As we head out of the hotel room, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I still look like a disaster. Hair still frizzy. Sweater still stained. But something in my expression has shifted. There's a softness there now. A slight smile.
And for the first time since I found out I was planning Ben's wedding, I don't feel completely alone.
We walk through Pine Hollow together, Jett's scent mixing with mine as we move down the street. Cedar and sweat and gunpowder mixing with strawberry and honey. The combinationis oddly comforting. We look like we belong together, I realize. Like we fit.
The bakery is warm and smells like everything I've been denying myself. Croissants. Brownies. Fresh bread. Cinnamon rolls. Jett orders two croissants, two brownies, and coffee for both of us. I try to protest but he just raises an eyebrow and tells the cashier to make it happen.
We find a small table in the corner. The croissant is buttery and flaky and absolutely perfect. I eat half of it before I realize I'm being gross.
"Don't stop," Jett says, watching me. "You need this."
"This is going to go straight to my hips," I say, but I'm already reaching for the brownie.
"Good," Jett says simply, leaning back in his chair and studying me like I'm the most interesting thing he's ever seen. "Your hips are perfect. Everything about you is perfect, Sharon. Stop arguing about it."
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The warmth of the bakery. The smell of fresh food. His presence across from me. It's all so different from the anxiety that's been my constant companion for the last few days.
"So," Jett says, breaking the silence. He reaches across the table and taps my phone. "Let's talk about this wedding disaster. What exactly are we dealing with?"
I pull out my phone and show him the spreadsheet. The vendor list. The RSVP tracker. The budget breakdown. As I'm walking him through everything, he listens. Really listens. He asks questions. He makes notes. He doesn't interrupt or judge. He just absorbs the information like someone genuinely trying to understand the scope of the problem.
"Okay," he says finally, setting my phone down carefully. "This is fixable. It's not ideal, but it's fixable. How much of the venue deposit can you get back if we cancel?"
"That's the thing," I say. "Ben called me earlier and said that he can't afford the rest of the deposit right now. The venue wants payment immediately or they're canceling anyway."
Jett's jaw works. He's clearly thinking through something. He reaches for his brownie and takes a bite while he processes.
"What if we help?" he says finally. "What if the family helps? What if I help?"
"Jett, I can't ask you guys to—"
"You didn't ask," he interrupts. He sets down the brownie and leans forward, his warm brown eyes serious. "I'm offering. Ben's my brother. He's an asshole, but he's family. And you're trying to plan his wedding even though he broke your heart. That deserves support."
I don't know what to say to that. He's thirty, and now he's offering to help pay for a wedding for the brother who probably treated him like he treats everyone else. Like crap.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" I ask quietly.
Jett sets down his coffee. His warm brown eyes lock onto mine and hold.
"Because you matter," he says simply. "Because five years ago, Ben had you and treated you like you didn't. And now you're back, and you're trying to fix his mess even though he doesn't deserve it. That says something about your character. And I like people with good character."
My scent shifts again. Strawberry and honey and something that feels dangerously like the beginning of attraction mixed with genuine emotional connection.
"Jett," I start, but I don't know how to finish that sentence.
"Finish that brownie," he says. His dimple appears as he grins at me. "You've still got room."
We finish our food and head back to the hotel. By the time we get to my room, I'm feeling almost human again. Not stressed.Not panicked. Just tired and full and surrounded by someone who actually cares.
Jett closes the door behind us and leans against it. He's watching me with that intensity I'm starting to recognize. Like he's memorizing the way I look. Like this moment matters.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For coming. For the food. For reminding me that I matter."
He pushes off from the door and crosses the room in a few strides. His hand finds my face, and he's tilting my chin up so I'm looking at him.
"You matter," he says. "And anyone who makes you feel like you don't is an idiot."
Then he's kissing me. It's not tentative. It's not asking permission. It's claiming and needy and full of everything I've been feeling since he walked through that door.
