Lucy:I believe in you. See you tonight.
Jake set down his phone and looked at the ingredients. Then he pulled up his mom's recipe on his phone, put on his one non-hockey playlist (classic rock, mostly), and started cooking.
Monday morning at The Bread Basket was chaos.
Lucy had been up since 4:45 AM as usual, but instead of her normal focused productivity, she kept catching herselfstaring into space, thinking about yesterday. About Jake's kiss, about his hand in hers, about butternut squash muffins and possibilities.
"You've been smiling at that croissant dough for five minutes," Mae said from the doorway. "It's creepy."
Lucy blinked, refocusing. "Sorry. I'm distracted."
"You're happy. It's weird seeing you happy. I kind of like it."
Lucy laughed and went back to rolling out croissants. But Mae was right—she was happy. Genuinely, terrifyingly happy in a way she hadn't let herself be in five years.
By 8 AM, the morning rush was in full swing. Mr. Peterson with his bran muffin, the Knitting Circle with their gossip (currently focused on why Lucy had closed early Saturday), Tom and Jerry arguing about hardware store inventory.
And then Uncle Walter walked in.
"Morning, Lulu."
"Uncle Walter. Your usual?"
"Actually, I was hoping we could talk. Do you have a minute?"
Lucy glanced at Mae, who nodded. "I've got the register. Take a break."
They settled at Lucy's corner table with coffee. Uncle Walter studied her over his mug.
"You look different."
"I look the same."
"You look lighter. Less like you're carrying the weight of the world." He smiled. "Jake Morrison was here yesterday."
"You already know everything, don't you?"
"This is Timber Falls. I knew before you closed the door behind him." Uncle Walter reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "I'm happy for you. He seems like a good man."
"He is. I think." Lucy felt her cheeks heat. "We're going on an actual date tonight. He's cooking."
"He's cooking? For you?"
"I know. It's sweet, right?"
"It's more than sweet. It's a man trying very hard to impress you." Uncle Walter's expression turned serious. "Lulu, I need to ask you something. That email you got Friday—about selling the bakery. Have you thought about it?"
Lucy's stomach dropped. "How did you—"
"The woman called me. Shayna Barrett. Said she'd emailed you and wanted to know if I thought you'd be open to a conversation." Uncle Walter held up his hand. "I told her that was your decision, not mine. But I'm asking now—is this something you're considering?"
Lucy looked around the bakery. The space her grandmother had built, the recipes she'd perfected, the community she'd fed for forty years.
"I don't know," Lucy admitted. "Part of me wants to hold onto it forever. Part of me wants to run screaming. And part of me thinks maybe selling it wouldn't be betraying her—maybe it would be honoring her by using what she built to create something new."
"What would you do? If you sold?"
"Travel. Culinary school, maybe. Come back and open my own place eventually—something that's mine but still connected to her legacy." Lucy met her uncle's eyes. "Is that selfish?"
