She laughs, breathless but glowing. “Getting ready for the festival.”
I blink at her. “You’re doing it? Really?”
Her grin widens as she nods. “Norah registered me yesterday. It’ll be good publicity. And maybe I can make enough to cover some of the repairs.”
Excitement punches through me. “Wren, that’s… that’s huge.” I can’t stop myself from kissing her again, quick and fierce, before Levi nudges my shoulder.
“This does look fun,” he says, his eyes flicking around the packed café. “But I’ve got to head to work.”
She pouts at him, but it’s playful. “Already?”
“Duty calls.” He kisses her once more, lingering just long enough that I know he doesn’t want to leave either. Then he smirks at her. “I’ll take samples, though. Don’t think I won’t.”
She laughs, swatting his arm. “Go.”
He waves at me as he heads out. “Don’t burn the place down, Rhodes.”
“Funny,” I mutter.
And then it’s just me and her again, in the middle of this bustling little café.
“So,” I say, arching a brow. “It’s my day off. You gonna put me to work or what?”
She tilts her head, like she’s debating, but the smile tugging at her lips gives her away. “You sure?”
“Give me an apron.”
She doesn’t waste time. She snatches one from a hook and tosses it at me. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”
I slip it over my head, ignoring the way a couple of locals glance over like it’s some spectacle. I don’t care. If she wants me behind the counter, that’s where I’ll be.
Pancake is stretched out on the windowsill, looking far too smug for a cat that just scared the hell out of us last week.
I step up beside her as she kneads dough, flour streaked across her wrist. “So, what’s the plan? What recipes are you pulling out for this big debut?”
Her expression softens. “Grandma’s. Always Grandma’s.”
Of course. She says it with a reverence that makes my chest ache. I watch her hands move—confident, practiced—and I realize this is more than baking to her. It’s legacy. It’s proof she belongs here, even when she doubts it.
“Show me,” I say quietly.
She glances up. “You really want to?”
“Wren, I want all of it. Teach me.”
Her cheeks flush as she reaches for the recipe card box, the one I know she guards like treasure. She flips it open, fingers brushing the edges of yellowed index cards until she pulls one free.
“Apple butter hand pies,” she says, her smile small but proud. “These won her three Harvest ribbons.”
“Guess we’d better make sure you get the fourth.”
She laughs, shaking her head, and then she’s walking me through it. Mixing. Rolling. Crimping edges.
I let her boss me around, let her laugh at how terrible my lattice looks, and for once in my life, I don’t mind being bad at something. Not if it means watching her glow like this.
Hours slip by. The crowd ebbs and flows. Simon stops in at one point to grab coffee before his shift, and I swear his eyes linger on her longer than they should.
She hands him a cup with a soft smile, and I bite my tongue not to growl. He leaves quickly, though, and it’s just us again, covered in flour, laughing like kids.
