I used to follow him around and ask for “cupcake.” Just one. Always one. I couldn’t say the word right for years, and he never corrected me. Just smiled and baked.
He wasn’t an easy man to talk to. We weren’t the kind of family that said everything out loud. We loved each other, but there were long stretches of quiet between us. Still, when he baked, it was like he found a language he didn’t need words for.
When I was in college, he told me he purchased a little corner space. He said it casually, like he was talking about the weather.
“I’m opening a bakery,” he’d said. Then, after a beat, “For you.”
He named itCup & Cake.
I laughed. He didn’t. He just nodded, like the name had always been waiting.
He didn’t leave me much when he died. No big inheritance. No safety net. Just the bakery. Just this small, stubborn, beautiful place that still feels like him every time I unlock the door.
I haven’t changed it much. The menu shifts. A few new things come and go. But the heart of it is the same. The same counter. The same shelves. The same light in the windows in the late afternoon. Sometimes it feels like if I changed too much, I’d lose him all over again.
Some days, when the shop is quiet, I swear I can still hear him moving around in the back, complaining about the oven. About the prices of butter. About how I never turn the music down.
This place is the last thing he ever built for me.
It’s the one place where he still feels… close.
So, no.
I’m not selling it.
Chapter 9
Ella
“Rock, paper, scissors.” We do three rounds, and I lose all three, which means I’m the lucky one who gets to go down to the lobby to grab the Italian food.
Ashton gives me a thumbs-up, then collapses onto the couch. “This is nice.”
“Hate you,” I sing-song as I put on my orange Birkenstocks, struggling to get my pink fuzzy socks into them. My toes look pregnant, but whatever. I put on the first sweatshirt I can find, a baby-blue one that saysGet Bakedon it, another zinger from Ashton. My gray sweatpants are so thin from overuse that you can probably see my black thong, and my hair’s already fallen out of my messy ponytail. I’ve taken off all my makeup, but at least I’m freshly showered.
I get into the elevator and take it down to the lobby, where our delivery is waiting. Ah, it’s Carl. I’ve gotten him a dozen or so times. He’s very committed to his job, and he likes to gossip with Chester.
He’s setting the bag down on the lobby table when he looks up and does a quick double-take.
A smile tugs at his mouth. “Going to the Met Gala, I see.”
I glance down at myself, then back up. “You know it.”
He chuckles and hands me the bag and the carton of salted caramel ice cream. “Enjoy your food.”
“Thank you.”
I turn toward the elevator, juggling the bags—and nearly trip over my Birkenstocks on the way in.
The doors start to close when someone walks in. I look up into chocolate brown eyes and nearly choke on my tongue.
It’s him.
It’s Nathan. I haven’t seen him for a couple of days. Since the underwear situation—perfect timing.
So not only did I wear makeup all week, but I also wore heels. And this? This is what the universe does to me? I’m so painfully aware of my own clothes that I don’t even want to look down. I don’t want to look at him either. So, I go extremely still, hands burning from the Italian food, and stare at my own damn reflection in the elevator doors, which keeps getting worse by the second.
Nathan clears his throat. “Salted caramel, hmm?”
