jam.
Her eyes are wide with excitement, like she’s been given the greatest responsibility known to mankind.
The more I watch her, the more I know she’s my person.
She’s chaotic and unapologetic about who she is and what she wants, right down to helping herself to two cake samples that technically I should be trying since it is my wedding.
But I don’t care, because I trusted her with bringing me to Alaska, so why wouldn’t I trust her opinion on cake? Or Tammie Roswell’s offer?
If I can’t tell her about the email, what chance do I have of telling Ruger?
Remi, can I talk to you about something?
She freezes, cake halfway to her mouth. Did you want to try these ones?
I let out a breathy chuckle. No.
I reach into my purse and pull out my phone, tapping through my inbox until I find the email. Then I slide the phone across the table.
Without asking any questions, Remi shoves the bite of cake into her mouth and takes it.
I tap my foot nervously beneath the table while her eyes move across the screen. At first, her expression is focused, but as she keeps reading, her brows lift higher and higher. By the time she sets the phone down, she’s stopped chewing and just stares at me.
Slowly, she swallows.
Wrenley. The way she says my name makes my stomach drop. Is this real?
I checked the email address three times and compared it to the fashion house’s website, I say. I’m pretty sure it’s real.
Holy shit. She picks up the phone again, her eyes scanning it faster this time. Holy shit!
I’m going to need more than that.
Who’s Tammie Roswell?
I let out a slow breath because where do I begin?
She was one of the more senior executives at my ex’s company.
Her opinion could make or break a collection.
She was brilliant, terrifying, and never once softened a critique to spare someone’s feelings.
She tore apart many of my designs over the years, but every single time, they came back stronger because of it.
I shake my head. Then one day, she just left with no warning.
She decided she was done and moved to Los Angeles.
A few months later, everyone was talking about the incredible job she landed and how she’s somehow managed to come out even further ahead.
And she’s seeking you out?
I nod slowly, still hardly believing it myself, and I’ve had days to sit with this.
She puts down the phone and looks at me. Wren, this is huge.
I know.
Remi’s mouth drops open, and she shakes her head in disbelief. I mean, this is exactly what we were hoping for. You have to do this, Wrenley—this kind of opportunity isn’t going to come again. They already want to talk to you, and this Tammie woman is personally making introductions. This is—
Ruger, I cut her off before she can keep painting the life I thought I’d never have.
The second his name leaves my mouth, the excitement in her expression drains away, replaced by understanding.
Oh. She sinks back into her chair. Right.
I didn’t say it, but after our hike, I was convinced this was the place for me, I say.
I could actually picture a future that made me happy.
I couldn’t imagine leaving all of this just to move to a city where I’d spend every day fighting for a career I thought I needed when I’m already working a job I love here.
I don’t know when it happened, but Fabric Delights stopped feeling like this volunteer position to pass the time and started feeling like the life I actually wanted.
Remi nods but doesn’t say anything.
But now, this opportunity is here, and it’s hard to say no, I admit.
I care about Ruger so much that part of me wants to delete this email and pretend I never saw it.
But what you said, about how I spent years building my life around someone else’s plans, is so true.
Maybe saying no is the right choice right now, but what if it isn’t?
What if ten years from now, I’m bitter because I did what I did with my ex again?
What if I sacrificed my prime working years for love and never gave myself a chance to see how far I could go?