Sutton rolled her eyes, then leaned over to me. “Whittier Falls: come for the pies, stay for the character assassination.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. I focused on restocking the napkins, then alphabetized the tea bags for the third time that day.
My phone buzzed, and I snatched it up so fast I almost launched it into the sink. Just a text from daycare: “Noah is loving show and tell today! See you at cookie time.”
I hearted the picture of Noah, standing in the front of the classroom, showing off his favorite—and most beat up—toy truck. The smile on his face reached both ears and my heart swelled with pride.
But I couldn’t deny the disappointment that sprang up from the text not being from Ford. Then reminded myself for the hundredth time that Ford had a lot on his plate. Sutton was right. Maybe he needed time. Maybe he was dealing with his mom, or the fallout from the podcast, or the million other things I couldn’t begin to understand.
And maybe, just maybe, he was thinking about me, too.
But until he called, I had cupcakes to frost and customers to serve and a life to keep living, even if it felt like I was waiting for a shoe to drop with every step I took.
By two, the rush had slowed. Sutton ducked into the back to call her coffee distributor. I leaned against the counter, staring out the window at Main Street and the slow trickle of traffic. My reflection caught in the glass—hair pulled back, blue apron streaked with flour, the faintest hint of dark circles under my eyes.
I tried to imagine what Ford would say if he walked in right now. Probably something sarcastic about the bear claws. Or a compliment I wouldn’t believe. Or maybe just “hey,” in that way of his that made it sound like a promise.
The bell chimed again. I looked up, heart on a hair trigger.
Still not him.
Just a guy in work boots, his hands stained with motor oil. He ordered black coffee and a plain bagel, then sat down at the bar to eat in silence.
I watched him for a moment, then turned back to my phone. No messages.
I typed out a text, thumb hovering over the screen: Hey. Hope you’re okay.
I stared at it, then deleted the whole thing. He’d call when he was ready.
Sutton attacked the countertop with lemon spray, humming along to an old pop song on the radio, while I picked stray crumbs out of the cookie display and lined up the biscotti so they all faced the same direction.
The sunlight coming through the windows was different now, flatter and more gold, slanting long shadows across the tile. The regulars had all cleared out. The air smelled like yeast and vanilla and fake lemon cleaner.
Sutton eyed my work and shook her head, mock exasperated. “You know you’re the only person on the planet who lines up cookies like they’re in boot camp, right?”
I shrugged. “They taste better when they’re organized.”
She rolled her eyes, then softened. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lied, popping up on my toes to wipe a smudge from the top of the glass.
She paused, then said, “I listened to that podcast while I worked in the back. The first episode, at least. Bunch of yapping about nothing.”
I stopped wiping. “Seriously?”
She shrugged. “They just rehash all the same stories. Ty’s truck, the bonfire party, the rumors about your billionaire. They didn’t say anything everyone around here hasn’t heard ten times.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “I don’t even want to listen to it.”
Sutton watched me, then nodded slowly. “Don’t blame you.”
I went back to scrubbing the same spot, not because it was dirty but because I needed my hands to be doing something.
The front door chimed, and both of us snapped to attention. It was just the mail carrier, dropping a few envelopes on the counter and grabbing a coffee to go. When the door closed, the silence came back even thicker than before.
I wanted to call Ford. I wanted to drive out to the ranch and bang on the door and demand to know what he was thinking. But all I could do was stand there, holding my cleaning rag like a lifeline.
“You know,” Sutton said, “you can ask for help, too. If you need to.”
