Page 9 of Suddenly Yours

“A cold sandwich, chips, and a soda,” I finally admitted, taking a bite of the salmon and trying not to drool all over the table.

“That’s terrible. You should have come into the bakery. You could have had soup and a hot sandwich.”

I grinned and took another bite of the salmon. Holy hell, it was good. Like shutting-my-eyes good.

“I can’t always take a break. Besides, it wasn’t that bad.” I shrugged. “I put that spicy mustard on it that I like.”

We ate in comfortable silence for a minute before she asked, “Did you finish all the water heaters?”

“Yep. The whole house has hot water again.” I glanced around her apartment. “Your floor was the last one. You can take a shower now without freezing.”

Her cheeks flushed, just a tint, but I noticed everything when it came to her.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. “So,” she said after another bite, “how is your place coming along?”

That tug in my chest eased into a familiar ache. My house. My project. My stubborn, expensive, rotted-wood, paint-peeling project that I called home.

“It’s getting there,” I said, rubbing my palm over my jaw. “When I bought it last year, I figured that I’d have it done by now.”

“What’s keeping you from finishing?” she asked.

“Work keeps me busy.” I shrugged. “Plus, some days when I get home, I’m just too tired,” I admitted.

“What made you want that place?” she asked between bites. “You could have gotten a newer one.”

The image came easily because I saw it every time I walked through the front doors.

The classic two-story home was the kind of place you see in many old Maine towns up and down the coastline. It had a massive wraparound porch and big windows that were framed with crisp white trim. The weathered cedar shingles were worn but in good condition still. There were tall, narrow windows on the second floor with gingerbread brackets that had seen better decades. Currently, it had a deep, forest-green front door, but I planned to strip, sand, and repaint it and the window shutters when the weather grew warmer so their colors matched. I had yet to pick the color, but I was thinking about a rich warm honey or maybe a deep royal blue?

“It has history,” I said quietly. “There are original hardwood floors under the old carpet. And there’s the gorgeous hand-carved stair railings.” I smiled. “And the old cast-iron radiators that weigh a thousand pounds and try to kill you when you move them.” I laughed at the memory of almost pulling my back out of whack last month. “Plus, fireplaces that scream for those snowy nights. I want to bring it back from the dead, you know? To make it shine like it did when it was first built. To honor what it used to be.” I had been looking out the dark window as I talked, and now I blinked at the silence in the room as I turned back toward her.

She was listening, watching me with her chin propped on her hand. Her eyes were warm, and I could see the smile there before the corners of her lips even curved upward.

“That sounds incredible,” she said softly.

I instantly felt stupid. Then again, how often had I listened to her talk just like that, dream really, of how she would decorate the bakery? So many times over the years.

I shrugged off the embarrassment. After all, this was Missy. The person in the world who knew me the best. “Mostly it’s a money pit.”

“But it’s your money pit.” She lifted her fork and pointed at me with it. “Just like Sweet Expectations is mine.”

That landed better than she probably realized. Because it was exactly how I felt. Exactly why I’d bought it. It was something I chose. Something that had nothing to do with the life my parents had mapped out for me. Just like her bakery was for her.

My chest tightened, and she must have noticed, because she asked softly, “What?”

“Have you heard from your parents yet?” I asked. “I know you hadn’t heard from them before opening day.”

She grimaced. “Yeah. My mother called earlier today. Of course, she doesn’t approve of anything I do.” She stabbed a piece of broccoli. “Or anything I am, really.” She ate the entire piece.

I swallowed a bitter laugh. “Sounds familiar.” This conversation was nothing new between us.

“My father hasn’t called, nor will he, I’d wager.” Her eyes flicked to mine. “At least until he wants or needs something from me. Which will probably never happen. When was the last time you talked to your parents?”

I leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking under me. “Last night. They still want me to take over the family business. Investments are boring. Besides, it’s a side hustle.” Stocks, bonds, shifting money around was like breathing to me. I’d gotten my first bond on my first birthday. The last thing I wanted to do was work for the family business.

“Walker Investments is no joke. Are you sure you don’t want to trade in your fixer-upper for a penthouse in a high-rise in New York? Your flannels for an expensive suit? Not to mention all the golf meetings and country clubs, wining and dining clients all around the globe and all that?” she teased.

“Hell. It sounds like hell on earth,” I said, as I always did.