“Very big.”
Sadie goes completely still behind her. I can feel it. That quiet panic again. The kind that comes from hope showing up too fast.
So, I keep my voice light. “Do I get benefits?”
Jillie nods. “Cookies.”
“Strong package.”
“And maybe you can come to my school concert.”
Sadie’s breath catches. Jillie looks suddenly shy, twisting her fingers together. “It’s tomorrow night,” she says. “We’re singing winter songs. I have one line. It’s not a solo, but Miss Angie said I say it with expression.”
My heart does something inconvenient.
I glance at Sadie first.
Because rules matter.
Because Jillie matters.
Because I’m starting to understand that every easy yes from me might cost Sadie later.
Sadie meets my eyes. Guarded. Worried. Already bracing for disappointment.
And that decides it. Not because I want to play hero. Because I don’t want that little girl to think asking was a mistake.
I look back at Jillie.
“I’d like that,” I say. “If your mom says it’s okay.”
Jillie turns her hopeful face toward her mom.
The bakery goes quiet. Sadie swallows. Then, very carefully, she nods.
Jillie lights up brighter than every winter festival bulb on Main Street.
“You have to sit in the tiny chairs,” she warns me.
I grin. “I’ve faced playoff defensemen. I can handle tiny chairs.”
Sadie mutters, “Just wait. Famous last words.”
And for the first time all day, I’m not thinking about trades.
Or headlines.
Or the reputation everyone keeps trying to fix.
I’m thinking about a school concert.
A little girl with one line.
A baker with tired eyes who looks at me like she wants to trust me and hates herself for it.
And the strange, terrifying possibility that this bakery might be the first place in years where I’m not trying to escape my own life.
Chapter five
