I ran a hand through my hair, then let it fall back to my side. “I am sorry about the other morning. I disappeared for a while to think about things.”
“You did,” she said, but there was no accusation in it.
“I thought I was giving you space,” I said. “And maybe I was. But mostly I was protecting myself.”
Her brows knit slightly, not in anger, but in concern. “From what?”
“From the disappointment of being wrong,” I admitted. “From thinking I saw something that maybe wasn’t there. From wanting something and realizing too late that I may have misunderstood.”
Her breath caught just a little.
“I thought we were getting closer, that you might have feelings for me. I certainly have them for you, but after what I saw in the kitchen, I thought you still had feelings for James. I thought you preferred him over me, that I had maybe misread you, that it was all a fancy on my part.” I shook my head. “And I didn't know how to ask you about it. I was too hurt in the moment so I pulled back.”
Jane’s shoulders slumped, as if a tension she had been carrying suddenly lost its purpose.
“Oh,” she said softly.
“I saw you with him in the kitchen,” I continued. “I saw how close he stood and you didn’t step away. I didn’t know what to do with that.”
She looked down at her hands, then back up at me. Her eyes were steady, but there was something vulnerable in them that made me want to step closer.
“I didn’t step away because I froze,” she softly told me. “Not because I wanted him there.”
I nodded slowly, letting that sink in.
“He has a way of taking up space,” she went on. “Of talking like he owns the room. And when he is near me, my body remembers old habits before my brain catches up.”
The words landed heavily. I felt them in my chest, a dull ache of understanding and anger that wasn't mine to direct.
“I thought if I stayed still and polite, it would be over faster and he would move away,” she said, letting out a shaky breath. “I didn’t realize how it looked.”
“What really happened?” I questioned inconcern.
We stood there, the quiet wrapping around us like a blanket. Somewhere in the inn, a chair scrapedagainst the floor. A voice called out. Then the noise faded again.
She moved toward an armchair and sat, folding her hands in her lap. I sat in the other armchair, leaning forward slightly, giving her my full attention.
“When I worked for James,” she began, “I thought we were… something. At first it was professional. I worked hard, I learned a lot, I proved myself as a baker. James started noticing my efforts. He praised my work and made me feel like I mattered. He would tell the other staff that they should be more like me.
“Then he started touching me. The small of my back, my shoulder, my hand, my cheek. He flirted with me. I didn’t imagine it. I actually thought he liked me. And the more attention he paid to me, the harder I worked to earn his attention. I did double shifts all the time. If he asked for anything, I made it happen. I was happy to let him take the credit for my work because he kept saying how we would do so well, that his success was my success.
“We went out on dates. No place fancy, which should have been a warning sign. James likes publicity, he likes to be seen. He just didn’t want to be seen with me.”
Her voice stayed steady, but I could see the effort it took. She pulled at a stray thread on the end of her sweater sleeve, concentrating on it. My jaw tightened, but I didn’t interrupt.
“I was so tired and approaching burnout. He had overbooked us for catering and the restaurant. I barely slept. When things went wrong, he blamed me and I tried even harder to please him. I thought he loved me and I imagined myself in love with him.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
“I see now I was infatuated and also had been encouraged by James. I let him become almost my entire world. It was stupid of me,” she whispered, glancing up at me. The pain in her eyes made me want to take her into my arms but I knew she wasn’t ready for that so with effort I held myself still.
“I saw him with an actress on television. He called her his girlfriend. They had been together for months. When I confronted him, he gaslit me. He told me I had imagined everything. We were just work colleagues. I was embarrassing myself and I meant nothing to him.
“I left, packed up my things and came home. That was almost a year ago,” Jane softly told me.
“It took a long time to understand that the problem wasn’t me,” she continued. “But even now, when he shows up and acts charming and familiar, it pulls at old wounds. It makes me doubt myself.”
She looked at me then, really looked at me. “I don’t want him. I don’t want the city. I don’t want the cookbook he’s trying to make me help with. I want my life here. I want… something honest.”
