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I’ve already got people in my life who love me even when I mess up. Judging by how hard Fallon laughs when it happens, sometimes I think he loves me because I mess up.
Bernard never speaks to me again. He’s probably prancing around Paris with another baker who fits his requirements for arm candy. Good riddance.
I decide not to open another bakery for now. Maybe I will down the line, but the girls are right. I need more vacations. More time off. Less pressure.
Plus, Four Cups is a rocking coffee house with a kick-ass kitchen. I can bake to my heart’s content back there, and I know I’ll be surrounded by people who love me. By the time Fallon and I are moved into my apartment, I get a call from Mary-Ann, the chocolate expert who was supposed to compete alongside me. She agrees to come work with me at Four Cups, and I feel excited that I might be able to hand off the reins to someone else.
In the meantime, Fallon and I pick up shifts at Four Cups. We talk about future plans—no new bakery, but maybe something else? I feel like the whole world has cracked open to offer up opportunities to me. If I don’t need to be the best at what I do, it means I can do anything! I can pursue a passion project or just sit on the beach and drink cocktails for a month.
Fallon still stubbornly refuses to split the winnings with me. I confront him about it one day a few weeks later, when we’re in the Four Cups kitchen, baking late into the night like old times.
“You only refused to split the winnings because you didn’t feel like you deserved the money,” I tell him, wrapping a tray of baked goods in plastic.
He grunts. “Yeah. Exactly.”
I turn to face him and cross my arms. “So what about your big revelation? The fact that you’re not defined by your past, that you deserve good things too?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He puts a clean bowl away and turns to face me, crossing his big beefy arms as he leans against the counter. “It just is.”
“Fallon, you told me a couple of days ago that you’d like to get a degree in counseling so you can work with ex-cons. You talk about giving more classes to people who have been incarcerated. Those things are much easier to accomplish when you have money!”
“I have money,” he stubbornly replies. “And I’ll use my own money for those things.”
“There’s fifty grand of your own money sitting in my account! If you’d just let me transfer it over, you could enroll in community college tomorrow and maybe even start your own cooking school for ex-cons.”
He bunches his lips to the side as if he’s considering it, but then he shrugs. “It’s not my money. It’s yours. I like those ideas, but I’ll find some other way of accomplishing it.”
I huff, crossing my arms. “Explain to me why you don’t want any part of this cash prize. If your argument is compelling, you know I’ll agree.” I point at my head. “You’re the one who said I had a big, fat brain.”
His eyes sparkle. “I’m starting to regret that.”
“No, you’re not.”
Lips twitching, he takes a step toward me. “Okay, I’m not. How about this: We spend the money on something together. A down payment for a house, or a round-the-world trip…” Fallon reaches me, hands sliding over my hips. “Or a wedding.”
“I’m not spending a hundred grand on a wedding.” I arch a brow.
He tugs me closer, lips curled into a full, satisfied smile. “But you’re not opposed to the wedding itself?”
“Is this how you’re proposing to me, Fallon? In the kitchen of the Four Cups Café when we’re covered in sweat and oil and flour?”
I mean, seriously! I know I’m not romantic, but this is the second time a guy has just assumed I’ll marry him. Fallon and I haven’t even been together for a full month since the end of the competition!
Fallon’s hands hook behind my back, fingers interlacing right above my ass. “Yep.” He backs me up against the counter. “I’ve known you for years, and most of our time spent together was right here. Plus, you’d hate a big, elaborate proposal. Photos and people and hugs and crying?” He shakes his head. “You’ve gotten more comfortable around people lately, but you’re still an introvert.”
Hmm. He has a point.
“What about my big honking diamond ring?” I challenge. “Don’t I get one of those?”
Reaching into his pocket, Fallon pulls out a little velvet box and flips it open to reveal a vintage Art Deco ring. Tiny diamonds are studded in fine looping patterns around the center stone which glitters under the lights of the kitchen. It’s delicate and unique and really freaking cool.
“My mother gave it to me when I told her about you,” Fallon says, eyes soft. “I’ve been carrying it around for weeks.”
Okay, that’s a little romantic. I take back what I said earlier.
