“Did not!” Mia shoots back.
I close the door behind me, shutting out the cold.
“Hi,” I say, directing my words at the twins. “Yes, I’m Chloe. And I don’t know about you, but where I come from, the person who makes the mess has to help clean it up.”
Both girls stop mid-argument, staring at me with identical expressions of surprise.
Jonah stares too, something shifting in his face, relief, maybe, or just gratitude that someone else is willing to be the adult in the room.
“So,” I continue, shrugging out of my jacket and hanging it on the coat rack by the door, “which one of you wants to show me where you keep the vacuum?”
Chapter 2
Jonah
I can’t stop watchingher.
It’s been an hour since Chloe walked through my door and immediately took control of the flour situation like she’d been wrangling four-year-olds her whole life. Twenty minutes of her corralling the twins, making them giggle while they helped clean up their mess, never once looking at me like I’m the world’s worst father for letting things get that out of hand in the first place. She even got them to go down for bed without a fight.
And now we’re standing in my kitchen, and I still can’t stop watching Chloe.
“This is amazing,” she says, her eyes wide as she takes in the double ovens, the marble countertop, a few loaves of bread that fill the space with the smell of yeast and butter and everything good in the world. Her hair —this honey-brown color that caught the light in my living room— is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing jeans that curve over every arc of her body, and an oversized sweater that makes her look soft and warm and… completely off-limits.
Because she’s my employee.
My daughters’ nanny.
The woman who’s going to be living in my house for the next six months, which means I need to get my head on straight and stop noticing things like the way her nose crinkles when she smiles or how her voice goes gentle when she talks to Ava and Mia.
“So… you own Spice Spice Baby Bakery?”
“Yes,” I manage, wiping flour off my hands with a towel. “It’s not much, but it’s mine. Well, partially mine.”
“Not much?” She turns to look at me, and I feel the impact of those eyes —green, I noticed last night, the color of sea glass— a physical reaction slices through me, lighting my chest on fire. “Jonah, I drove by it. It’s incredible. How long have you been baking?”
“Ten years.” I start wiping down the counter, looking for something to do with my hands. “But we’ve been doing Spice Spice Baby for six years, bought it right after?—”
I stop myself. Right after my ex-wife told me she couldn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t be a mother, couldn’t stay in Valentine, couldn’t sacrifice her dreams for a life she never wanted. Right after she walked out on me and our two-year-old daughters without looking back. I don’t hate her. I miss her now in a way that you miss a favorite t-shirt, a pet from years ago, or a band that has disbanded. It’s going to be okay that they’re gone, but the memories are still fresh and some a little painful.
But Chloe doesn’t need to know that. Doesn’t need to know that the bakery is the only thing that kept me sane during those first few months of single fatherhood, when I was drowning in diapers and the twins’ nightmares and my own fear that I was going to screw this up.
“Right after the twins were born,” I finish, which is technically true.
Chloe nods, running her fingers along the edge of the marble counter. “And you do all of the baked goods yourself?”
“I do the soft breads, like pumpkin and banana and the donuts in the morning. But each baker has their specialty, Mark does traditional baked goods like cinnamon rolls. Christian does the cupcakes and flat sheet cakes. Henry does the sourdough, although sometimes I help him on that. Dylan is the fancy cake decorator. And then there’s Jake- the delivery driver and Liam the GM. We all have a place in the ecosystem of the bakery.”
“Wow… that sounds like a lot.” She seems genuinely amazed.
I shrug. “I’m there four a.m. to noon, six days a week.”
“That’s why you need a live-in nanny.” It’s not a question, just an observation, but there’s something in her voice that makes me look up. Understanding, maybe. Or sympathy. I’m not sure which one makes my chest tighter.
“The twins are in preschool three mornings a week, Monday-Wednesday-Friday, but someone needs to be there for the other days. For the evenings. For when I’m elbow-deep in brioche dough or a catering order for the and can’t leave.” I pull out a tray of cinnamon rolls from the fridge, the ones I made special this morning because I wanted—needed—to impress her. Needed her to see that I’m not always the disaster she walked in on. “My mom helps when she can, but she’s got her own life. Her own responsibilities.”
“And their mother?” Chloe asks quietly.
My hands still on the tray. “Not in the picture.”
