“Levi!” I whisper.
He only grins, eyes glinting, as though the risk of being caught thrills him.
Mrs. Maddox turns back, none the wiser. “Beau, darling, would you pour the wine? Everyone should have a glass.”
“Of course,” Beau says easily, already reaching for the corkscrew.
“And Wren,” she continues, her gaze landing on me again, “why don’t you help me in the kitchen? The boys always hoard you, so I think it’s only fair I get some girl-to-girl time.”
My pulse jumps. “Oh—yes, of course.”
She smiles like she’s won, then gestures for me to follow her down the hallway and into the kitchen proper. It’s warm, bright, every surface filled with bowls and platters. Copper pots hang above the island, catching the light.
As I step in, my gaze lands on a mixer perched in the corner. Old, sturdy, its enamel chipped. The exact model my grandmother had when I was a girl.
My throat tightens. “You have one of those,” I say softly, pointing.
Mrs. Maddox follows my gaze. “Oh yes. That mixer has been with me since Levi was in diapers. Best in the game.”
I nod, swallowing against the lump in my throat. “My grandmother had the same one. She taught me to bake with it. Pies, mostly.”
“Ah,” she says. “That explains yesterday.”
I tilt my head. “Yesterday?”
She smiles. “The pie Levi brought me. Apple cinnamon. It was wonderful. You made it, didn’t you?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I did. I’m glad you liked it.”
“Liked it?” She waves a hand as though the word is too small. “I devoured it. Best crust I’ve had in years.”
Her praise fills my chest with both swelling and ache. I murmur, “Thank you.”
She gestures toward the sink. “Wash up, then. I’ll put you to work.”
I roll up my sleeves and step to the counter, scrubbing my hands with lavender soap that smells almost identical to the kind I use at home. The familiarity soothes me. I dry them on a towel, then look to her for direction.
She passes me a bowl of green beans, their ends still intact. “Would you mind trimming these? We’ll sauté them in butter and garlic later. Nothing fancy, but Levi always liked them.”
I smile faintly as I take a seat at the island, knife in hand. “Of course.”
As I work, slicing and piling the beans, she leans against the counter across from me. “So,” she says, voice light, “tell me about you, Wren. What’s something I should know?”
The question lodges in my chest. What should she know? That I nearly lost the café? That I’ve stumbled and scraped my way through too many jobs just to survive? That her son and his best friends claimed me in a way I never thought I’d be wanted?
Instead, I smile faintly. “I grew up here—small-town girl. My grandmother raised me, and she taught me everything I know about baking. The café is my dream, really. I’ve been working to bring it back to life.”
Her eyes soften. “Levi mentioned. He’s very proud of you.”
The words knock the air from me. Proud. Levi said that. My chest aches.
I keep working, the rhythm of trimming beans grounding me. The house hums with warmth, the murmur of the men’s voices in the other room, the clink of glasses as Beau pours wine.
My nerves don’t disappear, but they ease, just a fraction, as Mrs. Maddox smiles across the counter at me, like maybe she’s glad her son loves me. I let myself hope that maybe I can belong here.
The green beans are trimmed and stacked neatly in a bowl when Mrs. Maddox pulls a pot closer and dips a spoon into it. Steam curls up, rich with herbs and something buttery. She blows on it, then turns toward me with a conspiratorial smile.
“Here,” she says, holding the spoon out. “I need a second opinion. My boys always say yes to everything, so they don’t count. You’ll give me an honest answer.”
