Page 71 of Dough & Devotion


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I will build her the lighthouse. I will give her the world.

And then she will understand.

She will see that this is not betrayal.

It is protection.

I pick up the pen.

And I sign my name.

Chapter 18

Gwen

My mom was right from the day I was born. I would lose my head if it were not screwed on.

I realize this as I pat my pockets for my phone and come up empty for the fourth time in thirty seconds.

“Goddammit,” I mutter, standing alone in my apartment.

I left it at the bakery.

Of course I did.

I grab my laptop off the couch and message Tess.You still here? Forgot my phone like an idiot.

TESS:Sorry, I left, and so did Leo.

I sigh. I am annoyed at myself, but mostly relieved that Tess went home. She has been pulling brutal hours on top of everything else, weighing on her.

I had unzipped my jacket earlier, but I zip it back up before turning toward the door.

Twenty minutes later, my feet are killing me. The bakery looks ready for a new day. I definitely am not.

The mop bucket is still out, so I nudge it back into place by the wall, careful not to trip over it later. I line the handle up neatly, because future me deserves at least one small kindness.

That is when I see it.

Leo’s jacket.

Still hanging on the hook by the prep room door like it belongs there.

Guess I am not the only forgetful one in this place.

I stare at it.

It is black and sleek and aggressively expensive, with too many zippers and that subtle technical sheen that screams engineered in Switzerland by men named Klaus. It looks like it costs more than my rent and absolutely does not belong next to spare aprons and an emergency rain poncho.

It does not belong here.

“Rookie,” I mutter as I yank it off the hook, the mop handle clattering softly against the wall. “You do not leave your coat behind in a kitchen. Rule number one.”

I sniff it without thinking, because apparently this is who I am now.

It smells like clean laundry, faint espresso, and Tess’s cardamom soap. My jaw tightens.

“Probably costs more than my car,” I whisper, because saying it out loud makes me feel better.