Chapter 29 Connor
CONNOR
MONDAY
I feel her before I see her.
The faint shift of the mattress, the slow drag of fabric as she sits up. For a moment, I think I imagined it, still caught between sleep and whatever dream I was in, but then there’s a pause. That hush of someone purposely staying still and holding their breath.
We drifted together last night sometime after the last round of kisses faded, after her laugh went quiet against my chest and our breaths evened out.
Her legs tangled in mine, her hand splayed over my heart like it belonged there.
I don’t know when sleep finally claimed me—just that it was the first time in months I didn’t fight it.
And now she’s slipping away.
My first instinct is to open my eyes and reach out to her, pull her back down into the sheets, and wrap her in whatever this is. But something in the quiet keeps me still. I let my breaths stay slow and even, like I’m asleep, and listen as she rises.
The room is gray with early light, the mountains just catching the edge of sunrise. Manuela lingers there beside me, the weight of her presence warm. I can feel her eyes on me—the way she’s watching me like she’s memorizing something she isn’t sure she’ll get to keep.
My chest aches with the urge to tell her she’s wrong. That she doesn’t have to go. That I don’t want her to.
Instead, I stay quiet, eyes closed, and let her slip out. The soft pad of her feet on the wood floor, the faint creak of the door, the click as it closes. The silence she leaves behind is deafening.
I don’t fall sleep again but instead linger in a drowsy state until my alarm rings next to me two hours later.
By the time the sun edges over the peaks, I’m showered, dressed, and heading across the resort grounds. The mountain air bites, crisp enough to shock the fog from my head, and the path crunches beneath my sneakers.
The main building smells like coffee and yeast the second I step inside.
Someone directs me downstairs to the kitchen, where stainless-steel counters gleam under fluorescent lights.
Aprons hang from hooks, bowls and scales lined neatly in rows.
A few other guests file in, already chattering, but I claim a spot at the end of a worktable, hidden in plain sight.
It’s not lost on me that I could be sleeping in or joining the others on whatever lazy breakfast Elle has planned for the morning. Instead, I’m here. Signing up for a sourdough class in Switzerland like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The truth is, I’ve tried a dozen times. Starter after starter, loaf after loaf.
All failures—dense, flat, nothing like the crisp, airy crumb I see online.
The bag of flour in my pantry at home has a permanent rubber band twisted around its neck like a sad little reminder.
My fridge has held more dead starters than meals.
Just like all my other failed hobbies—the guitar lessons that I started but quickly quit because I couldn’t make them fit in my schedule.
The different types of diets and healthy lifestyles I tried, the membership to the luxury gym across the street from my office building.
It’s all just been me trying to feel something. Trying to prove to myself that I’m not as numb as I’ve felt for months.
The instructor—a cheerful woman with hair tied in a scarf—starts explaining ratios, hydration percentages, patience. That last word sticks. Patience.
“Most people try to rush this part,” she says as she moves down the workstations, checking our bowls. “But if you push it, the dough pushes back. Sourdough needs time to wake up. Like teenagers.”
A few people laugh.
She stops at my station, peering into my bowl. “First time?”
“Not exactly.” I keep my tone light, though I can feel the corners of my mouth twitch. “I’ve… attempted a few times. Usually ends with something closer to a paperweight than bread.”
She grins, unfazed. “Then this is the place to redeem yourself.”
“Or confirm I’m a lost cause,” I mutter, which earns me a quiet chuckle from the guy to my left—a wiry older man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a camera strap across his chest.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “My first loaf could have doubled as a doorstop.”
“Same,” the woman on my right adds without looking up from her mixing. “My starter actually exploded once.”
That pulls a surprised laugh out of me before I can stop it. The sound feels strange in my own mouth, unfamiliar among these strangers.
I measure flour and water, stir slowly, watch the mixture come alive under my hands. And something clicks. Not the bread—it’ll take days before this turns into anything edible. But the process. The slowness. The lack of shortcuts.
I think about my job, about the deal chasing and the endless need to deliver faster, bigger, more. About my father’s voice on the phone, pushing me toward the next role, the next title, the next version of the man he thinks I should be. Settled. Perfect on paper.
And then I think about Manuela. About how she looked at me in the dark this morning, silent but certain. About how she makes me want to be someone who notices the process instead of just the result.
By the time the dough is resting under a towel, I know two things: one, I’ll never hear the end of it if Banks finds out I voluntarily took a baking class. And two, when I get back to New York, something has to change.
Because if I keep going the way I’ve been going—if I keep measuring myself against expectations I never asked for—I’ll burn out for good.
The sun is already high by the time I leave the main building, the gravel warm under my shoes as I walk the short downhill path back to the house.
The paper bag crinkles under my arm with every step, the loaf still radiating faint heat through the thin layers.
The front door’s propped open with a rock, voices drifting faintly from inside, slow and unhurried.
Manuela’s on the steps, one knee bent, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice carries across the quiet lawn, rapid and certain, threaded with a laughter I don’t hear often enough. Something in my chest pulls tight before I can stop it.
She catches sight of me as she hangs up and places the phone screen down on the step. “You’re up early,” she says, her face studying me.
“I felt you sneak out of my bed,” I say, letting it come out low, easy. “Couldn’t fall back asleep after.”
Color creeps into her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. “So you got up instead? It was, like, four in the morning.” She chuckles to herself, and the image makes me smile. Her sitting on the front stoop, a faint breeze running through her hair.
“Figured I’d make the most of it,” I reply, holding up the crinkled paper bag. “I took a baking class at the resort."
Her mouth curves. “That’s… I didn’t know you baked.”
I lower onto the step below hers, setting the bag on my lap. “I don’t.”
Manuela laughs, tipping her head back slightly, like this is the most amusing thing she’s heard all week.
“I’ve tried before. At home. They’ve all been disasters,” I continue, wanting to spill all my secrets to her.
How I’ve been trying different things to see if I can find myself again.
How nothing is sticking. “Maybe if I learned from someone who actually knows what they’re doing instead of trying to copy people from the Internet, I’d finally get it right. ”
“And?” There’s a shine in her eyes and a smile so big that the corners get crinkly, and I think it’s the most genuine one I’ve seen yet.
“Not even close.” I let out a breath, leaning back on my hands. “But I don’t care. It felt good just doing it, for me.”
Her mouth softens, and for a moment, she just looks at me, quiet in a way that feels new. Then her gaze flicks toward the lake.
“Who were you talking to?” The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. It’s not casual at all and doesn’t sound like me. Because I never ask things like that. I’m not one to ever want to know more than what people choose to offer.
But with her, I do.
I want to know who is calling her this early, who can make her laugh like that. What her mornings are usually like, what songs she hums when she’s distracted, what she reaches for when life caves in. All of it.
She blinks, surprised, like she wasn’t expecting me to care. “My old boss,” she says after a beat. “From Buenos Aires.”
“Yeah?”
“She said there’s an opening at the agency. If I want it.” She pulls at a loose thread on her sleeve, not looking at me. “It’d be a good move for my career. But…”
The words hang there, heavier than she probably meant them to.
“Do you want it?”
“I don’t know,” she finally says, her voice low. “Probably not. I like my job in New York, despite my asshole boss.”
I watch her, the morning light sharp on her cheekbones, and something twists low in my chest before I can stop it. She draws her knees up, wrapping her arms loosely around them, eyes still on the lake.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind us. Someone calls her name—Amelia, judging by the voice—and Manuela stands, brushing her hands down her leggings like she’s shaking something off.
“Guess we’re officially awake now,” she says lightly, offering me a small smile before heading toward the house.
I stay where I am a moment longer, the paper bag still warm on my lap, before I push myself to my feet and follow.