“Goodnight, Leo,” I whisper.
Then I turn.
Before he can say another word, I flee. I cross the street as the WALK sign blinks, and I disappear into the small brick apartment building on the corner, my heart battering my ribs, my lips still tingling, my entire body buzzing with what I just did.
I don’t look back.
Because if I look back, I won’t keep walking.
And I need to keep walking.
I need to keep my life intact.
Even though I already know, deep down, sick and certain, that intact is no longer possible.
Chapter 15
Leo
The bakery at 4:44 a.m. feels different.
By every measurable standard, it is identical to every other morning. The air is cool and thick with the nutty, complex scent of resting sourdough starter. The Hobart mixer stands silent, a sentinel in the pre-dawn gloom. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerators and the faint, distant hiss of the city waking up outside.
But it is different.
Not in the way a spreadsheet changes when someone alters one cell and suddenly your projections are lying to you. This is different in the way the world changes after you realize you cannot unknow something.
I cannot unknow the feeling of Tess’s mouth on mine.
The shrill beeping of the signal.
The red light washing her face.
The soft, hesitant pressure of her lips. Perfect and terrifying and so sweet it makes my chest ache to remember.
I arrive at 4:44 a.m. because that is who I am now. A man who shows up one minute early to a bakery as if his life depended on it.
Which, honestly, it might.
My sneakers squeak softly against the tile as I push the back door open. The air hits me immediately, cooler than outside, cleaner, threaded with yeast and flour and the faint ghost of yesterday’s caramelized sugar. It is the kind of smell that makes my stomach tighten with hunger and comfort at the same time.
And then I see her.
Tess is already at her steel table, measuring out salt for the first mix. Her hair is pulled back into that tight bun that makes her look like she is about to go to war with a bag of flour and win. She is wearing her cleanest apron, the one without the mystery stain that could be raspberry jam or motor oil.
She looks up when the door creaks.
And my breath catches.
Not because she is suddenly prettier than she was yesterday, though she is. She always is. It is because something exists between us now. Something new. Something charged. The bakery is no longer neutral ground. It feels personal, intimate in a way that makes my pulse spike.
Her eyes sweep over me quickly. Sharp. Assessing. Like she is checking for damage.
I am not wearing the ridiculous Armani chef cosplay uniform from my first day.
Today I am in worn jeans, a plain grey T-shirt, and sneakers. Not the designer work boots Amelia insisted on that made me look like the star of a cologne commercial called Bread by Ashford. Just normal.
If normal means six foot two, worth ten figures, and currently one emotional gust of wind away from total collapse.
