I force a smile, pushing the memories away. “Yeah. Just… a long night. It’s catching up with me.”
He nods, understanding. “The pizzas will be done in five minutes. I promise. Then we can get you guys home to bed.”
“You’re a good man, Eli,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He looks surprised, then a little shy. “I’m just making dinner.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not just that. It’s everything. The tarts. Coming to the shop. Paying for our tickets. Being nice to Maisie.” I look at him, really seeing him. The flour on his cheek, the kindness in his eyes. “You’re the kind of man I should have fallen in love with.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and honest. I see the impact they have on him. His breath hitches. He opens his mouth to respond, but I don’t let him.
“If I had known men like you existed,” I whisper, “I would have waited. I wouldn’t have settled for… for less. I would have waited for you.”
Eli stares at me, his throat working. He reaches out, brushing his thumb over my cheek. The touch is electric. “You’re here now, Amber. That’s what matters.”
“Pizza time!” Fallon shouts, pulling a steaming pie out of the oven.
The moment breaks, but the feeling remains. I stand there, watching them, and I know with sudden and blinding clarity that I am in trouble.
I’m falling for him.
I’m falling for this gentle baker who looks at me like I’m the only flower in the shop.
And for once, I think that maybe I deserve to be picked.
The phone propped up on the counter shows Stella’s face in pixelated high definition, the background of her London flat a blur of canvases and paint-splattered drop cloths. It’s late there, past midnight, but she’s wide awake, fueled by caffeine and creative energy.
“Okay, so, let me get this straight,” Stella says, leaning closer to the camera, her dyed black hair falling into her eyes. “Jude and Dorian actually agreed to this?”
“They actually agreed,” I confirm, stripping the thorns off a particularly vicious rose stem. “They sat down with the contractors this morning. The plan is to knock out the back wallof the storage unit and extend the foundation. They’re going to install a commercial-grade walk-in cooler that’s triple the size of the current one.”
“Holy shit,” Stella whistles. “That’s a massive renovation. It’s going to take forever, right?”
“Months. Probably two, maybe three if the weather holds.” I drop the thorn into the waste bucket. “Which means we have to clear out the existing stock before they start demolition. Norah is talking about running a ‘clearance sale’ for the next two weeks to get rid of everything. And then? Then we close the doors.”
“Closed for months?” Stella’s eyes widen. “What about the income? You guys can’t just shut down for a quarter.”
“That’s the problem. Norah has some savings, and the guys are obviously footing the bill for the construction itself, but the operational costs… and my pay…” I sigh, rubbing my temple. “If the shop isn’t open, I’m not working. And if I’m not working, I’m not getting paid.”
Stella frowns, the blue light of the screen washing out her pale complexion. “That sucks, babe. What are you going to do? Do you have enough saved up to float you for three months?”
I hesitate, glancing at the order book on the counter. “I have some. But…”
I trail off. I haven’t told her about the car. Three days ago, the old sedan decided to protest its existence.
A minor breakdown turned into a major repair bill—new alternator, serpentine belt, a battery. It ate through the emergency fund I had been meticulously building since we moved to Fox Hollow.
And then there was the email from the school yesterday. The debate club fees. Uniforms, travel expenses for the regional competition in Eugene, registration fees. It was four hundred dollars. It might as well be four thousand.
I look at Stella on the screen. She’s vibrating with excitement about something else.
“Anyway, I’ll figure it out,” I say, keeping my voice light. “So, what’s this big news you were dying to tell me?”
Stella’s face instantly transforms. The worry for me vanishes, replaced by a manic, brilliant grin. “Okay, so, you know that gallery in Shoreditch? The one that represents that street artist who does the massive murals?”
“Vaguely?”
“Well, I’ve been networking my ass off at this bar I work at—you know, the one with the pretentious craft cocktails? Anyway, the owner’s brother is a curator. He came in last week, saw some sketches I did on the back of a receipt, and he invited me to a private viewing next month. He thinks if I can put together a solid collection, he might feature me in their emerging artists exhibition in the summer!”
