Page 26 of Red, White, and You

After she’s gone, I stand in the middle of my quiet shop, the scent of vanilla and sugar hanging in the air. Outside, the town is moving on like nothing’s changed.

But I have.

I reach for my phone and scroll until I find Mom’s name. I hesitate. Then I press call.

She answers on the second ring. “Georgina! I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Have you made your decision?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But Ihavedecided something.”

“Oh?”

“We need to talk. Really talk. About what I want. About what you want. And maybe how we can love each other without trying to change each other.”

There’s a long pause. “All right,” she says. “I’m listening.”

Here goes nothing.

Chapter 15

Gigi

Theconversationwithmymother went better than expected—which is to say, no one yelled, no one hung up, and for once, we both actually listened.

We talked for over an hour. I told her how much I love what I’ve built here—how the bakery isn’t just a job, it’s home. She told me she’s proud of my success, even if she doesn’t always understand it. We talked about expectations, disappointments, and the complicated business of loving someone who doesn’t want the same things you do.

It wasn’t perfect. She’s still not exactly pro-sugar. But it was honest. And that’s more than we’ve had in years.

“I owe Phoenix an apology,” she said before we hung up. “I put him in an impossible position.”

“You’re not the only one who owes him one,” I admitted.

Now, three hours later, I’m in the bakery kitchen creating what might be the most emotionally fraught dessert of my life. “I think I’ll call youLemon-Raspberry & Regrets.”

The lemon cake is tangy with a bit of a bite—like the words I threw at Phoenix. The raspberry filling is sweet but complicated, like my feelings for him. The buttercream? That’s sweet perfection… what Ihopewe can still have.

I don’t even know if he’s still in town.

He’d have every reason to leave after the things I said. After the way I didn’t let him explain. He probably thinks I’m just another Hart Health executive-in-training, too closed off to trust something real.

But I had to bake this cake. Even if he never sees it. I had to dosomethingwith all this regret and longing that’s been bubbling in my chest since he walked out that door.

I smooth the last layer of pale yellow frosting across the top, pipe delicate raspberry swirls, and add a final touch of candied lemon zest—bright and glossy like a fresh start.

The bell over the front door chimes.

"Be right there," I call, focused on getting the placement just right.

"I’ll wait as long as it takes," says a husky voice. "Forever, if necessary."

I freeze.

I know that voice.

I turn, slowly, my heart already racing.

Phoenix is standing in the doorway—wrinkled shirt, messy hair, and atrulyridiculous number of flowers. Bouquets spill from his arms in every size and color. Roses, sunflowers, wild things with spikes. I think I even spot a cactus.

"Phoenix?" My voice cracks. "I thought you left."

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