Page 42 of Win a Date with a Baker

I scrub a hand over my face. “...I panicked.”

“You thought she wanted the fame.”

“I know she doesn’t.”

“But you let strangers convince you otherwise.” I nod once.

Ashamed.

Rachel sighs. “Ty.”

“What?”

She pokes me square in the chest. “You need to grow a pair.”

“What?”

Another poke. “Now go make up with your girlfriend.”

I stare down at my phone. The cursor blinks in the empty text box. Finally, I send the only thing that feels honest.

Frank’s wedding order starts tomorrow. I’d completely understand if you’d rather stay away. But...if you’re willing, I’d really like your help. And I’d really like the chance to see you. No pressure.

The little “Delivered” appears almost immediately.

Now comes the hardest part.

Waiting.

By five-thirty the next afternoon, the bakery smells like browned butter, cinnamon, and my own nervous sweat.

I’ve remade the display three times.

Polished the glass.

Straightened trays that were already straight.

I even considered changing my shirt.

Twice.

At exactly six o’clock, the bell over the front door jingles.

I look up so fast I nearly drop the tray I’m carrying.

She’s here.

She’s wearing jeans, sneakers, and one of the oversized cardigans I secretly love because she always pulls the sleeves over her hands when she’s nervous. She’s never looked more beautiful.

She catches my eye. “Hi.”

My chest actually hurts. “Hi.”

For a second, neither of us moves. Then she steps farther inside.

“Thanks for coming,” I say.

“I told you I’d help.”