“It’s okay,” she says, reaching across the table to brush her fingers over my forearm. “My flight isn’t for a while, I think I’ll hang out here for a bit and just Uber back later.”
Unease pools in my gut. I wanted to be the one to drop her off—to steal just a little more time in the car before she’s gone again.
“It’s okay,” she repeats, smiling, excusing herself to the bathroom. All I can do is watch her go, white skirt swishing around her perfectly tanned legs.
While she’s gone, I pay our tab and wait for her at the entrance. I slide my hand across her lower back, leading her out to the main street.
We stand there for a second, neither of us moving.
Then she steps closer, tracing one hand up my chest. A small groan escapes, and I dip, bringing my mouth to hers.
The kiss is slow, intimate, tongues moving together like old friends. I bring both hands up, cupping the back of her head, angling her to deepen it.
She moans into my mouth, tangling her fingers in my hair and pressing her body against mine.
Mindlessly, I undo the clip holding her wild curls in place and attach it to the strap of her bag without breaking the kiss. She smiles against my mouth as my fingers circle her scalp.
When we pull back, my chest is rising a little too fast.
She’s doing her best to hold back tears.
“I’ll text you, I promise.”
“Okay,” she says quietly. I reluctantly start back toward the car, still hating the idea of leaving her to explore without me.
She smiles, raising a small hand in a wave. A single tear breaks free, trailing a hot streak down her cheek.
I hold a hand to my chest and turn for the car door.
I don’t look back.
If I do, I’m not sure I can walk away.
CHAPTER 30: TAYLOR
Six Months Later
There’s a rhythm to my life now.
It’s not the kind I used to force before the show—rigid schedules, back-to-back calls, counting down the hours until I could go home and feel like myself again. This one is different. This one is mine.
It shifts when it needs to, stretching and folding around the things I didn’t know I’d been longing for: quiet mornings filled with the aroma of coffee and dough, room for my creativity to wander, and the freedom to make each day matter.
Most mornings start before the sun, and I don’t mind.
While it took a couple months to prove how reliable I am, Theresa—the owner ofDolce—happily let me take over the opening shift.
The bakery lights flicker on while the world outside is still dark, and for a few seconds, it feels like I’m the only person awake. There’s something peaceful about it. The quiet hum of the ovens warming, the low whir of the mixers, the smell of yeast and sugar coming to life.
By the time the first batch of croissants goes in, caffeine is zipping through my bloodstream.
By the time the doors open, I’m fully in the groove.
This morning is busy in a way that makes me feel alive. The steady rhythm of shaping dough, glazing pastries, plating things people will actually stop to admire before they eat them feels good. Customers filter in every few minutes, keeping me on my toes and smiling.
I’ve even started recognizing regulars.
There’s an older man who comes in every Tuesday and Friday like clockwork, always ordering the same sourdough loaf and black coffee. A mom with two kids who press their littlefaces to the display case while they try to choose just one thing. A college girl who pretends to browse but always ends up ordering the lavender-honey pastry and smiling like it’s the highlight of her week.
