“If you need to come into my shop to fix something, then do it. I don’t want to tiptoe around each other. You’re not barred from coming in. I don’t want to live like that.”
He nods. “Done.”
“Anything else?” he asks, and there’s no edge to it. Just a question.
I shake my head.
“I should go,” he says, like he’s checking with me first. “Give you back your kitchen.”
“Yeah,” I say, because the part of me that wants to keep him here is not allowed to drive the car right now. “I’ve got… a couple more batches to test.”
He nods and heads for the doorway. He pauses just before the hall, fingers brushing the frame. “Paige?”
I look up.
“I can’t change what I did,” he says. “But I can change what I do. I’m going to.”
I don’t say thank you. I don’t say we’ll see. I just nod once, because that’s all I have to give today.
When the door clicks softly behind him, the kitchen exhales. I stand there with my hand on the edge of the counter and listen to the house settle. The mixer. The oven. My own stupid heart.
I’m still angry. I’m still hurt. But there’s a little more room in here than there was an hour ago. Enough to breathe without bracing.
I reach for the mixing bowl again.
Chapter Eighteen
Ben
The sun is high enough that the outdoor tables bake in the heat, the pints sweating faster than I can carry them. I balance a tray on one hand, set three beers down in front of the guys from the hardware store, and nod at their thanks before retreating back inside.
The Wandering Pint stirs with the usual midday lull—too late for lunch, too early for dinner—but we’ve got a few stragglers who like drinking on their lunch break, and the regular crew who’ll come no matter the time.
I wipe down the counter, listening to the chatter and the clink of glasses. It should feel normal. Comfortable. But my eyes keepdrifting to the front windows, where the light outside is too bright, too distracting.
Because just beyond that light, right next door, sits the bakery.
Paige’s shop.
I’ve kept my distance since the afternoon in her kitchen three weeks ago. We’ve crossed paths on the sidewalk, exchanged quick hellos, but nothing more. She passes The Wandering Pint sometimes, and I keep myself busy so I won’t watch her through the glass. But I do. Every time.
At night, when I close up, I walk past her shop, even though my house isn’t in that direction. Most nights the lights are already off. But sometimes there’s a glow inside, and I stop like an idiot and peek through the window. Just a quick look.
The walls painted, the floors gleaming, the counters waiting. Once or twice I’ve caught her in there, setting something new up or scribbling notes at one of the little mismatched tables she’s found.
I don’t stay long. Just long enough to see proof that she’s still moving forward, even if I’m stuck circling the same handful of words I can’t unsay.
I promised her space, and I’ve been keeping that promise. But keeping it feels like pressing my palm against a burn—it hurts like hell and I can’t pull back.
The door swings open at the back, a rush of warm air flooding in from the lot. Mike waves me down with a crooked grin. “Truck pulling up. Looks like someone’s getting a big delivery next door.”
I step toward the doorway and sure enough, a big rig has eased itself behind the building, brake lights flaring. Two guys hop out, clipboard in hand, already barking at each other about angles and alley space. They head toward the back door of the shop, and I don’t need a label to know where that shipment’s going.
Appliances. Ovens. Mixers. The real bones of her bakery.
“Paige,” I mutter, before I can stop myself.
I don’t move right away. I grip the bar towel at my hip, stare at the truck, and tell myself it’s none of my business. She doesn’t need me barging in. She doesn’t need me at all.
