Chapter 32
I came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, my skin still pink from the shower, my hair dripping a little onto Fitz’s floor.
He was sitting at the edge of the bed, fully dressed—jeans, white button-down, and that lawyer posture that meant he was trying to look casual and failing spectacularly. My phone was in his hand, buzzing with a text notification.
He reached out to hand it to me, his arm outstretched. “This had just buzzed on the nightstand a moment ago, and I couldn’t help but see that it was from him.”
So it was from Thatcher, but it seemed weird to me that Fitz would care. He surely must know that stupid little flirtation was over. The Thatcher phase was as dead as my “Keep Calm and Carry On” phase or my Snapchat dog filter phase. Except those were more memorable than he’d ever be.
I looked down at the two texts he’d sent.
Thatcher
Hey sorry to hear about the bakery. hope you’re okay. let me know if you want to talk.
also if you need help selling the place, I know some people who’d be interested. could get you a good deal.
The words were polite, friendly even—but the second I read them, my skin prickled. Why would he jump to the conclusion that I’d be selling the place ?
I turned, phone still in my hand. Fitz was already looking at me like he knew what was on the screen.
“What the fuck?” I said. My voice came out small. Defensive.
He pushed off the bed and crossed the room, tension humming under his skin. “That weasel. There’s something I need to tell you,” he said. His jaw flexed once, twice. “Something I should’ve told you the second I found out.”
I tightened the towel around my chest. “About Thatcher?”
He nodded grimly. “I didn’t have proof until yesterday,” he said.
“And I came to tell you everything at the bakery, and I got through the big stuff about the false claim from the zoning board, but we got caught up in …everything and then I didn’t even think about Thatcher during a perfect night with you. ”
I stood there, heart hammering, while he pulled up an email on his phone. “After I filed the preliminary challenge for your zoning denial, I started digging deeper into the names on the sponsor list for the Preservation Initiative.”
He showed me the screen: Mariner Horizon Group. “The same developers who’ve been buying up properties along Beach Plum Avenue,” he said. “The same ones who lobbied for the zoning changes under the guise of historic preservation.”
My mouth went dry.
“Thatcher works for them,” Fitz said flatly. “Lead Acquisitions Liaison for Southeastern Coastal Development.”
I shook my head. “No. That—he said he was a marketing consultant.”
“He is,” Fitz said. “Real estate marketing, specifically acquisitions. Specifically, targeting properties for conversion—properties just like your bakery.”
I stared at him.
“He moved here two months before you came back full- time and leased a place four streets over. He probably picked that location on purpose and started jogging past the bakery so he would ‘bump into you’ to make himself look casual. Safe.”
“No way,” I said again, voice cracking. “You’re telling me I got played by a surfer bro dumbass with critters on his shorts?”
Fitz grimaced as he looked at me in earnest. “I think he’s a smarmy little snake, but probably less of a dumbass than he let on. He’s a manipulative asshole, and I’m sure he fished for information that you probably didn’t even realize was valuable at the time.”
He stepped closer to me, grabbing my hand gently. His voice was low now, raw. “Every conversation, every text, every syrupy smile—it was part of the play.”
My towel slipped a little as I sat down hard on the bed, clutching my phone like it might bite.
“And now,” Fitz added, “of course he’s texting you about selling. So fucking helpful of him.”
And now I saw it clearly: that was the goal all along. Tank my bakery, make me feel hopeless, swoop in with a lowball offer when I was too exhausted to fight. I let out a bitter scoff. “God,” I said. “I’m just a girl trying to start a bakery in the place I’ve loved my whole life. What a crime .”
“You’re a woman who will start a bakery in the place she’s always loved,” Fitz said, kneeling in front of me, his hands bracketing my thighs, grounding me. “But you’re also sitting on prime real estate—and you were supposed to fold, not fight. At least that’s what they thought.”
I looked at him, my chest burning. “What do we do?” I asked.
His mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “We ruin their fucking day.” Fitz stood tall, hands on his hips, steady in that lawyer posture he got when he was about to bulldoze someone and make it look effortless.
“I’m filing a formal Use Permit Appeal today,” he said.
His voice was even, surgical. “The board’s entire decision hinges on a claim that there was a lapse in food service between 2000 and 2008—but the antique shop and café ran under the same LLC the whole time.
That makes it continuous use, which means your bakery qualifies. Legally, historically, no gray area.”
I blinked up at him. “Wait—you already wrote it?”
He lifted one shoulder, just a little. “Started last night. Finished this morning before you…ah joined me during my work call. I was just waiting on a scanned copy of the 2004 health inspection report and confirmation from Maya.”
I gaped at him. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”
He didn’t answer. Just walked over, crouched in front of me, and touched my knee.
“I expect a reversal within forty-eight hours,” he said.
“Seventy-two at the outside. If they stall, I file for emergency injunctive relief and drag them into a public hearing they do not want. Either way, you’re getting that permit. ”
I stared at him, my mind still trying to catch up.
“I’ve got all the documentation I possibly need,” he continued. “Business filings. Health code permits. Even a notarized statement from Maya. Once I file, they’re required to review. And if they don’t reverse it quietly, we’ll force a public hearing and make it very, very messy.”
He didn’t look at me when he said it. He didn’t have to. I could feel the fire rolling off him—quiet, focused, burning.
“What do you need me to do?” I asked.
He walked over and knelt in front of me again.
He rested one warm, steady hand on my knee.
“You,” he said, “are going to go down to the beach with Jazz. You’re going to wear something that’ll give me unholy thoughts later.
You’re going to relax and drink something spiked and pretend you’ve never even heard the phrase 'continuous use permit.’”
“But—”
He squeezed my knee. “Charlie. I’ve got this. Expect a new letter in the mail by Wednesday.”
I looked at him, heart thudding stupidly loud in my chest. And I knew without a doubt I believed him.
T he sun was unforgiving in that smug, late-summer way—high overhead, burning the sand, making the waves look like melted glass. Jazz and I were lying side by side on striped towels, our Yeti tumblers filled with icy lemonade with a splash of vodka.
I was wearing a bikini top and Fitz’s old Ray-Bans that I’d swiped from his dresser and put on as I gave him a kiss before heading down to the sand and the salt air. He’d just chuckled, shook his head, and patted my tush as I scooted out the door.
Now I smiled, leaned back on my elbows, and let the ocean breeze cool the flush still lingering on my skin. Fitz had sent me down here like a doctor prescribes bed rest. I was trying to obey. Sort of.
Jazz adjusted her straw hat and let out a long, satisfied sigh. “Okay. This? This is peak summer.”
I stretched out, toes in the warm sand, the vodka-laced lemonade already making my limbs feel languid. “It’s not bad.”
“Not bad? Girl, I am two sips away from full spiritual enlightenment. Or a nap—whichever comes first.”
I smiled behind Fitz’s sunglasses, trying not to think about how when he kissed me goodbye, his voice had gone low and gravelly when he promised me another round later .
Jazz turned toward me on one elbow. “So...are we gonna talk about the Thatcher thing? You got weird when I mentioned him coming to the wedding so…I’m assuming you don’t see a happily ever after in your future?”
I exhaled. “Thatcher is done.”
“Uh what?” She turned to face me head-on. “Spill.” Her brows lifted slightly. “Like, done-done?”
“Yeah. Like dead-to-me-done. Turns out he was working for a developer the whole time—one of the companies pushing to screw over small businesses downtown. He was feeding them information so that they would deny my use permit.”
Jazz blinked. “Holy shit.”
“I know.”
“I knew something was off about him. Too...beige.”
“He was a beige villain.” I took a long sip of my drink. “Fitz is filing an appeal to reverse the permit denial. And he’s got like, actual evidence. So I can focus on sitting here and not launching myself into the sea out of rage.”
Jazz whistled low. “So Fitz is just handling it ?”
I nodded. I gave her the condensed version—how Fitz had uncovered Thatcher’s real job, how he worked for the development company trying to lowball me into selling the bakery, how every ‘casual’ walk-by and ‘concerned’ text had been part of the setup.
Jazz’s eyes got wider by the second. “You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was. Fitz found the whole paper trail. Emails. Lease agreements. Even his job title: Lead Acquisitions Liaison for Southeastern Coastal Development .”
Jazz blinked. “That little bitch. Trying to seduce someone while also gentrifying their neighborhood.”
I let out a bark of laughter.
She continued, seriously trying to understand the extent of his deceit. “So he was actively trying to get you to give up the bakery so his company could buy it cheap?”
I nodded and used air quotes for emphasis. “He even texted me today. Said he was ‘sorry’ about the permit and that he ‘knows some people’ who could buy the place.”
Jazz’s jaw dropped. “The audacity.”
“I don’t know how I’ll get him back,” I said, stretching my arms overhead, “but I will. Eventually. And until then? Fuck him.”
Jazz grinned and toasted her tumbler to mine. “To vengeance.”
“To vodka,” I muttered, and we clinked.
“So Fitz really came through, huh?” she said, glancing sideways at me.
I chuckled inwardly to myself—Jazz didn’t even know. He really came, alright.
She rolled onto her stomach, chin propped on her hands. “You know, I always thought things were weird between you and Fitz.”
My spine went rigid. “Weird how?”
“Like...not enemies. But not not enemies. It was the energy between you; you guys have always sort of been prickly with each other. Like you were competing for Jack’s attention or maybe you just didn’t know how to exist in the same room without sparring.
But this whole thing with the bakery—it’s made you two closer? ”
I laughed. Too fast. Too loud. “Yeah,” I said, trying not to choke. “We’re...seeing eye to eye these days.”
Jazz sipped her drink, then grinned. “Well, it’s about time. You’ve known each other forever. I figured one of you would eventually kill the other or, I don’t know, become best friends with weirdly intense eye contact.”
“Oh, there’s been some intense eye contact.” My attempt at a light chuckle came out a little strangled.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I took another sip. “Just...nice to be on the same side for once.”
Jazz smiled at me—sweet and oblivious—and then leaned back on her elbows. “I can tell. He’s, like, in full-on big brother protection mode right now.”
“Mm,” I hummed, sipping my drink.
“Which I think is great, because you’re both out of relationships and in the wedding party, so maybe you two can just be each other’s dates. Keep it simple.”
I inhaled too fast and choked on vodka lemonade.
Jazz thumped me gently on the back. “Jesus, Charlie, it wasn’t that offensive an idea.”
“I just—wasn’t expecting that,” I wheezed.
“Why not? You are basically family. Your Jack’s sister, my maid of honor. And he’s Jack’s best man. It just makes sense.”
I made some sound that could have been agreement or soul-deep horror, and tried to nod. “Right. Totally. Family. Makes sense.”
I lay back, pressed Fitz’s sunglasses tighter to my face, and wondered how the hell I was supposed to play it cool as someone’s platonic family-adjacent date when I had literally just come on his fingers two hours ago.