And I refuse to be the woman who asks a man to shrink his life to fit inside hers. I've beenthatwoman before. She doesn't survive it.
So I kissed his cheek, grabbed my coat, and walked out of The Den like my heart wasn't actively hemorrhaging in my chest.
The investor group requests…
I read the first line again, then look away.
I've read the damn thing that many times the words are starting to blur into a smear of legal ink and impossible promises.
Already around me, my kitchen is a temple of warmth and chaos. The ovens are still running, radiating a dry heat that's not helping the dryness in my throat.
Over on the bench, I've set out racks upon racks of cooling cardamom twists. I've baked so many this afternoon, they line the entire back wall, their buttery, spiced scent taking over the entire street.
This is what won. A beautiful creation that, once upon a time, I wasproudandexcitedabout sharing.
Now…
It feels like this is what’s pulling my life out from under me.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaks. Morgan is supposedly doing her homework, but I know without my constant supervision, she's probably just practicing her 'commentator voice' with her stuffed animals again.
I sent her up an hour ago with a plate of rejected twists for dinner. She didn’t complain, she just took the plate and gave me a look that saw right through myI’m fine, sweetiesmile.
The bell above the bakery door jingles.
I don’t look up. “We’re closed.”
“It’s me.”
I glance through the kitchen door opening, and see Declan pulling off his heavy wool coat. He shakes off a dusting of snowthat's caught in the fabric, scattering tiny flecks of snow across my floor like he's brought the storm inside with him.
“You lose your hotel key?” I ask, turning back to the dough as he steps into the kitchen.
He slides a stool into the kitchen and sets himself up on the opposite side of the counter. I keep working the dough, unable to look at him.
“You okay?” he asks finally. "We ran into Lane at The Lounge. Everyone is talking about his offer. That and… your news."
I bark out a laugh, rolling my eyes and slamming a fist into the dough. "Oh really?"
Declan's hand shoots across the counter, his fingers closing around my wrists with a firmness that stops me mid-knead.
"Hey." His voice drops lower, softer. Not the intense tone I'm used to from him. "I asked if you were okay."
I finally drag my gaze up to meet his, and the intensity in those protective eyes nearly undoes me.
“What do you think, Dec? My bakery might become a national franchise. The man I’m sleeping with might move to New York. And my daughter’s homework is probably covered in frosting because I’ve been too busy having a midlife crisis to even bother being a half-decent mother anymore." I shove the dough away and it slumps in defeat. "And I think I just murdered this dough. So yeah. I'm great.”
I wipe my hands on my apron, leaving ghostly-white flour prints on the linen.
Declan’s gaze drops to the envelope and he reaches for it, unfolding the pages and reading what should be the best thing to ever happen to me.
“They want you to move.”
“They wantheadquarters and full relocation of bakery operations,” I correct, my voice too sharp. “It’s a condition. Pending a successful partnership.” I grab a dish towel, twistit between my hands. “It’s everything I wrote in that damn notebook, Dec. Everything I wanted before…”
“Before life happened.”
“Before Morgan.” The words are automatic. True, but they taste like guilt. “I’ve spent eight years making sure her world was solid. I put her first in every single decision I've made since the day she was born. And now…” I gesture wildly at the envelope. “Now I’m thinking about uprooting her for… for what? A bigger kitchen? A fancier title?”
