“It means that not even the management company knew the Starr family was buying the property,” Nami continues, as she thumbs through the documents. “So, you’re right. Jack didn’t know she bought the building. He was only the tenant the whole time. And his paperwork never had the Starr name on it, according to this.”
“Who’s the new owner?”
“Some guy named Pierre Benoit.” She hands the papers back to me.
“Wait. That’s his old boss.” The wheels in my head turn. Jack said Pierre Benoit was helping him. “So he didn’t lie to me.”
Nami sighs. “Well, I hate to admit that there might be a man who’s not terrible out there… given I think all of them are terrible right now, but…” Nami glances at me. “You might want to go talk to Jack. I think he really, seriously didn’t know about Mal’s plans. Not the way this is written.”
“You really think so?” I feel hope flare in my chest.
“I really think so. Go find him. He might even be at the bakery. The address is in those papers.”
A quick ride to Logan Square brings me to a quaint street crowded with local flavor: the musicians, artists, and other twenty- and thirtysomethings that largely make up the neighborhood out enjoying the March sunshine. I see Jack’s bakery straightaway, adorable modern signage hanging above the big glass windows: MANNBAKES.
“That’s cute,” I say. The place couldn’t be better positioned: homey, cozy, and a prime location for passersby headed for the L and their blue-line train commute to downtown. Jack andhis sexy beardstache will be all the rage. He’ll be fighting off suitors every day. I feel my stomach lurch a bit at the prospect.
The bakery isn’t quite open to the public yet. The sign is up, but brown paper covers the big paned windows. I jump out of my rideshare and head to the glass door, knocking on it, tentatively at first. Then harder.
Crap. Why didn’t I text first? Because I’ve got too much to say to fit into a text, that’s why. And because I’m half afraid he’d ignore me, or tell me it’s too late.
Then I hear a voice call from inside, “Just a minute!”
Jack’s?
Then, I hear a bolt slide open and the door swings wide, as an adorable little bell attached to the top of the door dings. Jack stands before me, wiping his hands on a tea towel. He’s so tall. So broad. I forgot. His beard is perfectly trimmed, his brown eyes surprised to see me.
“Sora?”
“Jack. I owe you an apology.” The words tumble out. “Mal came by…” A worried look crosses his face. “No, it was good. She told me the truth. She told me everything. About the bakery.”
I hold up the manila folder I brought with me. “And I just want to say how sorry I am, how…” For the first time, I get a glimpse behind Jack. Of the bakery itself. Jack moves aside, letting me in.
Empty glass cases line one wall, and there are a few small wooden tables and chairs. A huge chalkboard covering one wall lists the specials. Raspberry tortes. Lemon tortes. Cakes. Pies. Cookies. It’s an impressive menu. And then… a big heartin the middle. Around it is written: “Bacon Is My Valentine.” Inside are special bacon desserts: bacon scones, bacon-maple cupcakes, bacon macarons.
“What is all this?” I say, shocked.
“It’s for you,” he says, coming up close behind me, so close I can feel his body heat. “I thought you’d like it.” He takes a deep breath. And I turn to face him. Those damn puppy-dog eyes are so warm. So soft. So gorgeous. How could I ever believe he’s anything but amazing?
“You did this for me?” I can’t quite believe it.
“Sora, you’re beautiful. You’re smart. You’re amazing. You’re funny as hell.”
I have no idea how to respond to this many compliments, which contain zero sarcasm. He’s the beautiful one, in truth. He’s kind and generous. I remember him saving me that day from Marley and Lululemon, and then how patient he was with me all through the Solo February debacle.
“You’re kind, and generous, and so, so thoughtful. You’re the beautiful one,” I say. “I am so, so sorry about thinking the worst of you. For not giving you the benefit of the doubt.” Then I’m stuck in his gaze, soaking up the warmth in it, the heat. I don’t know if he’s moving closer to me, or I’m moving closer to him, but it feels natural, as if it were meant to be.
“No, I should’ve been more honest with you,” Jack says. “I should’ve told you that I’d hooked up with Mal. That she thought it was an invitation back into my life. If I’d just been honest with you, then there wouldn’t have been the misunderstanding at the Golden Chef Awards. But I was afraid of what you might think of me.”
“And I should’ve been honest with you, too. About how bigSolo Februarywas getting. About how I had my doubts about Mal. And I should’ve given you a chance to explain.”
“Yeah. You should’ve. But we’d both been burned. I guess we were both a little gun-shy.”
“Maybe a little.”
Jack grins at me. I grin back at him.
“I should’ve trusted what we had earlier,” I admit.
