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“Tilly,” I answer, then pause on a photo of gap-toothed Archibald wearing a too-big firefighter helmet, flashing a cheeky grin.
“And who’s this handsome little fellow?” Grandma asks.
“That’s Archibald. My little Archie,” I say, unable to keep from smiling. My heart swells with maternal pride and love, gazing at their chubby, joyful faces. Sitting here sharing memories, I feel a rightness settling into my bones. For the first time in a long while, I have hope that maybe, just maybe, things will work out alright.
ChapterNine
Louanne
The officeof Paul’s charity is cramped but cozy, tucked away on the second floor of a brick building at the end of Main Street. Motivational posters and photos of smiling families cover the wood-paneled walls. Paul stands before me, gesturing around the small space crowded with desks as he animatedly explains his latest project on sustainable energy for those less fortunate.
“This initiative isn’t just about energy—it’s about empowering people,” Paul says, his eyes gleaming with passion. “It’s about giving them a lifeline when they’ve lost their jobs or need housing.”
I’m already brainstorming fundraising ideas when Paul reminds me of his disdain for stuffy galas and pretentious crowds. Clearly, I’m going to have to get creative with this fundraising gig.
“Well, you have to let me do at least one a year,” I tell him, hoping that he’s open to negotiations.
“How about every other year?” he counters.
I tsk a couple of times. “Let’s put a pin on that for now,” I say, wondering if maybe the rest of the employees can help me work on something better or convince him to change his mind.
Glancing around, I realize the place is practically empty. Where is everyone?
“How many people work for you?” I ask, trying to gauge the size of this operation.
That’s when Henrik strolls in from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, looking unexpectedly chill. His beard’s trimmed, and it totally suits him—he looks good, like, really good. Somehow that little change highlights his angular jaw. The way his blue eyes look at me sends an electric current through my body.
Stop gawking at Henrik. He’s not that good looking and you’re here to get your life together, not make another disaster out of it.
“Hey, Lou,” he says, casual as can be. “Heard you’re joining the squad.”
I’m momentarily stunned, my heart doing this weird fluttery thing. I manage a smile, but it’s more like I’m clenching my teeth. Henrik’s just watching me, a playful twinkle in his eye as he casually sips from his mug. It’s like he’s enjoying my mini internal freakout.
I’m totally caught off guard. “Henrik? What are you doing here?” I blurt out, my voice a mix of surprise and . . . something else.
He just shrugs, leaning coolly against the doorframe. “Working,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Here?” I can barely get the word out.
He nods, all chill and mysterious. “Yeah, I like to mix it up, you know? Keep things fresh.”
Paul, who’s been quietly watching this exchange, chimes in. “Henrik helps me find projects, and together, we decide where to funnel the funds.”
My brother isn’t saying what’s probably obvious: Henrik is also giving money to the charity. He comes from a very wealthy family and he probably made a lot of money during his hockey years. That makes me think back on his career . . . Did he retire? I seriously have to either google him or ask directly.
I bob my head as if I understand their setup, but I’m stuck on the wholeHenrik works here, and, well, my initial question remains unanswered. “So, who else works here?”
“For now, it’s just the three of us,” Paul explains, gesturing around the cramped space. “You, Henrik, and me.”
“And we’re very excited to see what you bring to the table, Lou-Lou,” Henrik adds, his gaze locked on mine.
I blink rapidly, still struggling to grasp the idea of working in close quarters with Henrik. Also, it seems like this charity is very small and probably doesn’t have enough money for anything. Not even a paycheck. “I don’t mind helping, but I was hoping to get a salary. Maybe I can help you guys out in the evenings and find another job during the days I’m not at the bakery?” I suggest, hopefully.
Paul shakes his head and hands me the folder I hadn’t noticed he was carrying with him. “Of course, you’ll get paid. This isn’t a volunteer job.”
Henrik clears his throat.
Paul rolls his eyes. “At least not for you, Lou. Henrik and I have other jobs, and we’ll be relying on you for most of the operation. Fill out the paperwork so my accountant can process payroll every other week.”
