It’s quiet for a beat as I let it sink in—Audrey, a pastry chef at the top of her game, leaving it all for Hideaway so she can bake for people who come not for a bigger spectacle but because they can’t stop thinking about the last bite.
And now I get why my jet-lagged, bah-humbug slam onHideaway kept me parked at the bottom of her esteem for so long.
“So…” I pick up my fork once more. “Who’s the woman in the framed photo on your bookshelf?”
She chokes on a bite of cake. “The photo?”
“Ah, yeah.” I draw out the word, my fork halfway through the cake, pretty sure I’ve just jinxed myself and taken the conversation in a direction Audrey did not want to go. “The one by the coat rack?” I slide her water glass toward her with my free hand in case she needs it. “I saw it when I collected my scarf.”
“Oh.” She takes a sip. Then another, buying a few more seconds. “That’s my mother.” She speaks like it’s nothing, but there’s a subtle shift in her posture. “That picture was taken on my first day at the Ritz.” Something flickers in her eyes before she focuses on the cake crumbs on her plate.
“I bet she’s proud of you.” Hell,I’mproud of her and we just met.
Audrey’s fork hesitates just long enough for me to notice before she answers. “She was very proud of my job at the Ritz.”
I could leave it there. I don’t. “But not Making Whoopie?”
She exhales through her nose, not quite a sigh. “My mother’s an accountant. Numbers are her love language. To her, it made no sense to trade in a well-paying, high-prestige job for a small-town business when…” She stirs her fork through the crumbs. “When twenty percent of all small businesses go bankrupt in the first year.”
“Yeah, but Making Whoopie just passed its second year, and if the crowds streaming in from open to close that I’vewitnessed firsthand are any indication—you’re nowhere near going bankrupt.”
“Fifty percent of new businesses fail in the first five years.” Her reply is rote, like she’s repeated it a hundred times. Or heard it from her mother even more. I watch her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She’s talking facts, but I can hear the subtext—the way her mother saw the risk without seeing the dream.
Not wanting to talk badly about anyone’s mother, I settle for, “She, uh, sounds practical.”
“She is.” This time the sigh is longer, quieter. “And she’s not wrong, statistically speaking. Or a bad mom.” Her gaze stays on the plate, voice even. “She just had to raise me on her own when my dad left, and then fought her way through a male-dominated career. She didn’t want me to struggle.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Still doesn’t.”
I study her, the way her shoulders square up even as her voice softens, and something in me shifts, like a wall I had braced inside me giving way.
“I’m pretty sure my mom was proud of me, too.” The words scrape out before I can stop them. “She passed when I was younger. But she—” I clear my throat, forcing a crooked smile. “I remember she had this way of making everything feel… easy. Even when things weren’t.”
Audrey’s eyes flick to mine.
“Guess that’s why Hideaway threw me more than I expected when I first got here. All the holiday cheer, the traditions, families everywhere—it reminded me of everything I’d had and lost.” I let out a slow breath, the words coming easier than expected. “My parents and I lived in a small town in Oregon before moving to Los Angeles, andmost of my good memories of them are from then. So walking into Hideaway…” I shrug, not sure how to finish that sentence.
“I’m so sorry.” Her voice is soft, guilt edging her words. “I didn’t realize, and I wasn’t very nice when?—”
“Hey.” I wave my hand across the table as if trying to thin the air that’s become heavy with things I didn’t mean to confess. “You couldn’t have known.” I lean back in my chair, trying to portray the picture-perfect image of an emotionally stable and successful man. “And now that I’m not jet-lagged and I’ve retired from Skippy patrol, I actually like Hideaway for the same reason I first didn’t—it reminds me of my parents.”
Audrey’s expression turns hopeful.
“And I’ve especially liked working out of your bakery and”—I gesture around me and the nautical décor overlayed with Christmas trimmings—“going to places like this.” I meet her eyes and smile, hoping to restore some of our previous ease. “I mean, now that I’ve gotten decent sleep, I can really appreciate the town.”
Not taking the bait, Audrey asks, “You said your parents died when you were young. How young?”
“I was ten.”
She winces, and I rush to follow with a softer note. “But Felix’s mom, Sofia—she lived down the street. She stepped in when no one else could and basically adopted me. She’s been like family ever since.”
Something gentle crosses Audrey’s face—sympathy but also curiosity, like she’s cataloguing the people who matter most to me.
“Bottom line,” I add, keeping my tone light, “Sofia and Felix have been my family for years, and I’mfine.”
The furrow in her brow eases a little.
And then the waitress slides the bill onto the table.
I snatch it up before Audrey can even reach for her wallet. “You can get the next business meeting.” I pull out my wallet and tuck my card inside the small black folder.
