Page 39 of In Another Time

I nodded slowly, the lump in my throat growing larger. She gave me a soft smile and squeezed my shoulder before heading back inside, leaving me alone on the porch.

I leaned against the railing, staring out into the quiet street. Her words replayed in my mind, stirring something deep within me. Was I happy? Or was I just going through the motions, convincing myself that success and independence were enough to fill the void?

I thought about Omir—the way he looked at me, the way his kiss had reignited feelings I’d worked so hard to bury. And yet, he had a fiancée, a life that didn’t include me. And that was because of me and my choice to leave. I exhaled shakily, closingmy eyes. Maybe my mom was right. Maybe I did need to be honest with myself. But what good would it do now?

As I stood there, the air brushing against my skin, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this chapter of my life wasn’t as closed as I wanted it to be.

OMIR

Cake tasting was supposed to be one of those lighthearted moments couples looked back on and laughed about. That was what Anya told me, her tone full of excitement as we pulled up outside this upscale-ass bakery she’d been obsessing over for the past few weeks. She was damn near skipping in her red bottoms, her hand linked in mine like we were just two lovebirds planning the wedding of the year. But beneath all the sugar and sparkle, I wasn’t feeling it.

The moment we stepped inside, I caught the scent of vanilla, buttercream, and citrus wafting through the air. Marble floors, glass display cases, crystal light fixtures—it was luxury, top to bottom. Pristine. Almost too pristine. Everything in this place had been curated to perfection. Just like Anya’s world.

“Omir, you’re gonna love this spot,” she said, smiling back at me. “Their cakes are legendary.”

I gave her a small nod, letting her take the lead as we followed a hostess to a private tasting room tucked in the back. My fingers tapped against the counter, but my thoughts weren’t here. Not in this polished space, not on fondant versus buttercream. They were back on the porch with Lennox. Back in her eyes.

“You okay?” Anya asked, giving my hand a light squeeze as we took our seats at the tasting table. “You seem a little distracted.”

I forced a smile. “I’m good. Just got a lot on my mind.”

She opened her mouth like she wanted to dig deeper, but the door swung open before she could speak, and a short, bubbly pastry chef rolled in a cart stacked with cake samples like they were gold bars.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Harper, Ms. Hayes,” she chirped. “I’m Sophie, and I’ll be walking you through today’s tasting.”

Anya perked right up like somebody flipped a switch. “Perfect! Let’s dive in.”

Sophie rattled off flavor names, decorative concepts, frosting textures. Anya fired off questions like she was interviewing for a Food Network special, and I nodded in the right places, even smiled once or twice, but my brain wasn’t really registering anything. Instead, I thought about lunch with Lennox’s family. That day had warmth. Soul. Home.

“Omir, what do you think?” Anya’s voice snapped me back.

She held out a fork with a piece of vanilla bean cake on it like it was some kind of peace offering. I leaned forward, let it hit my tongue, gave it a second. “It’s nice,” I said, swallowing.

Her brow ticked. “Nice? This istheecake bakery in the city. Their waiting list is three months long.”

I tried to smile. “It’s delicious, baby. For real.”

She relaxed again and turned back to Sophie, diving into a whole debate about swapping raspberry for lemon. I zoned out again, letting their words fade into background noise while I sat there and thought,What the hell am I doing?

Later, we headed across town to meet her family for lunch. Five-star spot, valet parked the car before I could even finish my sentence. The moment we stepped in, the air changed. No music, just soft murmurs, clinking glasses, and linen tablecloths. Her father was already seated, phone in hand, while her mother greeted us with a lukewarm smile that never touched her eyes.

“Omir,” her mother said, extending a hand that probably hadn’t touched a dish in years. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Mrs. Hayes,” I said, shaking it. “Appreciate you having me.”

Her father looked up, finally acknowledging me with a quick nod. “You keeping busy?”

“Yes, sir. The club’s doing well. Restaurant’s finding its groove.”

He grunted something close to approval and looked back down at his phone.

We sat. And for the next forty-five minutes, it felt like a job interview in a tux. Anya’s mom went on about some gala she was chairing. Her dad chimed in about hedge fund performance. Her brother Jason, seated across from me, talked about his new real estate venture in Aspen, like he was building the next empire.

I sat back, sipped water, and kept the conversation polite. I knew the game. But damn, it was exhausting. Then Jason turned his attention to me.

“So, Omir,” he said, voice slick and smirky. “What’s your next big move? Or you sticking with the whole entrepreneur vibe?”

I kept my tone steady. “Yeah. Looking at some expansion opportunities. The club’s been a cornerstone for me. The restaurant’s a newer challenge, but I’m in it for the long haul.”

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