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“Longer. Okay.”
I shut my eyes. Images dance in my mind’s eye: a bigger shop, catering important events, hiring several trained staff, a much bigger shop…My eyes fly open. Ian’s gaze meets mine, and my smile falters. His expression is thoughtful, like he’s trying to read me.
“What?” I sit up.
“Did you start planning for the pastry shop before you started working for Andrews?”
“Uh…around that time, yes.”
“Daydreaming about the future was an escape for you. The work environment must’ve been toxic.”
“Not toxic. Just…not for me. By the time I started working at Andrews’, I was already tired of the corporate life, I just didn’t admit it to myself.”
“What made you decide to quit?”
I wanted to forge my own path and be my own woman.
“I love baking, so I thought, ‘why not make a career out of it’? I wanted to wake up every morning excited to start the day because I love what I do. There’s nothing as satisfying as that. I’m sure you feel that way every day. What is the point of living if I end up doing something that I don’t enjoy, and I do it for years. That’s toxic, that’s depressing, that’s missing on life altogether”
Ian’s frown eases. He nods slowly. “Yeah.”
“Waking up one morning in Italy, another morning in Bali…that sounds dreamy.”
“It is.”
“Then why did you come back? I mean, not that that it’s bad that you’re here, but I’m just curious.”
Ian stares at the screen, scrolling in silence. I tap my fingers on my lap, waiting for his response.
“Sometimes you need a break from adventure.”
“A break from adventure.” I scoff. “That’s hard to believe.”
He shrugs and mutters, “Maybe.”
Why’s he being so tight-lipped all of a sudden?
Ian leans forward. “Mission statement.”
I turn to the screen. “Oh. That. Took me a while to come up with it.”
“It’s pretty good. But that’s not what matters. What matters is if it still resonates with you.” He places the laptop on his lap and types for a few seconds, before turning it toward me. “Here. What do you think?”
I reach for the laptop, and my fingers brush across his. I withdraw. “Um, it’s, err, nice.”
“Nice?”
“It’s good.” I read the words again. “Really good.”
He grins. “I think we’re getting somewhere.”
After over an hour, we’re more than halfway done with the document. I haven’t typed so much in months – one of the perks of not having an office job.
“I think this is a good point to take a break,” Ian says, rising from his seat.
He stretches. I stare at his muscled arms, reliving the sensation of them beneath my hands. .
“It’s almost eleven pm.”
