12. Chapter 12
Jake
“Ineed your help.” Those four words undo every reasonable plan I had for staying away from Sweet Treats.
“I’m coming,” I say, then stop myself. “Do you want me to come?”
A pause follows.
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I hang up and look across The Foundry at the untouched plate in front of me.
Kayla stands behind the bar polishing a glass. “Something happened.”
“A pipe burst at the bakery.”
She is already reaching for her phone. “Does Ava need the kitchen?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The answer feels unnatural. I know what needs to happen. Sweet Treats has no functioning sink, Ava has unfinished production, and the event begins in a few hours. The Foundry’s kitchen is the obvious solution. But it is not my decision.
“I’ll call if she wants it,” I tell Kayla.
She studies me for a second, then nods. “We’ll make room.”
I drive to Sweet Treats without breaking the speed limit by enough to attract Sheriff Callahan’s attention.
The front door is unlocked. Inside, finished pastry boxes cover the tables, and the three sections of the display wait near the windows. Loralee kneels on the kitchen floor pushing a mop through the last of the water.
Ava stands beside the commercial sink with her arms folded. She looks exhausted. She also looks relieved to see me.
I set my tool bag down but do not open it. “Show me what happened.”
Ava leads me into the kitchen and points beneath the sink. The cabinet doors are open, exposing the disconnected pipe and soaked wood inside.
“I shut off the water at the valve you showed me,” she says.
“You did the right thing.”
Her gaze meets mine briefly. I crouch and inspect the connection without touching anything. The coupling has split, and part of the older pipe behind it is corroded.
“It can be repaired,” I say. “But not with a quick patch I’d trust around food preparation.”
Her shoulders lower slightly. “What are my options?”
The question tells me she is giving me a chance. I choose my next words carefully.
“First option, I make a temporary repair. It might hold through today, but if it fails, you could have another flood during production.”
“No.”
“I agree.”
Ava’s eyebrows lift, but she says nothing.
“Second option, you stop production until a plumber can replace the damaged section properly.”
“That means missing the event.”
“Yes.”
“Also no.”
“The third option is moving the remaining production to The Foundry. Kayla said she can clear space if you want it. My crew can transport the equipment, ingredients, display, and finished orders. While you work there, I can replace the damaged section here.”
Ava looks around the kitchen. I wait. Every part of me wants to begin issuing instructions. Call Cole. Load the truck. Move the boxes away from the wall. Find the correct pipe fittings. Instead, I keep my mouth shut.
“What would the repair cost?” she asks.
“Materials won’t be much. Two hours of labor, possibly three if the corrosion extends farther into the wall.”
“I’m paying you.”
“We can discuss that later.”
“We can discuss it now.”
Despite everything, I nearly smile. “I’ll invoice you.”
“For the full amount.”
“Yes.”
“And you won’t repair anything else while I’m gone.”
“No.”
“Even if you notice it.”
“That condition feels deliberately cruel.”
“Jake.”
“I will only repair the plumbing.”
She studies my face, searching for some hidden qualification.
I give her none.
“Then I choose the third option,” she says.
Relief moves through me.
“All right. What do you want me to handle first?”
Ava glances toward the pastry boxes. “The display and finished orders need to reach The Foundry without damage. Then the mixer, ingredients for the final cinnamon rolls, and all the clean trays.”
“I’ll call Cole.”
She nods and I take that as permission. It’s a small thing, but I feel it.
Twenty minutes later, Cole arrives with the company truck and one of our apprentices. Kayla sends two Foundry employees with rolling carts. Ava stands in the middle of the bakery directing the entire operation.
She is good at it.
Boxes are grouped by delivery time. Refrigerated items are loaded separately. Every tray is covered and labeled. Loralee manages smaller supplies while informing everyone that the day’s disruption is consistent with “transformational energy.”
No one asks what that means.
I carry the heaviest section of the display toward the door.
Ava follows me. “Tilt it slightly to the left.”
“The doorway is wider on the right.”
“The carved apple is on the left. I don’t want it near the frame.”
I adjust my grip without argument. Cole looks at me as though he has witnessed a rare natural event.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Good answer.”
At The Foundry, Ava takes control of the kitchen within minutes. She reorganizes one prep table, checks the ovens, assigns Loralee to labeling, and begins the final cinnamon roll dough.
I stand near the doorway waiting for instructions.
Ava glances over. “Why are you still here?”
“I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“You to tell me what you need.”
The guarded expression she has worn since last night softens.
“The apple crates,” she says. “Put them beside the mixer.”
I move them.
“Then the cream cheese goes into the lower refrigerator.”
I handle that, too.
When she runs out of requests, I return to Sweet Treats and repair the pipe. The damage is straightforward once I open the wall enough to reach sound plumbing. I replace the corroded section, install a new coupling, and test the line repeatedly before closing anything.
I do not touch the flickering lights.
I do not tighten the front-door hinge.
I do not straighten the molding beside the display case, even though it continues to bother me.
By the time I return to The Foundry, the kitchen smells like maple, cinnamon, apples, and warm bread.
Ava stands over a tray of cinnamon rolls with a piping bag in one hand. A streak of flour marks her cheek, and her hair has escaped almost completely from its bun.
She looks beautiful. She also looks tired enough to fall asleep standing up.
“The pipe is repaired,” I tell her. “I ran the water for ten minutes and checked every connection.”
“Only the pipe?”
“Only the pipe.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She sets down the piping bag and looks at the trays around her. “We’re almost done.”
“You did it, Ava.”
“We did it.”
The correction catches me off guard. Ava comes closer, stopping just beyond reach. “I’m still angry about the inspection.”
“I know.”
“You were wrong.”
“I know that, too.”
“I don’t need you to explain why you did it.”
“That’s probably good. I’m still learning when to stop talking.”
Her mouth curves slightly.
“I asked for help today,” she says. “And you helped without taking over.”
“I tried.”
“You succeeded.”
I want to touch her, but I do not assume the moment gives me that right. Ava notices. She closes the final bit of distance between us and slips her hand into mine. The gesture is quiet, almost hidden from everyone moving around the kitchen. It means more than the kiss in the cooler.
She squeezes my fingers before releasing them. Then she lifts a clean pink apron from the counter and holds it toward me.
“You’re working for me tonight.”
I take it.
“Does this position include benefits?”
Ava looks at my mouth.
“Finish the cinnamon rolls,” she says. “Then we’ll discuss compensation.”
I put on the apron. For the first time in my life, working for someone else feels exactly like where I want to be.