“Yes, mom.”
She flips me off with affection and disappears into the alley.
The door shuts. The lock clicks.
Silence.
I stand there for a moment in the middle of my bakery, alone, listening to the hum of the refrigerators and the settling creak of cooling metal.
It is quiet. It is safe.
I turn off the lights one by one, leaving the front window dark.
Tomorrow, we do it again.
Chapter 3
Leo
My phone is vibrating itself to death on the marble nightstand.
That is the first thing I notice when I surface. The angry hum feels like it is drilling straight into my skull. I am about to put my phone on silent when the alarm goes off.
I groan and roll onto my back. The sky is still dark, but somehow the city is already awake.
My phone lights up again. It is Marissa. I ignore her call, and when the buzzing stops, I see this is the fourth missed call from her.
I let my head fall back into the pillow.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as a text comes through.
MARISSA: You said it was over because you needed space. How much space do you need, Leo?
I drag a hand down my face. We were never even really together, but I cut things off three weeks ago. Cleanly. Calmly. I was clear. I was kind.
She cried and apologized, but she promised she would respect my boundaries. It lasted twelve hours.
I stare at my phone, my thumb hovering uselessly over the screen. I feel tired. This is not passion. This is not love. It never was.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, the cool stone floor grounding me. Outside, traffic is starting.
I grab my phone and type. I decide to be blunt.
ME: Marissa. I meant what I said. It’s over. Stop contacting me.
I lock the screen and toss the phone onto the bed like it might burn me. My apartment feels too quiet now. Too big. The glass walls suddenly feel like exposure instead of luxury.
I walk to the window and look out at the city I supposedly own pieces of. It does not care. None of it cares.
When I walk to my closet, I automatically grab a button-up until I see the baker outfit Amelia arranged for me. This is going to be one heck of a day.
At 4:45 a.m., the only light on the quiet, tree-lined street comes from the glowing, golden heart of Sunrise and Salt.
I stand on the sidewalk for a moment longer than necessary, staring at it. The windows glow warm against the dark, like the bakery is awake before the rest of the city and slightly offended by that fact. Everything else on the block is still, asleep, and damp from the night. The air smells faintly of wet leaves and yesterday’s rain.
Inside, visible through the glass, the bakery looks like the living, breathing antithesis of my penthouse. It is small, crammed with mismatched, reclaimed wooden furniture, and it smells overwhelmingly of life. Even through the closed door, I can catch it: wild yeast, dark-roast coffee, warm cardamom, baking cinnamon, and, underneath it all, the faint, sweet tang of industrial sanitizer. It smells like effort. Like work.
Through the front window, I can see the owner at a massive, flour-dusted steel table near the back. Amelia reminded me that her name is Tess. She is wearing a faded Dolly Parton T-shirt that disappears beneath a patched, well-loved apron, a garment that looks like it has survived multiple eras and at least one economic downturn. A single, stubborn curl of blonde hair has escaped whatever containment strategy she attempted and is stuck to her cheek with a smudge of flour.
