Not my Lena.
CHAPTER 13
lena
YOU BATTER BELIEVE IT
I stare at the display, my fingers tracing the edges where the wood is still warm from Thorne’s hands. It’s different from what we had before—bolder, stronger, defiant in its simplicity. Less delicate, more powerful. Just like what I need to be right now. My heart pounds against my ribs, a war drum counting down the hours until the showcase. I have desserts to remake, a story to rebuild, a point to prove. And suddenly, sleep is the last thing on my mind.
“You built this overnight?” My voice comes out softer than I intend, filled with wonder I can’t disguise.
Thorne shrugs like he hasn’t just performed a miracle in my kitchen. “Had help. Called in some favors.”
I run my palm over the walnut base—dark, solid, unapologetically strong. The middle tier of maple catches the light in rippling patterns, warm and inviting. And the cherry wood on top glows with a defiant reddish hue, carved with subtle swirls that remind me of frosting piped by a steady hand.
It’s not our original display. But it’s something even better.
It’s a statement.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, something thick and hot rising in my throat.
“It’ll do,” Thorne says, but I catch the satisfied twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s proud of it—as he should be.
I don’t have time to dwell on the emotion threatening to overwhelm me. I have work to do. I clap my hands together, the sound sharp in the early morning quiet.
“Okay, let’s do this. I’ve got most of the desserts prepped already. Just need to finish assembling and pack everything up.”
I pull out trays of half-assembled desserts—my ube chiffon cake layers, already baked and waiting to be filled; calamansi tarts that need only their final glaze; the mango toffee pieces I’d made as backup.
Thorne’s expression shifts, something like pride flickering in his eyes. “You weren’t giving up either.”
I busy myself with pulling out more ingredients, not quite ready to admit that he’s right. That even at my lowest point, some stubborn part of me refused to quit completely.
“I just hate wasting ingredients,” I mutter.
He doesn’t call me on the lie. Just nods and rolls up his sleeves. “What do you need me to do?”
For the next few hours, we work in focused silence. I assemble the ube chiffon cake, layering it with coconut mousse that’s light as air. The purple and white look like clouds against a twilight sky, and when I slice it, the layers hold their shape perfectly.
The calamansi tarts get their honey glaze, the citrus scent sharp and bright in the kitchen. I arrange the mango toffee pieces into the archipelago pattern I’d originally planned, the golden shards catching the light like little sun fragments.
Last are the details—edible flowers made from thinly sliced dried fruits, delicate sugar decorations that had miraculouslysurvived in their storage containers, sprigs of fresh herbs as garnish.
By the time we finish packing everything into specialized transport containers, the sun is high in the sky, and my nerves have transformed from dull dread to electric anticipation.
This might actually work.
We load Thorne’s truck carefully, the new display secured in the back, my desserts nestled in temperature-controlled containers. I climb into the passenger seat, suddenly exhausted and wired all at once, like I’ve had ten cups of coffee on an empty stomach.
“Ready?” Thorne asks, his hand pausing on the ignition.
I inhale deeply, the scent of sawdust and sugar still clinging to both of us. “No. But let’s go anyway.”
He starts the truck, and we pull away from the bakery. I watch it recede in the side mirror—my little shop with the name that makes people snicker, the place that’s become more of a home than anywhere else I’ve lived. Whatever happens today won’t change that. I still have Moist. I still have my kitchen. I still have my hands and my recipes and my stubborn determination.
And apparently, I have Thorne too.
I glance over at him, his profile strong and certain against the passing scenery. He drove all night collecting supplies, worked until dawn building me a new display, and now he’s taking me back to face the competition without a word of complaint.
