Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
The way he's looking at me, eyes bright with mischief and something warmer, makes the world feel smaller and bigger at the same time. Like everything important is right here in this circle of his arms, and also like there's so much possibility stretching out ahead of us I can't see the edges.
More suppliers arrive—the rental company with extra chairs, someone delivering ice, a florist's assistant with a corsage for Gram.
Each time a van or truck pulls into the driveway, Heath and I exchange glances and fall into our rhythm. I direct, he lifts, we both solve problems and share the small victories of getting everything right. The suppliers often have to do a double take, but they're usually too starstruck to ask Heath for photos or autographs.
At some point, I'm arranging place settings at one of the long tables, focusing on getting the silverware aligned just so, when Heath appears beside me. He glances around, checking the coast, and when he sees we're alone, he leans down and kisses me. Quick, warm, and gone before I can properly react.
But my hands still on the fork I was holding, and I simply refuse to believe that Heath just kissed me in broad daylight where anyone can see. Me, the nerdy girl from high school, the boring academic researcher, the nobody.
"Heath."
"What?" He grins, completely unrepentant.
This is my life right now. Heath helping me set up my grandmother's birthday party, stealing kisses when no one's looking, grinning at me like we share secrets. It doesn't feel real. It feels like something I'm borrowing, something that belongs to a different version of myself.
But for this afternoon, this golden afternoon with suppliers coming and going and Heath at my elbow making everything easier, I let myself believe it might actually be mine.
The pastry delivery arrives at four-thirty, and I'm expecting the usual catering truck or unmarked van. Instead, a sleek white vehicle with "Cross Cakes" painted in elegant script across the side pulls into the driveway.
My stomach drops, but I ignore it. Penelope's family has run the bakery downtown for as long as I can remember. Of course Gram would order from them. It makes perfect sense.
Penelope herself climbs out of the driver's side, tall and effortlessly put-together in jeans and a white button-down that somehow looks intentionally casual rather than thrown-on. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail.
God, she's still so gorgeous.
She sees me across the lawn, and she waves and calls my name.
"Harriet! Oh my God, hi! I didn't know you were in town."
She sounds genuinely pleased to see me, which is its own small knife because it would be so much easier if I could dislike her. But Penelope has always been like this—warm without calculation, the kind of person who makes sure nobody around her feels out of place. She was never mean to anyone, never nasty.
Even now, even when every instinct I have is telling me to find an excuse to disappear, I can't resent her for simply existing.
"Hey, Penelope." I walk over as two young guys—her employees, presumably—start unloading an impressive array of desserts from the van. "This is beautiful work."
"Thanks. I took over from my parents last year, so this is actually my first time doing one of Gram's parties. I was so nervous I made backup cakes."
She laughs, and it's the same laugh I remember from high school—bright and unself-conscious.
"Gram will love everything," I tell her. "Where do you want the desserts set up?"
"Oh, wherever works. I defer to the experts."
She grins and turns toward the house, probably looking for Heath or Gram to ask about logistics. And that's when Heath emerges from the house and catches sight of Penelope, his whole face lighting up with a smile that stops me cold.
Bile rises from my stomach, and there's a sour taste in my mouth.
They move toward each other with the easy comfort of old friends. Penelope says something I can't hear from this distance, and Heath throws his head back and laughs, the sound carrying across the lawn.
Her hand lands on his arm as she talks, and he doesn't pull away. Doesn't even seem to notice. They stand close enough that their conversation is clearly private, clearly theirs. Even from thirty feet away, I can see how well they fit together. How right they look.
I tamp down the sudden flash of anger. Instead, I turn away and focus on directing the dessert setup, but the image of them talking burns behind my eyelids.
The memory hits without warning, sharp and unwelcome. The summer I worked at the bookstore downtown, the one that shared a wall with Cross Cakes. Thin walls, propped-open doors on hot days, and voices that carried more than they should have.
The scent of vanilla and cinnamon would drift through from the bakery, mixing with the musty smell of old paperbacks. On slow afternoons, I'd shelve returns near the shared wall, half-listening to the muffled conversations next door. Most of it was background noise—orders being placed, the hiss of the espresso machine, the cheerful chatter of customers.