“You don’t know how to clean a mixer.”
“I can Google it.”
“No Googling,” Gwen and I say in unison.
He blinks. “Ok.”
I exhale. Long. Slow.
This is insane.
This is reckless.
This is exactly how people get hurt or worse, get romantic ideas about bakeries, and then leave when they realize croissants do not care about your feelings.
“I’m not saying no,” I say finally.
His shoulders lift. Just a little.
“I’m saying go home.”
His shoulders drop again.
“Think about it,” I continue. “Actually think. Not billionaire thinking. Not, I’ll try it for a week, thinking. Think about whether you want to scrub floors at five in the morning and have a nineteen-year-old tell you you’re folding wrong.”
Gwen grins. “Hi. That nineteen-year-old is me.”
Leo nods slowly. “Ok.”
“And,” I add, holding up a finger, “if you come back, you start at the bottom. No exceptions.”
“I wouldn’t want any,” Leo says, determined.
“You won’t get paid,” I say quickly. Leo does not look surprised.
“Fine.”
“No perks.”
“I don’t need perks.”
“No quitting dramatically.”
“I don’t quit,” he says, and something in his voice shifts. It is serious now. Grounded.
I study him. The flour on his sleeve, even though he did not touch a single thing in the bakery. The nervous hope he is trying to hide. The way he hasn't looked at his phone once, even though I can hear it buzzing.
“Come back tomorrow,” I say. “Or don’t. Either way, I need to know you chose this.”
He smiles. Small. Real.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
He turns to leave, pauses, then looks back. “Thank you. For not laughing.”
I do not soften. But I do not harden either.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I say. “You haven’t met the dough.”
