“I told him I’d think about it.”
“At 4:45 in the morning.”
“Which is when bakers exist.”
“Which is also when serial killers exist.”
I shoot her a look. “He’s not a serial killer.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ve seen his hands,” I say. “He’d never survive.”
Gwen snorts and grabs the scale. “So. You haven’t decided.”
I sigh and measure salt. The rhythm of it steadies me. We’ve done this dance a thousand times. Flour. Salt. Water. Starter. Repeat.
“I don’t trust him,” I say finally.
Gwen nods. “Valid.”
“He’s rich.”
“Also, valid.”
“He looks like a walking ‘before’ picture for a bad decision.”
Gwen grins. “Debatable.”
“He doesn’t know what hard work actually feels like.”
“Undeniable.”
I glance at her. “You’re not disagreeing with me enough.”
“I’m not disagreeing at all,” she says. “I’m just saying… he listened.”
I still. Just for a second.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say.
“It means something,” she counters. “You told him no yesterday. A hard no. Most men with his… resources… would’ve tried to negotiate.”
I snort. “Or sue.”
“Or buy the building,” she says. “He didn’t.”
I start the mixer, the low mechanical hum filling the space. Gwen reaches for the starter like it’s a baby, careful and reverent.
The back door creaks.
We both freeze.
I check the clock on the wall. 4:45 a.m. Exactly.
Of course. He’s punctual.
The door opens fully, and there he is, standing in the threshold like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to exist inside it.
