But the bakery? Hannah ran it exactly like her grandmother had. Down to the handwritten ledger she kept next to the register.
His phone buzzed. A text from Hannah lit up the screen.
Hannah:Bed's cold without you. Sure you had to leave?
Something cracked in his chest. He could picture her perfectly—curled on her side, dark hair spread across the bed, that soft, sleepy smile she got when she was fighting to stay awake.
His thumbs moved before his brain could stop them.
Jake:Hannah, I need to tell you something.
The cursor blinked.
He deleted the message without sending it.
A week. Maybe less. Then federal agents would storm her father's office, and her entire world would shatter.
And there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.
Because the evidence was solid. Richard Everett was guilty. And Jake had done his job too well—built a case so airtight it would put Hannah's father away for decades.
She was involved. Her signature was on too many of the documents. The knowledge sat like lead in his stomach.
His phone buzzed again.
Hannah:Everything okay?
No. Nothing was okay. Nothing would ever be okay again.
Jake:Just missing you. Get some sleep, sweetheart.
He set the phone down, staring at the scattered papers that proved Richard Everett's guilt. But did they prove Hannah's?
His keys sat heavy in his pocket. He could go back. Crawl into bed beside her. Hold her for whatever time they had left.
Instead, he pulled another file from the stack, searching for something—anything—that would make what he was about to do to her feel less like betrayal.
CHAPTER 3
Hannah
Hannah hummedalong with the radio as she pulled a tray of Jake's favorite cinnamon rolls from the oven. The morning sun painted Sugar & Spice golden, and the whole kitchen smelled like butter and spice and possibility.
"You're chipper this morning." Sarah looked up from where she was crimping pie crusts, flour dusting her dark hair. "That wouldn't have anything to do with a certain handyman, would it?"
Heat crept up Hannah's neck. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Uh huh." Sarah's knowing smirk said otherwise. "That's why you're making his favorite breakfast."
"Everyone loves cinnamon rolls." Hannah busied herself with the frosting, trying to hide her smile. "They're a good seller."
"Right. Very fiscally minded of you."
Hannah flicked flour at her, laughing. Everything felt perfect this morning—the warmth of the ovens, the familiar rhythmof their prep work, the way her heart still fluttered when she thought about last night.
The bell above the door chimed.
"We're not open!" She called out.
