Chapter 4

That was five years ago. Ancient history.

So why am I standing in my bakery at six in the morning, kneading dough like my life depends on it?

"You're going to overwork that bread," Chloe says from behind the counter. She's been my assistant for two years and has never seen me this tense. "What's eating you?"

"Nothing." I punch the dough harder than necessary. "Just want to get ahead on tomorrow's orders."

"Uh-huh." Chloe doesn't believe me for a second. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that cute guy at the festival yesterday, would it?"

I freeze. "What guy?"

"Tall, dark, handsome. Italian-looking. Spent about twenty minutes just standing there watching you work after you finished talking."

Great. I was hoping she hadn't noticed.

"He's nobody," I lie.

"Nobody doesn't make you punch innocent bread dough."

The bell above the door chimes before I can respond. We don't open for another two hours, but I forgot to lock the door behind me when I came in.

"Sorry, we're closed—" I start, then stop.

Roman is standing in my doorway, looking uncertain in a way that doesn't suit him. He's holding a small white box that I recognize.

"Hi," he says. "I hope it's okay that I came by."

Chloe's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. She grabs her purse with obvious glee. "I suddenly remembered I need to run an errand. Take your time."

The traitor practically skips out the back door.

"You kept it," I say, nodding at the box.

"I took a bite yesterday." Roman steps inside, closing the door behind him. "But I couldn't bring myself to finish it. It was too perfect."

"Too perfect to eat?"

"Too perfect to waste on someone who didn't deserve it."

I don't know what to say to that, so I go back to kneading. The repetitive motion helps calm my nerves.

"This place is incredible," Roman says, looking around.

My bakery isn't much to look at. Small storefront, yellow walls, display cases that I bought secondhand. But it's mine. Every inch of it.

"It's not fancy," I say.

"It doesn't need to be fancy. It feels..." He pauses, searching for the word. "Real."

He walks over to the wall where I've hung my licenses, a few newspaper clippings, and photos from the day I opened. His eyes stop on one particular article.

"Local Baker Creates Haven for Children with Food Allergies," he reads out loud. "Sage Winters has built more than just a business. She's created a safe space where kids who usually feel left out can finally enjoy the simple pleasure of a fresh-baked cookie."

My cheeks heat up. "It's not a big deal."

"The hell it's not." Roman's voice is soft but intense. "Sage, this is amazing. You're helping kids."

"I'm just baking."

"No, you're not." He points to another photo. Me with a little boy who has severe allergies, both of us grinning as he bites into a chocolate chip cookie. "You're giving them what you never had. A place where they belong."

The accuracy of that statement hits me like a punch to the gut.

"How do you do it?" Roman asks. "Make things that taste normal but don't have any of the usual ingredients?"

I stop kneading. "You really want to know?"

"Yeah. I do."

So I tell him. About alternative flours and binding agents. About how coconut cream can taste just like dairy if you know how to use it. About the months I spent perfecting recipes that wouldn't trigger sensory issues.

"Everything here is made with tools instead of hands," I explain. "Silicone spatulas, wooden spoons, piping bags. No direct contact with wet ingredients."

"Brilliant," Roman breathes. "You found a way to cook without compromise."

"I found a way to survive."

"Same thing."

We stand there in comfortable silence while I shape the dough into loaves. Roman watches my hands move, and I can practically see him filing away every technique.

"Sage," he says finally. "I owe you an apology."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I do." His voice drops. "What my mother said to you that night... it was cruel. Wrong. And I should have stood up to her immediately."

"You were protecting your family."

"I was being a coward." Roman runs his hand through his hair. "I've regretted it every day for five years."

"Ancient history," I say, but my voice cracks a little.

"Is it? Because yesterday at the festival, when I saw what you'd built... God, Sage. You proved her wrong about everything."

I don't know how to respond to that. Part of me wants to stay angry. It's safer that way.

But another part of me, the part that remembers how patient he used to be when I was struggling, wants to forgive him.

"I've been thinking," Roman continues. "About what you said yesterday. How we're different people now."

"We are."

"Maybe. But I'd like to get to know who you've become. If you'll let me."

I look up at him. Really look. The Roman I knew was confident to the point of arrogance sometimes. This version is humbler. More careful with his words.

"What are you asking?"

"Could you teach me?" The question comes out in a rush. "Your techniques, I mean. The sensory-friendly stuff. I want to learn."

"Why?"

"Because you're right. The world should change to accommodate people, not the other way around. And because..." He hesitates. "Because maybe if I'd understood better five years ago, things would have been different."

I'm about to respond when I catch movement in my peripheral vision. A shadow passing by the front window.

"Did you see that?" I whisper.

Roman follows my gaze. "See what?"

I move closer to the window, but whoever was there is gone. The street looks empty except for a few early morning joggers.

But there's something else. A scent drifting through the crack under the door.

Jasmine and lemon. Elegant and unmistakably Italian.

I know that smell.