I look up, startled. She has dark, assessing eyes and an expression that could strip paint.
“Oh. Hi. I know,” I say quickly. “I’m… I’m not a customer.”
I attempt a smile. It is probably devastating in a boardroom. Here, in the grey 5 a.m. light, it feels deeply out of place.
“Right,” she says, crossing her arms. Flour puffs from her sleeves. “So, you’re an influencer. Look, I don’t care how many followers you have. We are not giving you free pastries for a post. I’m not interested in your collab. The ‘grammable pastry shop with the neon sign that saysYou’re My Everything Bageland the gold-leaf cruffins is two blocks down. I’m sure they’d love to comp you for a reel. Good luck.”
She reaches for the door.
“No, wait,” I blurt, sticking out a hand. My hand. Clean. Soft. Completely useless. “I’m not… well, I guess I am one, technically, but I’m not here for that. I’m here to… work?”
I hear it as I say it, the uncertainty, like I’m testing a foreign word.
She stares at me.
I can practically see her recalculating my entire existence.
“Work.”
“Yes. My name is Leo Ashford.”
The reaction is immediate and visceral.
Her face changes, like she has been physically struck. The name lands between us with a dull, heavy thud.
Ashford.
Something hot and sharp flashes in her eyes, something old and well-fed.
This overdressed idiot standing on her doorstep is me.
And whatever I thought was about to happen next, I am suddenly, unmistakably, very wrong.
Chapter 4
Tess
“Leo Ashford,” I repeat.
The name tastes like ash in my mouth. Like burnt crust scraped off the bottom of a pan you can’t afford to replace. Like the sour aftertaste of a miracle that turned out to be a line item. Like the fear I once felt, of losing everything.
Leo is standing just inside the door, like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to exist in this space. He’s tall, annoyingly so, with broad shoulders stuffed into a Halloween version of a baker. He’s too clean. Not polished, untouched. Like the city hasn’t had a chance to wear him down yet.
He’s looking around the bakery like it’s a museum exhibit. His mouth is slightly open.
I hate that my first thought is, “Oh no.” Because men like this don’t come in without consequences. They come with expectations. With questions.
I notice his hands next. Big. The kind of hands that don’t belong in a kitchen, let alone near laminated dough.
“The investor,” I say softly.
The word opens a trapdoor in my chest.
For a split second, the bakery isn’t here anymore.
I’m not standing on flour-dusted tile with my hands on my hips, spine straight. I’m sitting in a glass conference room with a skyline view I don’t want, hands folded tightly in my lap so no one notices they’re shaking. I’m twenty-four, exhausted, three months behind on equipment payments, and one bad oven day away from shutting down completely.
The table is long and gleaming, too perfect. I can see my reflection in it: pulled together on the surface, cracked underneath. My blazer is borrowed. My shoes pinch. My entire future is stacked neatly in a folder in front of me, corners bent from being opened and closed too many times.
