A fan-favorite: A sweet pastry with a buttery crumble, sweet apple-cinnamon filling, and a honey glaze.
For a split second, my brain outright stalled.
“What is this?” I choked out.
Maya bounced on the balls of her feet. “Almost every customer who came in today has bought one! Or more! We’re definitely going to sell out of them.”
“My name is on the board.” My voice came out an octave too high.
Derek snorted. “Yeah, we noticed.”
I felt heat flood my cheeks, quickly spreading into a full-body flush that made me wonder if I was about to spontaneously combust. Pride and panic tangled in my stomach until I couldn’t tell which was stronger.
Micah did this.
He put my recipe on the menu.
Without asking or giving me time to freak out over the possibility of customers hating them.
Instead of backing off as I thought, he’d been busy organizing this surprise.
Unsure of how to react, I mumbled something unintelligible and slipped into the employee break room, where it was quiet. I pressed my hands against the nearest table edge, inhaling deeply as I tried to steady myself.
The door swung open behind me.
I didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Micah’s presence filled the room before he even spoke.
“Told you they’d be good.”
I whirled around, my jaw dropping. “Micah! You can’t just…just put my recipe on the menu!”
“Why not?” he asked with an arched brow.
“Because.” I gestured wildly with my hands, words momentarily failing me. “Because it’s mine. And you didn’t even tell me you were thinking about it. Now people are going to expect things, and I…I don’t know why you did this.”
He stepped closer. “Because you came up with something incredible, and people should taste it.”
Emotion swelled so fast I had to blink against it as my throat tightened. Micah truly believed in me, and I didn’t know what to do with that.
He didn’t say anything else at first. He just reached up and brushed his thumb lightly over my lower lip. It was the faintest stroke, almost like he wasn’t even fully aware he was doing it, but my breath still caught in my throat.
“I hope that seeing how fast those bars are selling helps you start believing in yourself the way I do.”
Butterflies swirled in my belly, but before I could manage a reply, he turned and walked out like he hadn’t just shifted my world on its axis.
I spent my shift off kilter, blushing each time a customer asked me about the bars. Then I distracted myself by coming up with a new recipe that night in bed—lemon blueberry blondie bars that I was only willing to admit to myself were partially inspired by Micah.
The next day, after the dinner rush, I headed back to clock out and grab my tote. When I opened my locker, I froze, then slowly turned around. On the table in the center of the room were a baking sheet, a piping set, a whisk, a small bottle of real vanilla extract, and chocolate that definitely did not come from the budget shelf. It was all top of the line.
A small yellow sticky note was propped against the stack.
For Rylin.
— M
He bought these for me.
As I reached for the whisk, a dozen emotions hit at once—wonder, disbelief, warmth, then panic because I didn’t know how to politely accept what he’d done for me.
