Chapter 8
EIGHT
TYLER
I pick up my phone and frown at the screen. No notifications.
Same as when I last checked. Five minutes ago.
“Stop it.”
I glance up and turn my glare to Rachel, who is fussing with the damn ring light. Like I want to film another video right now. “Stop what?”
“Whatever this is.” She waves her hand at me. “You need to stop it.”
“Why? Because it will ruin your shot?”
“Yes,” she quips. “And your bad mood is really starting to bum everyone—including your donuts—out.”
My eye twitches. “There’s nothing wrong with my donuts.”
“Clearly you haven’t been sampling your work.” She scoffs. “The past few days, they—and everything else int his shop—have tasted… off.”
She pauses dramatically.
“...off.”
I stare.
“My pastries have feelings now?”
“No.”
She points a whisk at me.
“They have attitude.”
“They’re pastries.”
“They’re sad pastries.”
“They’re brioche.”
“They’re depressed brioche.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“I regret teaching you baking terminology.”
“You never taught me anything.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
She finally abandons the ring light and walks over to the prep table. Before I can stop her, she tears off a piece of still-warm maple brioche and pops it into her mouth.
She chews thoughtfully.
Then shakes her head.
“See?”
“I don’t see.”
“Technically, it’s perfect.”
“I know.”
“But...”
She points the piece of pastry at me.
“...it doesn’t have your spark.”
“My spark.”
“You’ve lost your sparkle.”
I blink.
“I’m a thirty-three-year-old baker.”
“And?”
“I shouldn’t have sparkle.”
“You absolutely should.”
She folds her arms.
“Especially in your donuts.”
I sigh.
“You’ve officially lost it.”
“No.”
Her smile softens.
“I think you have.”
The kitchen grows quiet around us.
The mixers are off for the first time all morning.
A tray of cooling donuts sits untouched between us.
Rachel studies me for a long moment.
“You’ve checked your phone fourteen times.”
“I have not.”
“Twelve?”
“...Maybe.”
“You’ve been staring at the front door.”
“I haven’t.”
“You literally looked at it while denying it.”
I glance away.
“I wasn’t—“
“You miss her.”
The words land squarely in my chest. I don’t answer. Mostly because I can’t.
Rachel nods once. “I thought so.”
I busy myself with rearranging a tray that doesn’t need rearranging. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
“I am.”
“You’ve made six batches of pastry cream this week.”
“So?”
“You’ve only needed three.”
“...Quality control.”
“You burned caramel yesterday.”
“I was distracted.”
“You’ve never burned caramel.”
“I said I was distracted.”
She waits.
Finally, I let the piping bag drop onto the counter. “I fucked up.”
“You did.” She doesn’t sound even a little surprised. “Why?”
So I tell her about the fight. When I finish, she just shakes her head.
“No.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you think this is about one stupid argument.” She reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out her phone. “But it’s not about that. “I wasn’t going to show you this.”
My stomach immediately knots.
“But I think you need to see it.”
She opens Instagram. One of our photos fills the screen. Elizabeth and me laughing over the workbench.
Only... Elizabeth isn’t tagged anymore.
I frown. “Did Instagram glitch?”
Rachel shakes her head. “She removed the tag.”
The words hit harder than I expect. “Oh.”
“She also sent me a message.”
Rachel taps the screen again before handing me the phone.
Hey, Rachel. I hope you don’t mind, but could you please give me a little break from the social media posts for now? I love them, and you’ve been so sweet, but I think I just need a little space. Thank you for understanding.
I read it twice.
“She even apologized.” Rachel takes the phone back. “She wasn’t angry.”
“That somehow makes it worse.” I lean both hands on the prep table. “I really hurt her.”
“Yep.”
“I didn’t mean what I said.”
“I know.” She tilts her head to study me. “But Elizabeth doesn’t.”
I close my eyes. “No.”
“You know what the worst part is?” Rachel walks closer. “The worst part is...”
She taps my arm. “...she’s been proving you wrong since the day she walked into this bakery.”
I think about the four-thirty alarms.
The flour in her hair.
The way she remembered my sandwich order.
The way she made my maple filling better.
The way she stayed late just because she wanted to spend time with me.
The way she looked around this bakery like she’d found home.
“I know.”
Rachel smiles sadly. “I think you finally do.”
Silence settles between us.
Finally, I say the words I’ve been avoiding.
“I was scared.”
“I figured.”
“I’ve spent so long protecting this place...” I glance around the bakery. “...that when everyone started showing up asking for Donut Mother...”
I scrub a hand over my face. “...I panicked.”
“You thought she wanted the fame.”
“I know she doesn’t.”
“But you let strangers convince you otherwise.” I nod once.
Ashamed.
Rachel sighs. “Ty.”
“What?”
She pokes me square in the chest. “You need to grow a pair.”
“What?”
Another poke. “Now go make up with your girlfriend.”
I stare down at my phone. The cursor blinks in the empty text box. Finally, I send the only thing that feels honest.
Frank’s wedding order starts tomorrow. I’d completely understand if you’d rather stay away. But...if you’re willing, I’d really like your help. And I’d really like the chance to see you. No pressure.
The little “Delivered” appears almost immediately.
Now comes the hardest part.
Waiting.
By five-thirty the next afternoon, the bakery smells like browned butter, cinnamon, and my own nervous sweat.
I’ve remade the display three times.
Polished the glass.
Straightened trays that were already straight.
I even considered changing my shirt.
Twice.
At exactly six o’clock, the bell over the front door jingles.
I look up so fast I nearly drop the tray I’m carrying.
She’s here.
She’s wearing jeans, sneakers, and one of the oversized cardigans I secretly love because she always pulls the sleeves over her hands when she’s nervous. She’s never looked more beautiful.
She catches my eye. “Hi.”
My chest actually hurts. “Hi.”
For a second, neither of us moves. Then she steps farther inside.
“Thanks for coming,” I say.
“I told you I’d help.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. I just...” She glances around the bakery. “I …wanted to be here. It feels like… home.”
That somehow makes me feel even worse.
“I’ve got something to show you before we get started.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “You do?”
I nod. “Close your eyes.”
She studies me for a moment before finally closing them.
“No peeking.”
“I make no promises.”
I disappear into the kitchen. They’re exactly where I hid them. I made it after everyone left last night.
One hundred mini brioche donuts. Each one painstakingly piped with a single letter.
I’d nearly sprained my wrist. I push the cart of trays back to the workbench.
“Okay. Open them.”
She opens one eye.
She opens her eyes. Her mouth falls open. The donuts are arranged in neat rows. Each tiny donut bears a single piped letter.
Together they read:
I FORGOT WHY YOU CAME BACK TO THE SHOP
She doesn’t speak.
I swallow.
“I’ve got more.”
I lift another tray.
YOU LOVED THE BAKERY BEFORE YOU
Another tray.
EVER LOVED
ME
She presses a hand over her mouth.
“I know they’re not perfectly straight,” I say. “I had a lot to pipe.”
She laughs through suspiciously shiny eyes. “They’re beautiful.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You are. At least, you’re perfect for me.”
I take a slow breath. “I’ve spent years thinking I knew exactly what I was protecting.”
I look around the bakery. “I thought it was my recipes. My business. My reputation. I thought if I let my guard down...”
I laugh once. “...someone would take everything I’d built.”
She takes one slow step closer.
“I didn’t realize...” My voice catches.
She says my name so softly it almost undoes me.
“I let a bunch of strangers convince me that you were here for attention.”
I shake my head. “When the truth was standing right in front of me every morning at four-thirty.”
I smile sadly.
“You smelled like flour and argued with me about lemon juice.”
A tiny smile appears.
“You remembered my sandwich order. You knew every employee’s name. You stayed because you loved this place.” I look directly into her eyes. “And I accused you of the one thing you proved every single day you weren’t.”
Silence hangs between us.
I swallow past a lump in my throat. “I can’t take that back. I wish I could.”
“I know.”
I take another breath.
“The worst part...” I glance down at the donuts. “...is that I forgot why I fell in love with you.”
Her eyes widen.
“I didn’t fall in love with someone who liked being photographed.” I let out a breath. “I fell in love with the woman who could temper chocolate better than half the applicants I’ve interviewed.”
She laughs quietly.
“I fell in love with the woman who made my maple filling better. I fell in love with the woman who looked at this bakery...” I gesture around us. “...and saw home.”
My throat tightens. “I know asking for another chance is a lot. Probably more than I deserve. So if the answer is no...” I nod once. “I’ll understand.”
I step close enough to take her hand if she’ll let me. She doesn’t pull away.
“I just need you to know...” My thumb brushes gently across her knuckles. “...that I finally understand what I almost lost.”
She looks down at our joined hands. Then back up at me.
“You know...” Her voice trembles just a little. “...I was really mad at you.”
“I deserve that.”
“And really hurt.”
“I know.”
“I kept replaying everything.”
I close my eyes for a second. “I’m sorry.”
“But.” She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “I believe you.”
Hope flares in my chest.
“So...”
I whisper. “So?”
A smile slowly spreads across her face.
“I think...” She glances at the trays of tiny donuts. “...any man willing to hand-pipe an apology onto more than a hundred donuts has probably suffered enough.”
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees almost give out. “So?”
“You’re getting your second chance.”
I don’t waste it. I lift my hand to her cheek, giving her every opportunity to stop me.
Instead, she leans into my touch. When I kiss her this time, it’s slow. Not desperate. Not hurried.
Just grateful.
When we finally pull apart, she’s smiling.
“So...” She reaches for an apron hanging beside the prep table. “We’ve got a wedding dessert wall to finish.”
I grin. “Yes, we do.”
“And afterward?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Afterward...”
She slips the apron over her head and winks. “...you can tell me exactly how many long it took you to do all of that lettering.”