Jack.
He’s forsaken his sleek cashmere trench for his reindeer bait coat again.
He never came to the bakery yesterday. Just as I asked. Just as I wanted.
But the way my heart double-times makes me wonder if I should’ve been more final. Should’ve put a stop to all distractions sooner.
Turning the lock, I step back, the bell above the door giving a guilty jingle as Jack steps inside, snow glittering off his shoulders.
“Hey.” He smiles—if you can call it that— before looking behind me at the spotless front case, then past it to the kitchen’s military order, and something in his face softens before it steels.
His greeting feels ominous and a lot more serious than what our holiday fling calls for. “Hey.”
I flip the lock again before leading the way through the swinging door, feeling the need to be surrounded by my kitchen equipment— the things I know how to work and run with elite proficiency.
The small kitchen swallows us: stainless and tile and the faint bite of cleaner. I set the spatula down and flatten both palms on the prep table to keep them from doing anything embarrassing. “So how was the library reading?—”
“I was going to tell you about the client.” His voice lands sharp and careful on the tile between us. “I meant to. I was going to explain?—”
“There’s nothing to explain.” I shift a tray a half inch likeproximity is a math problem. “But congratulations.” I stare into my wavering reflection in the steel prep table. “Scott Evans. That’s huge.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him studying me, like he’s cross-examining a witness who won’t sit.
“Congratulations?” He’s leading the witness.
“You seem to think I’d be angry.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “I’m not angry, Jack.” My tone, like my smile, comes out laminated—bakery-counter smooth. “I went into this knowing it wasn’t permanent.”
He opens his mouth then closes it. The sentence he had dies without a sound.
“I was always honest about what I wanted.” I drop my eyes to the seam in the steel so I won’t have to see his. “And you were honest about who you are.” The smile I paste on is glassy and wrong. “And we both know a Hollywood agent-lawyer isn’t part of the life I moved here for or want.”
I glance at the oven door to my left, its reflection clear enough to see the muscles in Jack’s jaw moving like a storm under his skin.
He looks around like the room might help him like it does me, inventorying the racks, the scales, the lined-up spoons.
“An imaginary life. With an imaginary man.” His voice is too gentle for how sharp it lands. His eyes flick back to me like he already regrets the words but can’t pull them back. “That’s what you moved here for. A postcard husband in flannel with a moral compass that always points to your door.”
Heat prickles under my skin, rising in a rush that feels like tormenting goosebumps. I grab the towel draped overthe counter, twisting it hard enough to wring out water that isn’t there.
“Two years ago you moved here, Audrey. And how far along is that dream?” He drags a hand through his hair, leaving it mussed, the clean-cut Hollywood polish slipping. His mouth twists as if the words taste bitter. “That carefully laid out plan with no room for negotiation or deviation?”
The words lodge in my throat. I press the towel flat against the counter, trying to smooth away the sting of them, but my fingers tremble too much.
“And with the way you work”—a breath, a wince—“with how much of a perfectionist you are, do you think you’ll ever find it? Him?”
It’s hard to swallow.
His eyes catch mine, steady and unblinking, daring me to argue. “Even if he’s right in front of you, I doubt you’ll see it.”
We stare at each other for a beat with nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and my own pulse.
“Maybe I won’t.” My voice floats out, light as powdered sugar so he won’t hear the crack in it. “Maybe I never will.” I set the towel aside with deliberate care, like the gesture alone can prove I’m steady. “But not wanting to build a life around flight times and clients isn’t a flaw. It’s a boundary.”
“I wasn’t calling it a flaw.” He breaks his stare, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “I just…” He leaves his thought unfinished. Like us.
Reaching for a cooling rack I don’t need, I slide it between us like a shield. “Neither of us are wrong. We’re just wrong for where we’re headed.”
He leans on the opposite side of the table, palms braced,the two of us bookending a battlefield we built together. “I could?—”
