“Still,” she said, eyes wide and hungry. “That’s so insane. I always knew you’d make something of yourself, you know? Not everyone believed in you, but I did.”
From my post behind the counter, I could see the way Ford’s jaw clenched, like the memory tasted sour. “Well. Thanks, I guess.”
Krystal was oblivious, or pretended to be. “So what’s it like, being super rich? Do you still even like coffee, or is that too pedestrian now?” She laughed, then glanced around for witnesses, as if her charm needed an audience.
I watched Ford carefully. The haunted, tired look was back on his face, the one I’d noticed before. But when he caught me watching, his eyes went soft for a second, like he was grateful not to be alone.
Sadly, Krystal kept going. “Are you here for good? Or is this just a victory lap before you head back to California? I hear LA is incredible.”
“I’m here for my mom,” he said quietly. “She’s not well.”
Krystal’s mouth opened, but for once, she didn’t have a comeback. She recovered fast, though. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That’stough.” She squeezed his arm again, then leaned in, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. “If you ever need a distraction, you know, like a night out or whatever, I can get us a table at Larkspur. My treat.” She winked, then giggled.
Ford glanced at me, as if searching for an escape. I pretended to be busy with a stack of mugs, but really, I was just trying not to combust.
Krystal must have noticed his attention shift, because she finally, reluctantly, turned my way. “Lily, right? Hi!” She waved, then didn’t wait for a response. “Can I get a matcha with oat milk, extra cold? And maybe one of those gluten-free scones, if they’re fresh?”
“They’re always fresh,” I replied, but kept my voice down. I snuck a look at Ford, who gave me the tiniest smirk when he caught my comment.
As I pulled the scone and started the drink, I heard Krystal switch gears again. “I’m throwing a launch party for my new boutique in Livingston next week. You should come! It’ll be all the old crowd. Super exclusive, but I could get you on the list.” She pressed her lips together like she’d just offered a winning lottery ticket.
Ford just nodded, noncommittal. “Ah, maybe, sure.”
Krystal pouted, then brightened. “Well, if you’re not busy tonight, maybe we could get dinner? Catch up for old time’s sake?” She didn’t even glance at me—like I wasn’t there, or maybe like I was a piece of furniture.
The scone was in a bag, the drink was ready. I set them on the counter with a smile that could have frozen water. “Here you go, Krystal.”
She tapped her phone to pay, then handed Ford a bright pink business card. “So you know where to find me.” She winked, then gabbed her drink and bag, and left in a swirl of perfume, her heels echoing all the way out the door.
Silence settled over the bakery. Ford looked at me, but I busied myself drying off a mug that hadn’t even been used.
“She’s, uh, a lot.” He huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh.
“No kidding.”
For a second, I thought he was going to say something else. But he just stood there, and while I forced my eyes to look down at the cup I was pretending to dry, I could swear he was looking at me.
“I should head into the back,” I said, gesturing lamely toward the kitchen. “I’ve got, um, a million things to do before I leave.”
He nodded. “I should get going soon anyway. Thanks for the coffee.”
With a quick nod, I grabbed a tray and slipped into the back room, heart pounding. The kitchen was bright and warm, filled with the smell of rising dough and melting butter, but it felt like another planet. I sank down on a milk crate, letting the noise of the world fade out for a minute.
It was stupid to feel disappointed. Ford wasn’t mine. He barely even knew me. But there was something about the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing in the room that made sense. I didn’t want to share that with anyone, least of all someone like Krystal, who collected people the way she collected shoes.
I got up, dusted flour from my hands, and peeked through the window in the swinging door. Ford was still standing at the counter, staring at his phone but not really seeing it. I watched him for another moment, then turned away, forcing myself to focus on the tray of cinnamon rolls that needed frosting.
Let Krystal have her scene. Let the whole town buzz about Ford and his money and his past. I would stay here, safe behind the kitchen door, pretending I didn’t care about any of it.
But I did. More than I wanted to admit.
I was so deep in my head that I almost missed the sound of cookies shifting on a rack. Sutton was in the back, sliding double chocolate chip cookies onto parchment, the edges still glossy and molten in the center. She didn’t look up right away, but I could tell she’d probably clocked my entrance the instant I let the door swing too hard behind me.
“Was that Krystal Cummings I heard out there?”
“Yep,” I said as casually as I could.
She finished her row and set the spatula down with surgical precision. “So,” she said, “did she ask Ford to sign her boobs, or was it just the standard high school reunion routine?”
