Chapter 12
Twelve
Caroline
The bCarolinena bread was a peace offering, but also a test.
I woke early, spent the better part of an hour mashing bCarolinenas and measuring flour, then stood in my tiny kitchen second-guessing the recipe. I hadn’t baked for anyone but Adele in years. For all I knew, Noah hated walnuts or was gluten intolerant.
But I brought it anyway, wrapped in a tea towel and still warm.
The café was closed when I arrived. I tapped on the glass, feeling like a stalker, but Noah was already inside, prepping for the day. He unlocked the door and let me in.
“You’re early,” he said, smiling like it was a good thing.
I held up the bread. “Thank you for saving my car. I hope you like bCarolinena bread.”
He laughed. “Are you kidding? It’s my favorite.”
He poured two coffees, motioned for me to sit at the counter, and sliced the bread thick. The place was quiet, just the hum of the cooler and the faint drip of the espresso machine.
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. The bread was good—moist, not too sweet. He told me so more than once, in between bites.
“Can I ask you something?” he said, after a while.
“Sure.”
“What kind of work are you looking for?”
I took a breath. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve never had a ‘real’ job. I ran a lot of charity events, did PTA stuff, helped Richard with his business dinners. But nothing that counts, I guess.”
He shook his head. “That all counts. You ran a household for years. That’s harder than anything I do here.”
I smiled, but it felt brittle. “I just want to be useful. Or, I don’t know—matter again.”
He poured more coffee. “Sometimes the hardest part isn’t finding a job. It’s believing you’re worthy of something new.”
The words landed like a stone in my chest. For a second, I was afraid I’d cry.
Instead, I said, “What about you? Did you always want to run a coffee shop?”
He considered. “It wasn’t the dream. But I like building things. I like giving people a place to belong.”
I could see that. The shop was as much a home for him as it was for any of the regulars.
We finished the bCarolinena bread. He packed up the leftovers and said, “Bring more anytime.”
I promised I would, and meant it.
On my way out, I noticed the “Help Wanted” sign in the window. I thought about asking, but something told me I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
I walked home with a weird sense of lightness, like maybe I hadn’t failed at everything after all.
And for the rest of the day, whenever I got another rejection email, I just pictured Noah’s grin and the way he said, “It all counts.”
Maybe, for the first time, I almost believed it.
Noah
The second Caroline walked out, the mood in the café flipped like a fucking switch.
I wiped down the counter, checked the door, then headed for the back office. Marco was already waiting, perched on the edge of my desk like he owned the place.
He didn’t waste time. “You see this?” He tossed a folder onto the desk. “Richard Carter. Guy’s been busy.”
I glanced through the pages—bank statements, wire transfers, all of it screaming “hiding assets.” Amateur hour, but enough to cause trouble for anyone who didn’t know the game.
“We can shut him down tonight if you want,” Marco said. “Move fast, he won’t see it coming.”
I looked past him, through the frosted glass, at the window where Caroline had just been sitting. “Not yet,” I said. “Let him think he’s got time. He’s already wrecked her life once.”
Marco nodded, understanding right away. “You call the shot.”
I closed the file, slid it back across the desk. “Watch him. Don’t make a move until I say.”
“Got it, Boss.” He stood, cracked his knuckles, and disappeared into the hallway.
I sat in the quiet, hands folded, thinking about all the ways I could end Carter if I wanted. But none of them would fix what he did to Caroline. None of them would give her back the twenty-five years he’d stolen.
So I waited.
Some problems, you solve with money. Others, with force.
This one? It needed something different.
It needed patience.
And I had all the time in the world.