Page 84 of Ashes of Us
She was quiet for a long moment. Behind her, the coffee machine let out a soft hiss as it cooled. The bakery smelled like vanilla and butter and something cinnamon.
"You drove here to tell me that?"
"I thought you should have the choice."
She studied my face. I could see her processing, weighing options. Her thumb still pressed against her finger, a tiny nervous gesture that made something in my chest tighten.
"It's a big event," she said finally.
"Three hundred people. Good press coverage. The mayor usually shows."
A tiny line appeared between her eyebrows. She was doing the math—the exposure, the money, the complications. Her business brain fighting with... everything else.
"Come in." She stepped back. "You're letting all the heat out."
I followed her inside, trying not to notice how familiar it still felt to be in her presence, or the way she moved through her space with automatic efficiency.
She walked behind the counter, putting a barrier between us, and set down her cleaning rag. "You want coffee?"
"I'm good."
"I'm making myself some." She turned to the machine, giving herself something to do with her hands. "Long day."
I stayed by the door, folder still in my hand. Safe distance. The shop felt quieter, more intimate, after hours. The overhead lights were off, just the warm glow from the display cases and the pendant lights over the counter.
"You could have called," she said, her back still to me as she worked the espresso machine.
"I could have."
She glanced over her shoulder, assessing me. Then back to her task. "But you didn't."
"Seemed like the coward's way out."
The machine hissed and steam rose in the air.
"Not everything has to be about cowardice or bravery," she said as the milk steamer shrieked. "Sometimes a phone call is just easier."
"Maybe." I set the folder on the closest table. "But this felt like something I should do in person."
She finished with the milk, poured it into her cup with practiced precision. Her hands were completely steady, but mine weren't.
“The display case looks different,” I said, thinking of how crowded it’d been the last time I came in. I immediately wished I hadn’t brought it up.
She glanced at it, frowned. "November's always slower. People save their carb splurges for the holidays."
"Right."
"Plus that new Sweet Dreams Café opened on Third." She said it casually, but her jaw tightened slightly. "They're doing buy-one-get-one everything through December."
Sweet Dreams was a chain, of course. They could afford to take losses that would sink a small business.
"That's..." I started, then stopped. Not my place to comment on her business challenges.
"It's fine," she said, reading my expression. "Just need to get the word out more. Maybe finally figure out this whole social media thing." She gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Turns out making good pastries and marketing them are completely different skills."
Something shifted in her posture—embarrassment maybe, at admitting any struggle to me. She took a sip of her coffee, then squared her shoulders. "So. The charity breakfast."
Back to business, safe ground.
