“I think the baby is coming.”
53
EPILOGUE
Charlie
I stand behind the counter of The Flour Pot, my chef’s whites crisp and new, my name embroidered in elegant script across the breast pocket.Charlie Davis, Co-Owner.
The words still feel surreal, like they belong to someone else’s life. Someone who didn’t steal from a church collection plate out of desperation. Someone who always knew where her next meal was coming from.
But that’s me now. Somehow, impossibly, that’s me.
The café is packed wall-to-wall with customers, parishioners from St. Michael’s, and even a few food critics from regional magazines who’ve heard whispers about my baking.
The space has been completely transformed since Maggie first hired me.
What was once just a bakery now includes a cozy café section with exposed brick walls, warm Edison bulb lighting, and a beautiful upright piano in the corner where Elijah sits, his long fingers dancing across the keys as he plays soft jazz.
The sound wraps around the room like a caress, and I catch myself watching the way his shoulders move beneath his shirt, the concentration on his face that reminds me of how he looks when he’s touching me, learning every response my body gives him.
Heat floods my cheeks and I force myself to look away, focusing instead on Grandma Rose in her wheelchair near the window. She’s recovered enough to be here, to see this moment, and the pride shining in her eyes makes my throat tight.
After everything we survived, after how close I came to losing her, having her here feels like a miracle I don’t deserve but will cherish anyway.
Maggie steps forward, tapping a spoon against her coffee cup to get everyone’s attention. The café quiets, and I feel every eye turn toward us. My heart hammers against my ribs.
“Thank you all for coming to celebrate The Flour Pot’s grand reopening,” Maggie begins, her voice warm and steady. “When I hired Charlie Davis, I knew she had talent. What I didn’t know was that she had magic in her hands. Every pastry, every loaf of bread, every creation that comes from her oven is made with a level of care and skill that’s rare in this world.” She turns to me, her smile genuine. “Which is why I’m thrilled to announce that Charlie is now co-owner of The Flour Pot.”
The applause is thunderous. Tears prick my eyes as Maggie pulls me into a hug, and I blink them back furiously, not wanting to cry in front of everyone.
But when I look out at the crowd, I see Adrian standing near the back, Michael cradled against his broad chest, and the expression on his face makes my breath catch.
Pride. Love. Desire.
All of it written plainly in those intense gray eyes that have seen every part of me, body and soul.
Michael.
Our sweet little son who panicked us when I went into labor.
But everything turned out fine and he’s a happy, healthy toddler, curious about everything and everyone around him.
We named him Michael, after the church that made all this possible. Made our family possible.
Marcus stands beside Adrian, and even from here I can see the way his gaze travels over me in the chef’s whites, lingering on my curves in a way that makes my skin flush hot.
His smile is pure mischief, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. How quickly he could get me out of these clothes. How good I’d look wearing nothing but that embroidered jacket.
I clear my throat and step forward to say a few words, though my voice shakes. “Thank you. All of you. This café, this life, it’s more than I ever dreamed possible. Our signature item is Rose’s Cinnamon Rolls, my grandmother’s recipe that’s been perfected over generations. I’m honored to share it with all of you.”
A customer near the front raises her hand. “What’s the secret ingredient? They’re absolutely divine.”
I glance at Grandma Rose, at Maggie, at my three men scattered throughout the café with our son. My family. My impossible, beautiful family. “Love,” I tell her honestly. “Everything’s better when it’s made with love.”
The afternoon bleeds into evening, customers lingering over coffee and pastries, reluctant to leave the warm atmosphere we’ve created. I move through the space refilling cups, chatting with regulars, accepting compliments that still feel foreign to my ears.
Every time I pass Elijah at the piano, his hand finds mine for just a moment, a brief touch that sends electricity up my arm.
