Chapter 5
Rose
The deliveries start arriving later that afternoon.
One, then two and three together. Four, five, and now six boxes.
Tank—or Theo—must be a shopaholic, I think as I lug in the latest box.
At least the delivery person must have the street-level door code because they leave the boxes outside the door upstairs.
I wouldn’t have wanted to carry these up.
Tank can definitely afford whatever all this is, considering he bought a whole town. I remember reading an article about it when it happened last year, wondering what David might think about his favorite football star’s retirement plan.
Somehow, I don’t think my ultra-practical husband would have approved.
I, on the other hand, thought it was an amazing story. Every so often, I checked for updates, reading along as the decision was first panned by the press, then heralded as businesses started moving into the newly renovated spaces on the historic Main Street.
Not at any point did I expect to be one of those businesses.
Baking started as a hobby for me, a way to unwind after a long day of teaching third graders, which had started to feel less like educating and more like babysitting a bunch of unruly puppies.
I didn’t consider baking sourdough bread, cupcakes, and cookies as anything more than therapeutic for me—and slightly unhelpful for my waistline.
But slowly, baking for friends and fellow teachers turned into people starting to pay me for custom orders they could serve at birthdays, baby showers, and even a few weddings.
Cottage baking regulations make it fairly simple to get started in Texas, so I began taking orders locally. My business steadily grew by word of mouth, then through a basic Instagram account John helped set up for me under the name A Rose So Sweet.
But when Chelsea got married, the idea of leaving the classroom for the kitchen took hold. I started dreaming of having a storefront—a little place where people could come and see a case full of treats, maybe even sit and spend time with friends. Something cozy and quaint.
Unfortunately, prices to rent a bakery space in Austin were outrageous.
Even if I moved further out than the Bee Cave area where I lived, I wasn’t sure it made sense.
Austin is something of a foodie town, which also meant there would be a lot of competition.
It might not be enough to have a basic bakery.
It would need to have a unique set of flavors or clever names or something special to differentiate me from all the other bakeries already in existence.
John used this as evidence for why I shouldn’t expand.
Or quit my job. He pointed out that I can’t start collecting my pension for another ten years, which means I’ll be burning through savings.
I didn’t love that idea, but I also didn’t love the idea of conceding to John’s strict practicality.
It reminded me of how I sometimes felt constricted in my marriage because of the exact same qualities in David.
The difference is that with my husband, I saw any concessions I made as part of being in a healthy, adult relationship.
I do not see it that way with John.
Still, with the costs and the risks, I had almost given up on the idea of a brick-and-mortar space when Chelsea somehow connected with a woman named Sam, who in turn had a connection with Tank Graham.
The next thing I knew, Patrick Graham was showing me a potential space with a residential loft above it in Sheet Cake.
Despite John’s warnings, I sold the house and signed the paperwork, taking a huge risk.
One that felt both scary and also freeing.
It was exhilarating—like coming up after diving into a cold pool in summer, gasping in a big breath of air and feeling the sun warm your face.
But now, only a few months in, the bakery is temporarily out of commission and I’m staying in Tank Graham’s loft—a sharp left turn I never could have anticipated. The exhilaration has given way to worry. I know what John would say, so I don’t call him. I wonder what David would think.
To be honest, I’ve changed so much from my years alone that I’m not sure he’d recognize the woman I am today. He’d probably give the exact same cautions as John. But he’d also ask for Tank’s autograph.
This latest package that arrives is heavy, and it takes effort to hoist it onto the kitchen island with the others. This seems … excessive. Does the man have some kind of shopping addiction? I decide to text him. Because maybe these are all very important things that he needs.
Despite asking earlier if I could call him something else, I can’t stop my brain from thinking of him as Tank, which is how I’ve kept him labeled in my phone. Maybe Theo is just an in-person kind of name. Or maybe I don’t quite feel worthy to use Theo yet. Even if he told me I could.
Just what I need—one more thing I can overthink when it comes to this man.
You’ve had an assortment of deliveries, I say in my text. I hope it’s okay that I brought them inside. Should I just leave the boxes on the counter or do you need them?
A moment later, he’s calling. It shouldn’t be any kind of big deal. It’s a phone call about packages. But everything related to Tank has my nervous system screaming VERY BIG DEAL! VERY, VERY BIG INDEED!
Like when I answer and then hear his deep voice say, “Hey, Rose.”
Very. Big. Deal.
I wonder if there’s some way to short-circuit the parts of my body insisting on this childish reaction to the simplest of things. It’s just a hello. Calm down.
“I hope it’s okay that I messaged you,” I tell him.
“You can message me anytime about anything. We’re friends now, right?”
The word friends sends a thrill through me because I have now been upgraded to friends with Tank.
It also comes along with an annoying throb of longing because what I’d really like is to add something to that label.
Possibly the phrase more than just in front of the word friends. I’m being silly, I know.
But I haven’t allowed myself to have this kind of thought in forever, so I don’t chastise myself too much. A woman can dream, can’t she?
“I mean, we discussed our dead spouses, so … yeah. I’d say we’re friends.”
He laughs at this, and I’m glad because once again, words seem to be leaving my mouth without any kind of forethought or permission.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I wanted you to know about the packages in case you needed them now.”
“About that,” he says. “Those are for you.”
I run a hand along the corner of the heavy box I just lugged inside. “What do you mean, for me?”
“I had a feeling you wouldn’t tell me what you need to bake while your kitchen is out of commission, so I took it upon myself to order some things.”
“What kinds of things?” I ask.
I should probably sound grateful instead of suspicious, but I’m having trouble computing. I know he mentioned buying a mixer earlier, but I didn’t think he was serious or I would have told him absolutely not.
“Why don’t you open them right now and see?” He sounds like he’s smiling through his words. Like everything else does when it comes to him, this sends a thrill through me.
“I can’t open your mail.”
“Why?”
“Tampering with mail is a federal offense.”
“You already tampered when you brought the packages inside,” he says.
“I just brought your packages inside your loft.”
“The moment you picked them up, you tampered. You brought this up, so I’d expect you to know the law.”
“Is that seriously the law?” I ask.
“I’m actually not sure,” Tank says. “Should I call someone and ask? I happen to be friends with a deputy.”
“Please don’t. I’d love to not add getting arrested to my day.”
“Fine. He only handles local matters, not federal ones. And now I’m asking you to open the packages, so there’s no chance of you going to jail. Open them up, Rose.”
“But you shouldn’t have done this.”
“Like I mentioned, my kitchen is woefully understocked with appliances. It’s not just for you. It’s for me. You’ll use them now, and I’ll use them later.”
“Tank—I mean, Theo.”
“Rose.”
“I feel like we’re going around in circles with these arguments.”
“Are we arguing?” he asks.
“Yes. Because you are going out of your way to do things you don’t need to do for me. It’s too much. I do not accept. How did you even get all these delivered so quickly?”
“You’d be surprised how many things qualify for same-day shipping now that built a warehouse between Sheet Cake and Austin.
Anyway, I’m probably not doing enough,” he says.
“Not when you spent several days trying to work and sleep in a blazing hot building with a broken AC. Now, stop being stubborn and open the boxes. I need to know if I need to order anything else.”
“Are you calling me stubborn?”
“Are you denying it?”
I hesitate, realizing that I’ve been absentmindedly picking at the packing tape on the box. “I’m going to pay you back.”
“Absolutely not. Like I said, all of this is for me. You’re simply borrowing it.”
I want to keep arguing, and the only reason I don’t is because I don’t want to prove him right in calling me stubborn.
“You have to promise you won’t do anything else for me. I mean it.”
“Starting when?” he asks. “Because I might have taken the liberty of ordering some dinner to be delivered in a little while. And before you argue, there’s nothing in there to eat.”
“I can go to the store or out to dinner by myself. I’m perfectly capable!”
“Of course you’re capable. I’m well aware that you could go to the store or to any of the restaurants in town. But I wanted to take care of it, so I did. Now, put me on speaker and open the boxes, Rose.”
It’s hard to keep saying no when he says my name like that. So, I set my phone down on the counter, switch it to speaker, and start opening the packages.
He absolutely did too much. Overboard would be underselling it.