“Don’t lecture me about giving up dreams when you’ve been using work as an excuse to avoid living.” Dahlia stepped closer, riding the wave of anger that felt unfamiliar and liberating and terrifying all at once. “Don’t tell me I’m sacrificing too much when you’ve sacrificed everything—rest, community, your bear, your family—to prove you’re not your father.”
The words hit their mark. She could see it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hands curled at his sides. In the flash of pain that crossed his features before he locked it down.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you showed up in this town looking half-dead from exhaustion. I know your bear went dormant because you’ve been ignoring every instinct that told you to slow down. I know you came back here because you had no choice, and you’re planning to leave the moment you’ve ‘fixed’ things because staying feels like failure.” She held his stare, refusing to flinch. “I see people, Callum. It’s what I do. And I see you.”
Silence crashed between them.
Cal stared at her. Really stared, as if seeing her for the first time. The soft baker who handed out comfort pastries and listened to everyone’s problems. The woman who smiled and nodded and made everything easy peasy.
And underneath all that—the sharp edge. The steel she’d buried so deeply, even she’d forgotten it was there.
“You’re right.”
Dahlia blinked. “What?”
“You’re right.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, disheveling it further. “I’m a hypocrite. I’ve been running for over a decade, and I have no business telling you how to live your life.”
She hadn’t expected him to admit it. Had braced herself for defense, for counterattack, for the argument that left both parties wounded and nothing resolved.
Instead, he agreed.
“But.” Cal’s voice softened. Vulnerability flickered in those dark eyes—the same exhaustion she’d seen the first day, but stripped now of its defenses. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong about Paris. You want to go. I can see how you look at that envelope. You want it so badly the longing is written all over you, and you’re letting everyone else’s needs be the excuse you use to deny yourself.”
Dahlia’s throat tightened. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”
“It should.” He picked up the envelope. Pressed it into her hands, his fingers brushing hers in the process.
That spark again. That heat that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with a pull she wasn’t ready to name. His skin against hers. His breath, closer than it should be. The scent of him filling her lungs.
Neither of them pulled away.
“Think about it.” His voice was low. Rough. The voice of a man holding himself back. “Please.”
Then he stepped back. Grabbed his phone from the workbench. Headed for the door with the rigid posture of someone forcing themselves to walk when they wanted to stay.
“Where are you going?”
“To talk to the Torres family.” He paused at the door, not looking back. “Someone has to fix this. Might as well be the hypocrite who’s already here.”
He hesitated. Then, without turning, he said, “One more thing. Wyatt has a theory about the honey supply—that it may have been tampered with. He’s still investigating. Until we know more, don’t use the Torres stock you have left. Any of it.”
The bell above the front door chimed as he left.
Dahlia stood alone in her kitchen, holding the Paris letter, still feeling the echo of his touch on her fingers. Still feeling theheat of him, the pull toward him that she couldn’t explain and couldn’t ignore.
Marzipan jumped onto the workbench.The cat’s tail curled around her paws, gaze bright with feline assessment.
That was unexpected.
“Which part?” Dahlia’s voice sounded strange to her own ears. Shaky. Raw.
You. Being sharp. Showing teeth.Marzipan’s mental voice held approval.I didn’t know you still had those.
“Neither did I.”
She looked down at the envelope in her hands. Cream-colored paper, slightly crumpled now from being gripped too tightly. Her grandmother’s dream, handed to her across time and death and sixteen years of sayingnot yet, not now, not me.
