Three months later, The Salty Siren had expanded.
Marina stood in the doorway between her original bakery and what had once been Bea’s crystal shop next door, marveling at how much had changed. The wall between the spaces had been knocked out, doubling her square footage. New display cases gleamed beneath warm pendant lights. A proper seating area occupied what used to be Bea’s stock room, complete with mismatched vintage chairs Marina had found at a flea market in Camden and Alessandro had refinished himself, badly, wearing latex gloves over his Breitling because he refused to take it off.
It still smelled like home: vanilla and cinnamon and the salt breeze that drifted in from the harbor. But it was bigger now. Fuller. She’d picked out the pendant lights herself. Got the wiring wrong twice before Dante fixed it, but still. Hers.
“The morning delivery is sorted.” Alessandro emerged from the kitchen, flour dusting his immaculate navy sweater. Three months of bakery life hadn’t made him any less particular about his clothing, but he’d learned to accept that flour was inevitable. “The supplier tried to shortchange us on the almond flour again. I had words.”
“Terrifying words?”
“Moderately terrifying. He’s sending a corrected invoice.”
Marina smiled. This had become their rhythm: she handled the creative side, the baking and experimenting and dreaming up new recipes, while Alessandro managed the business operations with ruthless efficiency. Suppliers who had once tried to overcharge the shy baker now trembled at the sight of his name on their caller ID.
It worked.
The Draven family had visited twice already: once for a formal dinner that had nearly given Marina a heart attack, and once for what Alessandro’s mother called “a casual weekend” that had involved a seventeen-course meal and three different outfit changes.
Marina had won over Mrs. Draven with honey cakes made from her grandmother’s recipe. She’d won over Mr. Draven by refusing to be intimidated when he’d questioned her business model over dinner.
“You have opinions,” the Draven patriarch had observed, sounding almost impressed.
“I do. And your son has learned to listen to them.”
Alessandro had choked on his wine. His father had actually smiled.
“Your mother called while you were intimidating delivery drivers,” she said now. “She wants to know if we’re coming for Christmas.”
Alessandro paused. Three months ago, he would have made the decision himself, informed her of the plan, expected her to adapt. Now he stopped. Considered. Asked.
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to spend Christmas with your family.” Marina crossed to him, reaching up to brush flour from his collar. “ButI also want to do the Sweetwater Cove winter festival. Bea’s counting on us for the dessert table.”
“We could do both. Fly to the estate for Christmas Eve, come back Christmas morning.”
“You’d fly all night?”
“For you? Gladly.” He caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. His sincerity was warm and steady, no trace of resentment or obligation. He meant it.
“Okay,” she said. “Both. Tell your mother we’ll be there.”
“She’ll be insufferable. She’s already planning the engagement party.”
“We’re not engaged.”
“She’s optimistic.” His eyes held hers. “So am I.”
Marina’s heart lifted. They hadn’t talked about marriage, not directly, not yet. But the implication was there, woven through every plan they made for the future.
“One thing at a time,” she said. “First, I have a wedding cake to finish.”
The morning had started at four, as all Marina’s mornings did.
But now Alessandro was there with her. He’d learned her schedule, adapted to it, made it his own. He started the ovens before she even got downstairs. He had her coffee ready, exactly right, because he’d been paying attention from the very first week.
He still slipped sometimes. Just last week, he’d reorganized her entire spice cabinet without asking; old habits, old instincts. But he’d caught himself immediately, apologized genuinely, and offered to put everything back.
She’d said no. The new organization was actually better.
