Page 42 of Knot So Sweet
Flour everywhere. Dirty mixing bowls stacked in the sink. Empty ingredient containers that need refilling. The commercial dishwasher is running its third cycle of the day and it's only mid-afternoon.
This is exactly what I didn't want.
I grab a rag and start wiping down the counter, scrubbing at stubborn bits of dried dough. My shoulders ache from the constant motion. The repetitive tasks I've done a thousand times but now feel harder, heavier.
The bakery's quiet now except for the hum of the dishwasher and the occasional creak of floorboards overhead. Violet's apartment. She's probably up there counting her success, planning her next article, turning another local business into a tourist trap.
I shouldn't be angry. The numbers are good. Better than good. Revenue's up thirty percent in less than a week. At this rate, I could actually pay off the equipment loans early, maybe even expand like everyone keeps suggesting.
But success tastes bitter when it comes with strangers asking about my "three-day fermentation process that creates layers of complexity" like I'm some kind of artisan performing for their entertainment.
The kitchen door swings open.
Vanilla and honey hit me first. Then Violet herself, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and that stubborn set to her jaw I'm starting to recognize.
"Do you have a problem with me?" she asks. No preamble, just straight to it.
I keep scrubbing the counter. "No."
"Liar."
That makes me look up. She's moved closer, standing on the other side of the prep table. Her blue eyes are sharp, assessing. Her scent carries determination mixed with something vulnerable underneath.
"You've been acting like I personally ruined your life for the past week," she continues. "So either tell me what I did wrong or stop glaring at me like I murdered your grandmother."
"I'm not glaring."
"You absolutely are. You've perfected the art of the hostile scowl. Customers are starting to think it's part of the authentic experience."
Despite everything, my mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Maybe it is."
"Garrick." She says my name like a warning. Like she's done with my bullshit. "Talk to me. Please."
I toss the rag into the sink. Probably getting flour in it but I don't care.
"You turned my bakery into a circus," I finally say. "Twenty percent discount codes. TikTok videos. People coming in asking for 'that bread from the article' like it's some kind of novelty instead of work I've been perfecting for fifteen years."
"I'm sorry about the discount. That was a typo. I can fix it."
"It's about... this." I gesture around the kitchen. "Used to be I knew every person who walked through that door. Knew their orders, their families, their stories. Now it's strangers with cameras treating this place like a photo op."
Violet's quiet for a moment. Her scent shifts, that vulnerable note getting stronger.
"You're right," she says finally. "I got caught up in the success and didn't think about what you'd be losing in the process."
"I'm not losing anything. Business is up. That's good."
"Then why do you look miserable?"
Because I am. Because watching her excitement over every new client, every article view, every successful partnership reminds me that she's building something here. Making connections. Creating a future.
And none of it includes staying.
Once her car's fixed and she's saved enough money, she'll leave. Head to Texas or wherever life takes her. And I'll be here with my suddenly popular bakery and the lingering scent of vanilla and honey that won't fade from my kitchen no matter how many times I clean.
But I can't say any of that. Can't admit I've gotten attached to an omega I barely know. That somewhere in the past six weeks, between her corner booth observations and her genuine appreciation for my work, I started imagining what it would be like if she stayed.
"I'm not miserable," I lie.
