Chapter 7
S o, no, Cupcake didn’t burn down while I was away.
I stood in the modest commercial kitchen that I painstakingly put together piece by stainless steel piece, a proud employer and friend.
Everything was so clean and shiny, I could practically see my face in the metalwork benches. The utensils were hung perfectly over each station, and the floors gleamed and shone.
I patted Big Boss, a 40 qt. cake mixer and bench combo—and my pride and joy—on my way through to check on things in the walk-in fridge. And I couldn’t help the smile that lifted my lips at what I saw.
It seemed Kate, or actually, maybe it was Blake, had gone to town with my label maker. Because instead of just displaying the dates, each airtight container label had emojis on either side of the cursive lettering and numbers—I didn’t even know the little gadget had that function.
I was proud of Kate; she’d held down the fort like a champ, and once again I felt gratitude for having such a wonderful and reliable person in my life. Everything was orderly and organized—perfect for me to jump straight in tomorrow morning.
Seeing how lovely she’d left it all, I contemplated staying and getting a jump start on the prep for tomorrow, but if I was being honest, I wanted to stay in vacation mode just a little while longer.
Spinning on my heel and walking through the two-way door, I headed to the front of the shop, switching all the lights off as I went.
Annoyingly, the only way to get to my apartment from here was to exit the shop and lock up from the outside, which I did, and then, walking four paces to the right, I opened the next door and ascended the flight of steps that led to my little home above the shop.
I did ask Scott several times to build me a secret hatch or something so I could just get up there from the inside. Of course, he’d scoffed and listed all the reasons it wouldn’t be up to code.
Scott.
My whole body lit up at the thought of him. How was it possible to miss a person as much as I did when he’d only dropped me off an hour ago?
I’d been spoiled, that’s how—nearly four whole days of uninterrupted quality time spent with him. No work to get in the way, just fun, sun, hockey, and surprise weddings.
And I could have sworn we’d had a moment. The way he’d looked at me. It was almost as if he’d wanted to kiss me. A laugh bubbled out of me. No, it must have been the tequila shots and my vivid imagination. Sitting on the sand, the water lapping at the shore, and both of us bathed in moonlight made for a romantic scenario, and I was getting carried away.
What I absolutely couldn’t deny was that I hadn’t had so much joy, crammed into so few days, in what felt like forever. But the withdrawal was about to set in.
I’d have to wean myself off of him cold turkey as real life came hurtling back.
Back to how it should be. Twenty-four-hour shifts. Patchy days of a few hours here and there. My alarm going off at 5 a.m. five days a week.
It was going to be hard. But necessary.
This was what I wanted. What I’d dreamed of while perfecting buttercream frosting as a kid.
After attending culinary school—where I earned a dual degree in pastry and bakery arts alongside business and marketing—to then working a few stints in Verona and Paris, living the pastry chef life, it was time to knuckle down and build this dream from the ground up.
Eight years prep.
My entire twenties were spent up to my elbows in dough and coursework, all so I could create this little slice of heaven.
It was small and quaint, the plumbing left a lot to be desired, and even Big Boss was an ex-showroom model, but it was mine. All mine.
And now that all the hard work was done, now the long days spent in hellish kitchens run by incredibly talented, hot-headed, egotistical, tyrannical chefs were over, and the endless nights slaving over my computer or cramming for a degree I’d spent double the time earning were behind me, those tiny aches I felt for my best friend had become sharper.
Become more incessant.
No longer quieted by distance or exhaustion. Now he was right there in front of me, living on my very street, working in my neighborhood.
Every time he and his truck left the firehouse, I’d hear the wailing sirens and the drone of the bullhorn, even from here. Then, more often than not, the truck would flash past my shop window. At night, I’d hop out of bed and watch that juggernaut head off into awaiting danger through a gap in the curtains.
Then of course I’d have to wait for him to return, wait for the sound of the gassy pumps and groaning breaks as they crawled back up the street to the house. And yes, I’d lost nights of sleep waiting for those sounds.
It was such a waste, to feel all this for someone who was never going to want me back. But what was a girl to do?
“Move on!” my head screamed. “Put these feelings to bed and move on.”
In the last twelve or thirteen years, he hadn’t once mentioned, hinted, or suggested we could ever be more than friends.
Never once made a move, not even as a teenager. Not even drunk.
I was so far into the friend zone I may as well just be one of the boys, and it sucked.
My heart told me it was up to me. She wanted me to be brave—take a leaf out of his book and look fear in the eye. Tell him everything I felt, everything I wanted.
That fear was too ingrained though. The thought of losing him, of chasing him away, tore me to shreds. I could never do it.
I’d rather us fizzle away to nothing while he built a life with someone else than be the one to strike the match that would raze our entire friendship to the ground.
Up in the apartment, I headed straight to the bedroom, tossing my keys on the small table that jutted out from the wall as I passed it. I placed the carry-on suitcase I had taken with me at the foot of my bed, leaving it there.
There was nothing I needed out of it except my charger, which could wait until I was feeling a little more human. Then I doubled back and went and turned on the shower—the building was old, and the water needed time to heat.
I smelled of plane and somehow every time I turned my head, I caught a whiff of Scott’s aftershave. That might have something to do with me taking a nice cozy nap during the flight home, snuggled into his side, winding both my arms around his bicep, my head fitting perfectly on his warm shoulder.
It was things like that I almost always regretted but couldn’t stop myself from doing, no matter how hard I tried.
If I got the chance to be close to him, I took it. And that voice in my head that was always banging on about self-preservation was hushed by every other part of myself being drawn to him like a magnet.
I was tactile by nature, so it never looked like anything more than two friends completely at ease with each other.
If only they knew I was saving up all these little moments for when I was on my own and, God if he knew, I think I’d spontaneously combust of humiliation, right there where I stood.
Ugh, I had to get out of this mood.
Melancholy didn’t suit me, it did no good whatsoever dwelling on what could never be, so I synced my phone to the speaker in my room, got completely undressed, grabbed a towel, and made my way to the bathroom again.
The shower was one of those weird half-bath things that served absolutely no point. You couldn’t sit down in it unless you wanted to fold yourself in half and rest your head on your knees, but the sides were too high to be just a shower.
Scott was forever worrying I’d slip trying to climb out of it, but I’d heeded his concerns and bought a non-slip rubber mat thing, which cost way more than it should, and so far, I’d managed to shower without injury.
I knew my apartment was small, but I adored it anyway. It had a cozy, homey feel and I’d utilized the space as best I could.
Scott had spent days varnishing the oak hardwood floors and helped me paint the walls a tranquil seafoam green with fresh and glossy white woodwork and moldings. It made the open-plan living and kitchen space seem bigger.
I say kitchen generously because the counter was just about big enough for a cake mixer and a chopping board. Even though you couldn’t swing a pan in here, it was home.
I still loved visiting my mom and dad, but it didn’t feel the same anymore and that was okay. I was an only child, and after I left home at eighteen, going back to stay was always strange. Like I was a guest. Not because of the way they treated me, but just by how I felt there. I tried not to think about that too much though, because deep down I know it had more to do with Scott.
My childhood was so wrapped up in him, that when he wasn’t there, nothing ever felt the same.
Both my parents were in the Air Force and were never deployed overseas at the same time. Although they were both living in Germany when they met, married, and had me. I was born in Ramstein, but we were back stateside before my first birthday.
It was cool having a badass for a mom, and sometimes growing up I worried I’d disappoint her in some way. I knew I was proud of her, but there wasn’t a single cell in my body that wanted to enlist. I was silly to think like that though, because she supported the path I had chosen and has championed me throughout it all.
She and my dad even funded my start-up, well that and a hefty loan from the bank. But she always believed in me, they both did, and I couldn’t be luckier.
They both retired earlier than Scott’s dad, so by the time I got to the end of high school we lived a more normal life.
Thinking about them lifted my spirits, and when I was dry and dressed I video-called them, placing the phone on the nightstand while I sat on my bed and brushed the knots out of my hair.
“Hi, honey.”
“Hey, Dad.”
My mom appeared next to my dad on the screen. “Hey hun, you doing, okay? Survived the bachelorette party?”
“Yeah, just tired from all the travel tonight. I’m getting ready for bed now though.”
“How was the game? We saw little Jack on the TV.”
“He was so cute! Oh, and guess what else? Casey and Anna got married while we were away.”
“Really! Well good for them.”
“Yeah. It was a total surprise, but really beautiful. Just the whole night was magical.”
“Send them our congratulations next time you see them. I can’t wait to see what the Maddens have to say. Mason, you should call the Lieutenant Colonel and invite them over one night this week.”
“Mom, I don’t think you need to call him that anymore.”
“There are some habits you just can’t shake, kid,” my dad answered for her.
“So, you’re okay?”
“Yes. I feel totally refreshed.”
“And where’s the countdown at now? Three months?”
My parents were going off on a three-week cruise around the Mediterranean and were so excited my dad had a countdown on his phone.
“Yep, eleven weeks and three days. It can’t come soon enough.”
“Oh, yeah. Is retirement too fast-paced for you?”
My mom rolled her eyes. “Dad’s days are more full now than they were when he worked full-time.”
I chuckled because there was absolutely no stopping either of them.
“Okay. We’d better get going if we want to make pickleball. Love you.”
My mom kissed the screen and then was gone.
“Love you too,” I called after her.
“Love you, honey.” My dad winked.
“Love you, Dad.”
He smiled and waved and then ended the call.
They were a special kind of couple goals.
The next ten days flew by.
I had gotten back into the swing of things pretty quickly, although it was only when my first Valentine’s order came through a week ago that I realized February 14th was coming.
Luckily, just after the new year, I’d put a plan together, so it wasn’t nearly as stressful to get ready for. I’d even put a cursory order in at my supplier, saved the cart and everything.
I’d clicked checkout on that bad boy and got to work.
Now, the window display looked gorgeous, and Kate and I were up to our eyes in every shade of red and pink imaginable.
Was it corny? Yes.
Did I love it? Yes!
It was a really good time for business, and I upped my macaron making, which I’d really enjoyed.
Some bakeries solely focused on those delicate treats, while I liked to make them for special occasions. Well, all the Hallmark holidays at least.
The door swung open, and a guy I couldn’t see due to the enormous bouquet of balloons obstructing his face tentatively stepped in.
“Where shall I put these?” he asked grumpily, and Kate and I chuckled.
“Just there is fine. We’ll arrange them in a second.”
He shoved the handheld machine in front of me and I signed using the top of a pen I whipped out from the bun I’d styled my hair up with. I’d even added a huge, cute pink bow this morning before I’d raced downstairs to start my day. And a long day it would turn out to be.
We had fun placing the balloons around the shop, and just as we were fixing the last one to the final chair, the bell chimed again. This time I wasn’t expecting the beautiful arrangement of flowers.
“Miss McCall?”
“That’s me,” I said, raising my hand like a first grader.
“Can you sign here, please?”
I did again, and this guy practically ran out of the shop and hopped in his van like his life depended on it.
Valentine’s Day was crazy.
There was a card and a printed message inside.
Jenny,
I’m still out of the country, but I thought these would look appealing on the shelf just behind the register.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Gabe.
It was only when Kate squealed that I realized she’d been staring over my shoulder.
“Oh my God, I’m gonna die. A billionaire sent you flowers. On V-Day. Do you know how symbolic that is?”
“Erm, no he didn’t. He sent them to the shop. Look, he said they will look good in plain sight. He’s a businessman, he knows we need to buy into this day like it’s Christmas again.”
She frowned, so I continued.
“You know what people eat when they want a treat? Sweets.” I pointed to our over-packed fridge.
“You know what people like to buy when they want to treat the people they care about? Sweets.”
She scoffed, “You are crazy if you think he didn’t send these to you. How much do you think these cost? A thousand bucks? More?”
She started ferreting around, trying to find some sort of label or business name.
“Kate. Who spends a thousand dollars on flowers that last two weeks at most?”
“Ah! This can’t be happening!”
“What?” I asked, moving closer.
“They’re those ones that never die. Do you hear me? They never wilt, or lose color, or anything.”
Kate looked like she was about to pass out . . . From too much swooning? I wasn’t sure.
“That’s not possible. Is it?”
“Er yeah. They were all over TikTok last year. This is cra-zy.”
I stood stock-still for a minute. This was the second gift in less than three weeks. That didn’t mean anything, though, did it?
No. Jeez, Kate had me going for a second, but I shook it off. Grabbing the absolutely beautiful peach blooms, I headed straight behind the counter and placed them exactly where Gabe had mentioned in his note.
And do you know what? They looked perfect there.
Two minutes later, the madness began, and Kate and I spent the rest of the morning serving customers and putting together lovely treat and cookie boxes, glad I’d had the foresight to order some custom-made bakery boxes in a pretty damask pink with white ribbon stiff enough the bow sat just right.
We had worked hard, and by 4 p.m. we were done for. I sent Kate home after most of the clearing-up tasks had been completed. She’d worked her socks off and deserved to spend the rest of the day with her friends.
She was close with a girl from a sorority, and she’d asked her to go along to a cupid-themed party. I’d sent her off with some heart-shaped cookies they could both enjoy while they got ready.
With one final swish of the mop, I was finished, and in no time was turning out the lights and locking the door. I pulled the shutters across and unlocked the front door to my apartment.
“Hey, cupcake, happy Valentine’s Day.” Scott’s voice pulled a smile from me, and I turned around to greet him.
“I was just heading up,” I told him as he squished me to his chest, but he let me go before I could return the hug.
“Perfect timing. I thought we could order in, unless you’ve got yourself a hot date.”
His laugh was playful, but something flashed in his eyes that I couldn’t place. It was gone in a second and he relinquished me of all the stuff I was carrying.
“No, no hot date for me.” My cheeks heated at the admission. The last thing anyone wanted was the object of their unrequited affection thinking they were some lonely loser without Valentine’s plans.
“Oh, this is for you,” he said, and I swore a tiny hue of color stained his cheeks as he produced a single-stem, creamy-pink avalanche rose.
It was full and open, and when I held it to my nose, it smelled divine. Butterflies whooshed in my belly.
“Scotty, this is beautiful. Thank you,” I managed to stutter out, but he was already through the door and walking up the stairs.
I watched after him, clutching the flower like a lifeline when he looked back.
“I think I want Indian. You up for splitting a tikka masala with some rice? Oh, and a naan. I did an extra three miles on the tread today just in case you had some of those cinnamon apple roses you made last year. I hoped you did; they were fucking amazing. I’ve been thinking about them all day. I know they’re probably more of a fall bake, but I just had a hunch. Was I right?”
I opened my mouth a few times but when no words came out, I just pointed the stem at the basket I’d brought home, and he had carried up for me.
“Yes!” He shook a fist in excitement. “I knew it.”
“And if they’re still warm, I’ll love you forever.”
That got me moving. He had always said that. It was a flippant remark he’d used since we were kids. And in that very moment, I was reminded exactly who we were, and what we were to each other.