6. Chapter 6
Jake
By eight the next morning, the photograph of me wearing a raspberry-pink Sweet Treats apron has reached every employee on the Jefferson Street project.
By eight-fifteen, someone has printed it and taped it inside the construction trailer. The caption beneath the picture reads:
JAKE DALTON FINDS HIS SWEETEST PROJECT YET.
I remove it from the wall.
Cole watches from behind his coffee cup. “You know they’ll print another one.”
“Then I’ll find another unpleasant job for whoever does.”
“You already gave me drain cleanup.”
“I can find worse.”
He appears to consider that before returning to the day’s schedule.
The photograph would not bother me if Ava were not visible in the background. She is leaning against the counter, smiling while I sweep the floor. It is not the polite smile she gives customers or the reluctant one that appears when I irritate her in a way she secretly enjoys. She looks happy.
I fold the page once and place it beneath a stack of invoices instead of throwing it away. My phone rings before I can question that decision. The number is unfamiliar.
“Dalton.”
“Is that how you answer every call?”
Ava’s voice changes the entire morning.
“It depends who’s calling.”
“This is Ava Bennett from Sweet Treats.”
“I know who you are.”
“You don’t have my number.”
“I recognize your voice.”
A short pause follows. I picture her standing behind the bakery counter with flour on her face, trying to decide whether that answer pleases her.
“The Foundry accepted my proposal,” she says.
Her excitement comes through clearly, and I smile before remembering Cole is still in the trailer.
“Two hundred pastries?”
“Two hundred and twenty. They added a few extra for the volunteers.”
“You sound happy.”
“I am overjoyed, actually.”
The word suits her. So does the warmth in her voice.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She takes a breath. “Kayla wants me to visit The Foundry this evening and finalize the setup. Since you built the display, I thought you might look at the space and tell me the best way to move it.”
“You’re asking for my help?”
“Don’t make this difficult.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Six o’clock.”
“I’ll be there at five-fifty.”
She ends the call, but the sound of her happiness stays with me long after I return to work.
At five-forty-eight, I park outside The Foundry. Ava arrives two minutes later in jeans, brown ankle boots, and a loose cream sweater that slips slightly off one shoulder when she reaches into the back of her vehicle for a notebook. Her hair is down again. I like it that way.
I also like it twisted into a messy bun, which suggests the hairstyle is not the problem.
Her eyes move to my truck. “You really did arrive early.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m deciding whether punctuality is one of your good qualities or another form of control.”
“Let me know what you decide.”
The Foundry occupies a former machine shop near the old industrial district. Inside, exposed brick and heavy steel beams frame dark wood tables. The room still carries traces of its former life, but the smell of oil has been replaced by grilled onions, beer, and hickory smoke.
Kayla meets us near the bar and leads us toward the event area.
“We’re putting the Sweet Treats table along this wall,” she says. “Unless you two see a reason it won’t work.”
“We’re not a ‘you two,’” Ava says quickly.
Kayla glances between us. “I meant the bakery and construction experts.”
“Right.”
I keep my expression neutral. Kayla does not.
The available space is wide enough for the display, but the service door is narrow. I ask Ava where she wants the main table positioned before measuring anything. She chooses a spot beneath an original iron support beam where the warm wood and black metal will look natural. It is the right choice.
Kayla walks us through the rest of the arrangement, including the limited refrigerator space and the route Ava will use for the second delivery. We decide the display can be transported in three sections and assembled on-site in less than twenty minutes.
By the time we finish, Ava has filled several notebook pages with measurements, timing notes, and diagrams only she will understand.
“You look less worried,” I say as we step outside.
“I wasn’t worried.”
The evening is cool enough to carry the scent of the river through town. Ava glances toward Sweet Treats, but I am not ready for the evening to end.
“Coffee?” I ask.
“I own a bakery.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I’ve been making coffee since four-thirty this morning.”
“Then you deserve one somebody else made.”
Ten minutes later, we sit on the weathered bench at Black River Overlook with takeout cups from The Foundry and an apple crisp cheesecake muffin Ava brought just for me.
Below us, the old mill district stretches along the river.
Brick factories sit beside newly restored storefronts, and construction lights glow inside buildings that have been empty for years.
Ava breaks the muffin in half and gives me the larger piece.
“Trying to influence my professional opinion?”
“You already built the display.”
“Then what are you trying to influence?”
She looks out toward the water. “Maybe I’m celebrating.”
I wait. She takes a bite before speaking again. “My ex-husband thought the bakery was foolish.”
I notice she’s lost her usual sarcasm and is serious now.
“He called it a hobby that would become an expensive mistake. Whenever I tried to explain what I wanted, the conversation somehow ended with him telling me what I should do instead.”
I turn toward her, but she keeps watching the river.
“By the end of the marriage, I second-guessed everything. The bakery. Leaving him. Moving here. Some days, I still wake up convinced I’ve made a catastrophic financial decision.”
“You opened eleven days ago and just received an order for two hundred and twenty pastries.”
Her gaze meets mine.
“That sounds like trusting yourself,” I tell her, holding her gaze.
Something softens in her expression. “That was a good answer.”
“I have them occasionally.”
“You should stop while you’re ahead.”
I should. Instead, I begin thinking about deposits, delivery routes, refrigerator capacity, and the cost of last-minute help.
“You should require fifty percent upfront,” I say. “And you may need a backup plan for refrigeration. I know someone who rents portable commercial units, and my crew could …”
Ava raises one hand. I stop.
“You were doing really well.”
“At what?”
“Listening.”
“I was still listening.”
“You were reorganizing my business.”
“I was offering solutions.”
“I know.” Her voice is not angry. “That’s what you do.”
“Problems are easier when they have solutions.”
“People aren’t problems, Jake.”
“I don’t think you’re a problem.”
The answer comes too quickly to be anything but true. Ava watches me, the humor fading from her eyes.
“I’m not always asking to be fixed,” she says.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Not completely.”
That earns a quiet laugh.
I lean back against the bench. “But I can try.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The river moves below us, catching the last of the evening light.
Ava brushes crumbs from her fingers. One remains near the corner of her mouth. I reach for it before thinking better of the impulse. My thumb passes lightly over her skin. She stills and so do I.
Her brown eyes drop briefly to my mouth, then return to mine. I could lean forward. I think she might let me. Then, her phone rings.
Ava exhales and looks at the screen. “Kayla.”
“Convenient.”
“She probably remembered something important.”
“She has terrible timing.”
Ava answers the call, but she smiles while doing it. When she finishes, we walk back toward our vehicles.
“Four minutes,” she says.
“What?”
“You listened for almost four minutes before trying to fix my life.”
“I can do better.. I didn’t realize I was on a time clock.”
“Five next time?”
“I’ll aim for six.”
She opens her driver’s door, then pauses. “There’s going to be a next time?”
I meet her gaze across the top of the door.
“I’m counting on it.”
Ava climbs into her vehicle with color rising in her cheeks. I watch her drive away and finally admit what has been obvious since the second cinnamon roll. The pastries are no longer the reason I keep returning to Sweet Treats. They are only the excuse.