And it annoys me. It annoys me that I find it attractive. It infuriates me that, despite the chaos he brings to my life, a tiny, traitorous part of me is impressed.
He isn’t a joke.
He isn’t a tourist.
He is, impossibly, working.
Our shift is almost over. The last of the influencer-tourists finally leave, and I lock the door at three p.m., hours early, because we sell out of everything and I am simply done. There is nothing left in me to smile at another person asking if we still have the billionaire intern.
Gwen is finishing up, muttering something about needing a beer after her shift. Or maybe five. I do not correct her math.
The bakery is silent except for the low hum of the coolers.
Leo is in his corner, finishing his final task: pre-shaping the boules for tomorrow morning. He has a row lined up on the floured steel table like obedient little soldiers.
On my way to my office, I stop.
I walk over, arms crossed, and pick up one of his boules.
It is perfect.
That word lands in my brain with a strange, reluctant thud.
I prod it. The tension is right. The surface pops back. I flip it over. The seam is on the bottom. Neat. Tight. Centered. This is not a C-plus. Not even a B-plus. It is an A-minus. It is good.
Leo stands there, panting slightly, wiping sweat and flour from his forehead with his forearm. He looks serious, focused, exhausted in a way I recognize the good exhaustion, the kind you earn.
“They’re ok?” he asks.
His voice is rough. He has not spoken in hours.
I look at the boule. I look at the row of eight other perfect boules. I look at him, floury hands, calloused, serious, exhausted.
Something inside me cracks, just a little. The wall of ice I have built since the news van, the circus, the comments, and the one-star reviews shifts imperceptibly.
“They’re not sloppy,” I say. In my language, this is the highest compliment.
He lets out a breath. A small, proud smile touches his lips.
And the crack widens.
Because I cannot reconcile the two Leos.
There is the Leo from the social media circus, the walking PR hazard, the billionaire who accidentally turns my bakery into content.
And then there is this one, the one who has, in ten days, mastered the single most difficult fundamental skill of my craft through sheer repetition and bruised ego.
I need to know.
I need to test him.
“You think you’re good,” I say, voice sharp, a challenge.
He looks up, startled. “I… I’m learning.”
“You’re consistent,” I correct. “But are you fast?”
Before he can respond, I dump a brand-new twenty-pound tub of eighty percent hydration dough onto the table. It lands with a wet, intimidating thwack.
