And I’m going to tell her that.
First, I’m going to make sure she never has to worry about losing the Busy Bee Bakery again. I told her that maybe we don’t have what it takes to fight for these kids, for each other. But how do we know if we don’t try? They say love wins, but first, love fights for what’s right.
And if I know anything at all, it’s that Nina is the right woman for me. Now, to become the man who deserves her.
CHAPTER 15
It’s beena week since Lane and I had “the talk,” and about that long since we’ve spoken to each other beyond a few necessary words here and there.
It’s been pure agony.
While the rest of the house sleeps, I shuffle into the kitchen for my wake-up cup of coffee before heading to the bakery. My finger automatically finds theonbutton even in the dark.
A moment later, I realize it’s not gurgling or making any noise to indicate it’s brewing. I flip on the light to find a handwritten note that saysUndergoing maintenance. Consider meeting your spouse for coffee later. -The Management
This looks distinctly like the work of a pair of ten-year-olds trying to disguise their penmanship.
Kai and Mya. Those little troublemakers … and matchmakers.
Yesterday, I found my bedroom door elaborately rigged with strings and bells that chimed every time I tried to exit—apparently, their version of an alarm system to prevent me from leaving before Lane. The day before that, allegedly, there was aspill on one of the couch cushions, so he and I were smooshed together while we watched a movie.
They’re not exactly subtle about their agenda.
“Very funny,” I call out to the house in general. “But I still have to get to work!”
Kai appears in the doorway, looking far too innocent for someone who’s been orchestrating pranks. “Need help finding anything, Nina?”
“Just my patience,” I mutter, plugging in the coffee maker. And maybe some normal ten-year-olds who don’t treat their guardians like characters in a romantic comedy. There’s nothing funny about the distance between us or the way I miss him even though we’re under the same roof. But the kids are suspicious. I have a feeling they’re onto us.
“It’s four in the morning. You should be in bed.”
“We’re just helping.” Mya materializes beside her brother with that same too innocent expression. “You and Uncle Lane have been weird and sad since the festival.”
“We haven’t been weird and sad,” I protest.
“You made twelve dozen cookies yesterday. Your friend, Miss Bree, said you’re using flour and sugar to process your feelings.”
“I live life one recipe at a time.”
“And Lane spent extra time at practice,” Mya adds.
They’re not wrong. Ever since our conversation about having some space, Lane and I have been tiptoeing around each other like polite strangers sharing a house. We’re cordial during meals, all-business when discussing the twins’ needs, and absolutely miserable at pretending we don’t care about each other.
I even stood by when he finally was able to get in touch with his sister, admonishing her for deserting her children. She responded that since he’s married, he’s better equipped to handle them. His shoulders sagged like she’s a lost cause. Then, when she suggested we all come visit Fiji for vacation, his hand foundits way into mine, likely so he didn’t punch the wall. But still.
It’s like we can’t help but drift together and collide all at once.
Not only that, but Lane is everywhere.
My carefully curated, minimalist, Skandi-style living space features hockey sticks propped in random corners. As anticipated, his protein powder containers and supplements line the counter in the kitchen next to the blender. Even our laundry goes in the same basket. But the strangest part isn’t any of those things—it’s how warm and welcome it feels to have Lane’s presence filling up spaces I didn’t even realize felt empty, like my home was just waiting for someone to make it feel lived-in instead of merely occupied.
Are we playing house, are we simply roommates, or are we doing a lousy job at trying to deny there is something more?
Using the kitchen a coping strategy isn’t helping. My cookies are overdone, my scones dry, and the cherry cordial muffins I attempted ended up in the trash.
As for the grat chat with Bree, her pep talk about deserving good things is slowly rising like a good sourdough starter. The problem is, knowing I deserve something and allowing it, then receiving it, are two completely different things.
After insisting the kids go back to sleep and opening the Busy Bee for the morning rush, I find myself staring at the four dozen “confusion cookies” I made before dawn. They’re perfectly shaped, beautifully decorated, and absolutely pointless because I’m too distracted to remember what I put in them—chocolate and pistachio, but was the spice cardamom? Nutmeg? Both?
