I set down my knife and wipe my hands on my apron.
"I am working, little baker."
"And I'm offering you something sweet. Open."
I obey automatically, leaning down and opening my mouth. She places the macaron on my tongue gently, her fingertips brushing my lower lip, and I close my eyes briefly to savor the flavor. Strawberry and cream, light and sweet and perfectly balanced.
When I open my eyes again, she is watching me with that particular expression that means she is pleased with herself.
"Good?" she asks.
"Perfect."
She beams, rising up on her toes to kiss me quickly before darting back to her station to handle the next order.
I watch her go, the pink ribbon in her hair bouncing slightly with each step.
Contentment.
Security.
Home.
By the time the grand opening rush finally slows around mid-afternoon, we are both exhausted, flour-dusted, and slightly delirious from the adrenaline. Quinn collapses onto one of the small chairs near the front window, kicking off her vintage heels with a groan.
"My feet are going to fall off," she announces dramatically.
I lock the front door, flip the sign to "Closed," and move to stand behind her chair. My hands settle on her shoulders,thumbs digging gently into the tight muscles at the base of her neck.
She melts under the pressure, her head falling forward with a soft, pleased sound.
"You're forgiven for the charcuterie board thing," she murmurs.
"Generous of you."
"I know."
I work the tension from her shoulders methodically, feeling the knots loosen gradually beneath my hands. She is so small, so delicate, and yet she commands this entire space with absolute authority. Customers adore her. The staff we hired to help with the weekday rush follow her instructions without question. She negotiated our supplier contracts, designed the menu layout, and handled the entire branding strategy while I focused on sourcing premium cuts and building out the back kitchen.
She is extraordinary.
And she is mine.
"We did it," she says softly, tilting her head back to look up at me. "We actually pulled this off."
"You doubted me?"
"I doubted us," she admits. "I thought maybe we were too different. Too stubborn. Too likely to kill each other over disagreements about refrigerator organization."
I lean down and kiss her forehead gently.
"And now?"
"Now I think we're perfect." She reaches up and tangles her fingers with mine where they rest on her shoulder. "Perfectly chaotic and mismatched and completely, stupidly in love."
My chest tightens.
I move around the chair, pull her to her feet, and kiss her properly. Slow and deep and thorough, tasting sugar and exhaustion and victory. Her hands fist in the front of my shirt,pulling me closer despite the fact that I am still covered in a fine layer of meat dust and she is pristine as always.
