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“I’ll wait.” He pressed his lips against her temple. “I’ll wait for you as long as it takes.”
She tightened her arm around his waist and lifted her face for another kiss. The landline phone rang from the living room. Trevor muttered a noise of irritation and cupped her cheek, increasing the pressure of the kiss. The machine clicked on, and a male voice crackled through the speaker.
“…Thomas Rivers, with the Food Network…saw your guest spots on your local public television…interested in speaking with you…”
Kate pulled away from Trevor, her eyes widening. “Trevor, that’s the second time he’s called. You need to talk to him.”
“I will. Later.” He kissed her again.
“What if he wants to offer you a guest spot or even your own show?”
“Then he can do it later. Or he can talk to me when I’m in New York meeting with Luis Valmont about the executive chef position at Mauve.”
Kate bolted upright. A gasp caught in her throat. Trevor smiled, his eyes twinkling.
“Oh. My. God.” She pushed his chest. “When did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did.”
“You.” She grabbed a pillow and swatted him. “Trevor, this is amazing! Do you know how many young chefs get offered that kind of position right off the bat? None. None! You’re a phenomenon.”
He laughed and hauled her against him again. “It’s not a done deal yet.”
“It will be.”
Though he didn’t respond, amusement and love shone bright in his eyes, right alongside the knowledge that was such an intrinsic part of him. Itwasa done deal already, and he knew it. From a young age, his fiery ambition had set his course in life, and he was determined to see it through. Kate had never doubted that he would.
As he lowered his mouth to hers again, the smell of burnt toast wafted to her nose.
“The bread!”
She and Trevor scrambled out of bed and into the kitchen. Smoke wafted from the oven. Kate hurried to open the windows while Trevor took the Dutch oven out and set it on the counter. He lifted the lid. The top part of the crust was blackened.
“Probably the bottom too.” Kate sighed and poked the charred loaf.
“Sorry, Kit-Kat.” Trevor’s mouth twisted with regret. “My fault for distracting you.”
“It’s not your fault. And I was more than willing to be distracted.” She rubbed his back. “It’s an easy recipe too, so I’ll try again. Hey, don’t look all gloomy. I can bake more bread.”
It was one of her lifelong lessons—no matter how many times her mother had uprooted them to another town, another apartment with another boyfriend or husband, no matter how many times Kate had had to adjust, make new friends, find her way…she could find comfort in baking another loaf of bread.
“Go make your call.” She hugged Trevor around the waist. “I’ll be here.”
“I know.” He kissed the top of her head. “Bread may be the world’s constant, but you’remygreatest constant. Always.”
At the time, she hadn’t known thatalwayswasn’t necessarily permanent. That a thousand things could interrupt it, and thatconstantdidn’t mean invulnerable. She’d neglected to remember that even the most experienced bakers could get bread wrong. In fact, it was far easier to fail at bread baking than it was to create a perfect loaf.
Now, as memories of Trevor drifted through her mind and the dough became smooth and elastic under her hands, Kate told herself that the comfort and stability of life in Bliss Cove was what she had been seeking.
She’d anticipated, and welcomed, the hectic pace of Trevor’s career as a chef, but she hadn’t been prepared for his meteoric rise into the upper echelons of the culinary world.
It had been like firing off into the atmosphere and leaving gravity behind—exhilarating at first, and then terrifying when you realized there was nowhere solid to stand. She’d discovered a whole new meaning to the terminstability. And Trevor, also caught in the frenzy, had no longer been there for her to hold on to.
She shaped the dough into a circle and placed it in a bowl. He was still a part of her, a bright flame in the back of her mind with his swift movements, sparkling eyes, and quick, easy smile that dazzled her every time she pictured it. Which was far more often than she should have, considering that she’d broken up with him months ago.
She set the dough aside to rise and began preparing loaves for the oven.
At least bread had a stopping point—when the timer dinged, the loaf was done. But there was no timer to signal when she’d be done with her broken heart.
