Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
Caroline
When Noah texted the next morning, it was just two words: “Get dressed.”
He picked me up in a battered Jeep that reeked of coffee grounds and old cologne, a far cry from the sleek black SUVs I’d seen him in before. I teased him about it, and he laughed, saying, “Can’t scare the neighbors with the mobster caravan every time.”
He drove us to the bakery space again. But this time, the plywood over the windows was gone, and inside, every flat surface was covered with giant sheets of paper.
Blueprints.
He unlocked the door and pulled me inside.
I stood there, stunned. On the tables were sketches—some rough, some impossibly beautiful—of exactly the place I’d described: a wall of books, flower boxes, even the silly idea I’d had for a “kids’ baking bar” where little ones could roll their own dough.
He’d gotten every detail, even the ones I hadn’t thought he’d heard.
“I found an architect who owed me a favor,” he said, hands in his pockets, eyes a little shy. “I told her to design whatever you wanted.”
I turned, tears threatening. “Noah, I can’t—this is—”
He stepped close, lifting my chin with a fingertip. “I’m not asking you to sign anything today. I just want you to see what’s possible.”
I blinked, tried to memorize every line, every hope I’d thought I’d given up on.
He handed me a mug of coffee, waited while I took it all in.
“I want you to have what you want,” he said quietly. “Even if it scares you. Especially if it does.”
I almost broke down then and there.
Instead, I hugged him, tight as I could, and buried my face in his chest.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He didn’t let go for a long time.
On the drive home, I stared at the plans in my lap, fingers tracing the imagined tables, the tile floor, the windows full of light.
For the first time, the dream wasn’t just a secret fantasy.
It was a real place, waiting for me.
All because one man believed in it—and in me—enough to make it real.