Page 39 of Sweetly Yours

“It’s not forever,” I whisper, but he’s already turning toward his truck.

“Just let me know where you’re staying,” he says over his shoulder, his voice cold. “So I know where to find you.”

By the time I settle into the small, sterile room at the Evergreen Inn, it’s late afternoon. Frankie curls up on the bed beside me, his little snores the only sound in the room.

I glance at my phone, at the text from Brock that’s been sitting unanswered for hours.

Brock: Let me know when you’re settled.

I haven’t replied yet. I don’t know what to say. How do you explain to someone who’s been nothing but kind and supportive that you needed to get away—from everything, including him?

I sigh, staring at the blank walls. Maybe this was a mistake.

But then again, what hasn’t been lately?

The room is cold and still when I wake up, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Then it hits me—this isn’t my bed, this isn’t my home, and nothing about this feels normal.

Frankie is curled up beside me, snoring softly, his small, warm body pressed against my side. I reach down and scratch behind his ears, but it doesn’t bring the usual comfort.

I feel horrible.

My house isn’t safe. My bakery is a wreck. I can’t go back to either, and now I’m stuck here in this sterile, impersonal hotel room, with nothing but my thoughts and the growing ache in my chest.

For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself into feeling something other than this deep, restless frustration. But it doesn’t work.

I sit up slowly, rubbing my hands over my face. Frankie stirs, blinking up at me with his wide, sleepy eyes.

“Hey, buddy,” I whisper, my voice rough. “What do you say we get out of here for a bit?”

He wags his tail like he understands, hopping off the bed and trotting to the door while I slip on my sneakers and grab his leash.

The air outside is crisp and cool, and for the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe. The streets around the inn are quiet, justa handful of cars passing by and the occasional sound of a dog barking in the distance.

Frankie trots beside me, his little legs working overtime as we wander aimlessly down the sidewalk. He stops every few feet to sniff at a lamppost or a patch of grass, and I let him, grateful for the distraction.

I don’t have a destination in mind—I just need to move. To feel like I’m doingsomething.

But the more I walk, the heavier the weight on my chest feels. What am I supposed to do? My house is a crime scene. My bakery, my dream, is a disaster zone. And Brock...

I swallow hard, trying to push the thought of him aside, but it’s impossible. The way he looked at me this morning, hurt and frustrated, keeps flashing in my mind. He didn’t deserve that, but what else was I supposed to do?

I stop at a small park, sitting down on a bench while Frankie sniffs around the base of a tree. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, my heart skipping a beat when I see Brock’s name on the screen.

Brock: Just checking in. You okay?

I stare at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I want to tell him I’m fine, that I’ve got everything under control. But the truth is, I don’t.

Me: I’m okay. Just needed some air.

Brock: Did you eat?

Me: Not yet.

Brock: Go grab something. You need to take care of yourself, baby.

His words bring a lump to my throat, and I shove my phone back into my pocket before I can reply. He’s trying so hard to take care of me, and all I’ve done is push him away.

Frankie barks, snapping me out of my thoughts. He looks up at me expectantly, his tail wagging.

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