“You okay?” I ask.
“I will be.” Her hands tighten slightly.
“Good.”
Her arms slide around my waist, her body settling against mine with an ease that feels like muscle memory now. When I roll the throttle open, her grip tightens a fraction, not out of fear, more like she’s bracing herself against the rush she refuses to acknowledge. I feel the small, swallowed laugh vibrate through me, stolen by the engine and the stretch of open road, and I carry a grin the whole way there, aimed straight ahead where she can’t catch it.
The bakery sits on a corner three streets off the Strip, close enough to catch the spill of traffic but far enough that the air still feels local.
Millie doesn’t pause when we walk in.
She explodes.
“Oh my God! Okay, wait, no… this is bigger than I remembered. That’s good, that’s really good… we can put the display cases along that wall, no, actually angled because then the morning light will hit the pastries and people will think we’re a lifestyle brand instead of just baked goods, which is stupid, but it works…” She is already halfway across the room, pushing open cupboards, pacing the length of the prep benches like she’s rehearsing choreography.
Her voice fills the space before anything else does.
Her hands move constantly. She’s measuring, framing, and conducting a future that only exists in her head.
I lean back against the doorway and watch. Because this is who she is when she’s not holding the world together with bare hands and polite composure.
This is Millie uncontained.
And she is fucking breathtaking.
She spins toward me mid-sentence. “And the mixers will go here because the plumbing is already in place, which is honestly a miracle in commercial property, like… do you understand howrarethat is?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer.
She never does when she’s excited like this.
She moves again, faster now, momentum building.
“And the front window is perfect for seasonal installs, like autumn breads and winter sugared citrus and summer fruit tarts and…oh my God!The foot traffic is going to be wild, Anchor, this is actually insane!”
I push off the wall and follow.
Not because she needs me to.
Because letting her walk away alone was never really an option.
Room by room, she pulls me through her vision until we reach the butler’s pantry, tucked at the back like a secret.
She steps inside, still talking. “And this can be dry storage, which means we free up floor space out there and I can finally do the long fermentation program I’ve been dreaming about for years and…” She turns to gesture at a shelf that doesn’t exist yet.
That’s when I lose whatever thin line of restraint I’ve been walking.
I’m done.
Done with the tour.
Done with the polite distance.
Done standing three feet behind her, watching her light up like the sun’s coming out, and pretending I’m not affected by every single word out of her mouth.
I move before the thought finishes forming.
One step.
