35. Chapter 35
thirty-five
Diesel
Ileft with a heaviness in my gut I couldn’t name. Sadie was pulling away, stacking those walls brick by brick. And I didn’t get it.
I’d done everything she’d asked and shown up, kept my scars from Jessie where they belonged—in the past. I’d let her set the pace, only pushing when she gave the green light.
And still…
Fuck.
I was in love with her.
Probably had been since the day we got stuck in her kitchen. The way she’d flitted around, humming as she baked, trying to put me at ease when I was already perfectly fine in close quarters with her.
Sadie May Winslow had another thing coming if she thought I’d let her go that easily.
If she needed space, fine. I’d give her space. But I wasn’t stepping back for good.
I pulled out my phone and typed out a quick text to Beck.
Need a favor.
Then I swung onto my bike and headed home.
The wind cut across my face, but it didn’t clear the emptiness that settled in my chest.
Home felt wrong now. Too quiet. Too bare.
And I had the sinking feeling I’d never be satisfied there again.
Beck’s truck was already in the lot when I pulled up.
I didn’t even bother killing the engine before he walked towards me, coffee in hand, and looking at me like he’d been waiting for this.
“You look like someone stole your puppy,” he called.
I swung off the bike, shoving my helmet at him just to see him juggle it and his coffee. “It’s worse.”
“Worse than a dead puppy?” He whistled low. “Must be serious.”
“It’s Sadie.”
That wiped the smirk off his face. Beck might give me hell about anything else, but he’d seen enough of her—of us—to know better than to joke.
“She pullin’ back?” he asked, and I hated how dead-on he was.
“Like she’s scared to breathe the same air as me,” I muttered. “One minute we’re… hell, I don’t even have words for it. The next, she’s pushing me toward the door.”
Beck leaned against the porch rail, studying me the way he does when he’s picking apart an engine problem. “You gonna let her?”
“Not a damn chance.” I stepped closer, lowering my voice like the trees might be listening. “But if I push, she’s gone for good. So I need… a way in. Something that feels like space to her but keeps me close enough to remind her what this is.”
Beck took a slow sip of coffee, then handed me the mug as if he’d just decided I needed it more. “Alright. Tell me what you’re thinking, and I’ll tell you if it’s genius or the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”
“She told me to come in for lunch so I can be her guinea pig. Sandwiches on fresh-baked bread for a new lunch menu.” I shook my head. “She’s scared, Beck. Not of me—hell, she likes me. But she thinks I’ll get tired of her.”
“She said that?”
“Not in so many words. But it’s written all over the way she’s been acting since this morning. It’s like she’s bracing for the hit.”
Beck rubbed his jaw. “Alright. So you can’t just ride in and fix it with a grand gesture. That’d spook her worse.”
“Exactly.” I handed the mug back. “I need something small. Steady. Can’t give her a reason to think I’m keeping score.”
He was quiet for a second, then snapped his fingers. “The sandwich thing.”
I blinked. “The what now?”
“You said she’s thinking about adding sandwiches with fresh bread to the bakery. You show up for lunch this week, every day, try whatever she’s making, no matter how weird it gets. Then—”
I groaned. “If you say ‘pretend it’s good’, I’m out.”
Beck grinned. “Nah, man. I’m saying you give her feedback. Real feedback. Make her feel like she can lean on you for this. You’re in her day without being in her way.”
I thought about that, and damn if it didn’t feel right. Not barging through the walls. Just… leaning on them until she stopped holding them up.
“And,” Beck added, because he never knew when to quit, “you could help behind the scenes. Call up that buddy of mine at the printer’s shop, get her some menus mocked up, maybe a sign for the window. She’ll think it’s the universe giving her a push.”
“More like me giving her a shove,” I said, but I couldn’t stop the corner of my mouth from lifting.
“That’s love, brother.”
I rolled my eyes, but my mind was already spinning through the details. A week of being in her orbit without cornering her. A week of proving she’s worth staying for.
“I only trust you because you somehow got Amy to marry your dumb ass. Don’t forget that.”
Beck just grinned at me and sent a message off to Amy. Things were going to happen.
“She’s getting Kate to make some menu mock-ups. They’re at Kate’s house doing mimosas and brunch.” He grinned. “They wanted to invite Sadie, but I told them they better not. As much noise as I have been hearing coming from that bakery. I know you’ve been busy.”
I shook my head, biting back a laugh. “You’re a menace.”
Beck shrugged as if it were a badge of honor. “Nah, I’m just efficient. Why wait for things to happen when you can make ‘em happen faster?”
“You ever think maybe people need time to figure their own crap out?”
“Sure. But I also think some people just need a nudge to remember they’re not alone.
” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“You keep showing up, Diesel. Not with flowers or big speeches—though, let’s be real, you could probably pull off the big speech thing—but with normal stuff.
Lunch. Laughs. Helping her fix the squeaky oven hinge.
Stuff that says, I’m not going anywhere. ”
It landed heavier than I wanted to admit.
“Alright,” I said. “Sandwich taste-tester, handyman, possible oven-fixer. And if she calls me out on it—”
“Play dumb,” Beck cut in, grinning. “That’s my specialty.”
I rolled my eyes again, but yeah, my brain was already mapping out the week.
Sadie
Without fail, Diesel was seated for lunch every day over the next week. By Monday afternoon, I’d convinced myself Friday’s awkward goodbye meant the magic had fizzled.
By Tuesday, I decided that was for the best. No one could keep up with me for long. But every day, right around noon, the bell over the bakery door jingled.
And there he was. Same seat at the counter. Same quiet, steady presence. Like I hadn’t sent him packing.
Monday, he devoured my garlic parm hero without a single crumb left behind.
Tuesday, he asked for seconds on the roasted turkey and cranberry on rye—said it “tasted like Thanksgiving but without the bad relatives.”
Wednesday, he offered to fix the leaky sink when he saw me cursing under my breath and elbow-deep in suds. I said no. He fixed it anyway.
By Thursday, I was baking extra bread before sunrise just to make sure he had the freshest loaf. I told myself it was because he was my “guinea pig,” but I knew better.
And Friday, well, Friday, he told me the truth.
I might have even been testing his limits by then.
“It’s teriyaki chicken and Asian slaw on a ginger loaf,” I told him as I set it in front of him. I know for a fact the bread is terrible; I tried it myself. It ended up too dry and too spicy.
I waited for him to sing my praises anyway, since he was trying to garner my good graces. But he surprised me.
“Sadie,” his hand went to his neck, and I knew he was about to give me the honest review. My heart melted a little.
“That one isn’t very good—the bread, I mean, mostly. The chicken is good. The cabbage in the slaw is a little soggy. Maybe don’t make it the night before, so it adds that crunch.”
I blinked at him. “You’re actually telling me it’s bad?”
“You told me you wanted a guinea pig, not a yes-man,” he said, taking another bite anyway. “Besides, I figure if I tell you the truth, you’ll just make me something better tomorrow.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. No lunch service for you.”
He leaned back in his chair, still chewing. “Guess I’ll just have to find another excuse to stop by then.”
There it was, that easy confidence that made me want to lean in and run away all at once. I busied myself wiping down the counter, refusing to look at him because I could feel the smile tugging at my lips.
“Are you really going to eat that whole thing?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said, like it was a challenge. “Bad bread or not. Wouldn’t want to waste a Sadie original.”
And just like that, my carefully constructed walls gave another little crack. It wasn’t the critique that got me. It was the way he said it, with a softness in his voice, as if the words were meant to help, not hurt. Like he actually wanted me to get better at something I already loved doing.
The thing was, he didn’t push. He didn’t press. He just… kept showing up—day after day, week after week. Helping, staying in the background, but never pushing.
Then this Sunday morning happened. The garage was closed, and so was the bakery. I didn’t expect him to show up, but I knew without looking who was coming through the door when the bells jingled.
And sure, maybe I had left the door unlocked, hoping.
“We’re closed,” I said, dusting flour off my hands.
“Good thing I’m not here to eat,” Diesel replied.
I looked up then, which was a big mistake. He was leaning in the doorway, holding a cardboard box that was way too small to justify the self-satisfied grin on his face.
“What’s in the box?”
“Replacement faucet.” He hefted it like it was the crown jewels. “Your sink’s fixed, but your sprayer’s on its last leg. Figured I’d save you a trip to the hardware store.”
“You mean you wanted an excuse to stop by?” I said.
“Can’t a man just help out a friend?”
That word — friend — sat somewhere between safe and dangerous. I kept my eyes on the dough, pressing the rolling pin harder than necessary. “You drove all the way over here for a faucet?”
“Nah,” he said easily, crossing the room. “I also came for pie.”
“I didn’t make pie.”
“Guess I’ll have to settle for whatever else you’re offering.” He stopped on the other side of the counter, close enough that I could smell soap and the faint citrus of his laundry detergent.
“Diesel…” I warned, though I wasn’t sure what I was warning him about.
He just smiled, slow and sure. “Relax, Sadie. I’ll fix the faucet, and then I’m gone. Unless, of course, you happen to need a taste-tester for something.”
I should’ve told him no. Should’ve waved him off with some excuse about being busy, about not needing help, about anything other than what I actually said.
“There’s a lemon tart in the fridge,” I muttered, like the words slipped out before my brain caught up.
His grin went lopsided, the kind that made my stomach knot. “Permission to raid your kitchen, then?”
I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t stop him. A minute later, he was leaning against the counter with the tart in front of him, fork in hand.
“Moment of truth,” he said, and took a bite. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, and damn it if my pulse didn’t kick up at the sight. He knew what he was doing. He was usually stoic, even when eating my food.
“That good?” I asked, pretending not to care.
“It’s bright. Sharp. Makes you pay attention.” He pointed the fork at me. “Like you.”
I snorted, because what else could I do? “That’s either the worst line I’ve ever heard or the best accidental compliment.”
“Not accidental,” he said, another bite disappearing.
I busied myself wiping the already-clean counter. “You should finish fixing that faucet before I throw you out.”
He didn’t argue, just kept eating like he had all the time in the world. And maybe that was the part that got me the most, was that he wasn’t rushing, wasn’t pushing. He was just… here.
And that was somehow more dangerous than any line he could’ve used.