Page 28 of Where the Music Grows

Proving him wrong.

The realization sits heavy in my chest.

I thought I was doing this for me. For Mom. But part of me—a big part—is doing it to shove it in Dad’s face. To show him I can make it on my own.

I’ll play every night at The Hollow Log. I’ll save every tip. I’ll get so damn good that when my name finally reaches him—through Michael or Caleb or some small-town gossip chain—he’ll have to admit I was right.

That this wasn’t a waste.

That I’m not a failure.

I’m going to prove to him I can be successful doing what I want—not what he wants me to do.

Chapter Ten

Jinnie

The alarm blares at ten after four. I smack it off before the second beep. I don’t really need the alarm anymore. I’ve been getting up at the crack of dawn for years. Even on my days off, my body tries to wake up. It’s a chore to stay in bed. My feet hit the cold hardwood floor before my brain’s fully awake. Another day, another mountain of dough to conquer.

My feet shuffle across the cold hardwood floor, my eyes still half-shut as I stumble toward the bathroom. Thankfully, my tiny home means I only have to take about ten steps to walk into my tiny bathroom. This is the time of day when every creature, great and small, is sound asleep. Even the crickets have gone to bed. I flick on the light, wincing at the sudden brightness, and squint at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a wild mess of brown curls, sticking up in every direction like I’ve been electrocuted. I look like I’ve been through a wind tunnel—or maybe just wrestled a bear. Either way, it’s not a great start to the day.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself awake. It works for about three seconds before the exhaustion starts creeping back in. “Come on, Jinnie,” I mutter to my reflection. “You’ve got this.”

I grab my toothbrush and squeeze out a glob of toothpaste way bigger than I need. I don’t even have to think about what I’m doing. I shower before bed to give me an extra fifteen minutes of sleep in the morning. Routine is everything when you wake up before the sun does. Without it, I’d probably forget to put on pants or something equally disastrous.

I run a brush through my hair but don’t spend too much time trying to make it look good. It’s just going up in a ponytail anyway. I dress in my usual black pants and the T-shirt that advertises the bakery. My ugly but functional shoes wait for me by the door.

I feel something warm and fuzzy brush the back of my legs. “Hey, Max.”

My cat, who’s obese, according to the vet, rubs around the front of my legs as I tie my shoes. “Are you hungry? You know the vet said you have to go on a diet.”

He offers a lazy meow in return. Poor Max has been on a diet for a year. I tried to argue on his behalf and convince the vet he was more fluff than fat, but the scale didn’t lie.

“Maybe I should get you a leash. We can go for walks.”

He looks up at me like I’ve just actually called him a dog.

“Or not. But I’m not the one who’s got rolls on my rolls.”

I finish tying my shoes and portion out his food. He puts his face right in the dish, scarfing down the food like he’s starving. “Be good. Do not scratch my couch. You have a scratching post. Scratch that.”

I grab my purse and keys and walk outside. It’s still dark. I hop in my car and start the engine. Zach Bryan is shouting at me through the speakers. I quickly turn down the stereo. It always feels so much louder first thing in the morning.

The drive into town is short. I park in back and use my keys to unlock the back door. I flick on the bakery lights. The familiar scent of dough greets me as I tie my apron strings tight. First order of business—start the bread dough.

My hands move on autopilot, measuring flour, kneading the sticky mass until it’s smooth and elastic. The rhythmic motion is comforting. Predictable. Unlike the rest of my life. This isn’t my dream job. I don’t lie in bed and dream of making cakes, cookies, and muffins.

But it is my job and right now, I need it.

By five-thirty, the first batch of croissants are in the oven, and the smell of butter and golden pastry fills the air. I snap a quick pic—the layers are perfect today—and post it to the bakery’s Instagram with the caption: Morning magic. Get ’em before they’re gone!

I carry the tray of bagels that have cooled up front.

Mrs. Carter shuffles in at the same time she comes in every Tuesday for the past decade.

“Morning, Jinnie,” she says, adjusting her oversized glasses. “What’s fresh today?”

I grin. “Croissants are in, but the cinnamon rolls just came out. And the bagels are just cool enough to go in the case.”