Chapter 5: Charlie

THE DAY IS off to an excellent start.

The sun is bright in a cornflower blue sky, the birds are singing, and Luka left the good coffee in the kitchen of the guesthouse. Stella is officially out of the country, which means she can stop texting me every seven minutes to ask if I’m sure I want to watch over the farm, and for the first time in years, there’s not a single pressing alert on my calendar.

I also have Nova’s cellphone in my back pocket. A guarantee that I’ll see her today.

Solid tens across the board.

I close the door behind me and step down the porch, dried grass crunching beneath my boots. The weather is just starting to change, summer releasing its grip for a freefall into autumn. The mornings are cooler, the colors brighter. Flocks of geese drift overhead in perfect formation, their calls echoing out across the fields.

I’m not used to this sort of commute. Pine trees in neat little rows instead of skyscrapers. A pumpkin patch instead of a half-naked cowboy strumming a guitar. While my brain usually has trouble with silence, I like it here. I can hear the soundtrack of this place when I listen for it. Wind whistling through the fields and the whisper of the branches as they sway gently back and forth. The rumble of a tractor somewhere in the distance.

My phone rings in my pocket, and I dig it out, balancing my coffee in the crook of my elbow. I almost trip over a pumpkin vine and answer my phone with a bitten-off curse.

A beat of silence greets me. Then a dry, amused voice. “I guess the country is agreeing with you.”

I readjust my grip on my coffee and thank god for closed-top travel mugs. I dressed for the day, wearing my best flannel, and I’d prefer it if I didn’t walk around with a massive coffee stain. “Good morning, Selene.”

She mutters something under her breath that I don’t quite catch. My work has been flexible about allowing me to be remote for the month, but my assistant, Selene, can’t conceive why I would want to. I don’t think she’s ever willingly left New York in her life.

“How are the scarecrows, farmer boy?”

I squint into the distance. “I haven’t seen any yet.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“Well, believe it.” A gust of wind rolls its way through the trees, burrowing in through the collar of my shirt. I should have brought my jacket. “I am walking through a pumpkin patch though. If that fulfills whatever fantasy you have going on about my time down here.”

“If by fantasy you mean waking nightmare, then yes. That is exactly what I pictured you doing when you told me you’d be spending a month on the farm.” She sighs and I hear the clink of a glass in the background. The clink of a glass and…nothing else. None of the ambient sound I usually hear when she’s at her desk in the small alcove in front of my office, half hidden behind a wall of plants of her own making.

I frown.

“Where are you right now?”

“I’m at work,” she deadpans. “Doing my job.”

That’s debatable. “Selene. Are you in my office?”

“Of course I’m in your office. You’re not using it.” There’s a pause and I hear a drawer open. “You have more sticky notes than any man your age should.”

“They help me stay organized,” I murmur. Notes and lists and strategically placed phone alarms are the things that keep my chaotic brain in line. “Whatever. Just don’t drink all of my coffee.”

“How about I eventually replace whatever I use.”

“That’s fine too.” Sometimes it feels like Selene is running the show and I’m just along for the ride. “Is there a reason for this call or is this a welfare check?”

She makes a sound that tells me she’s amused. “When have you ever known me to check in?”

“You called when I was sick last year and asked if I needed soup.”

“Because I was afraid you would die, and I’d get saddled with one of the useless fuckboys in the east wing.”

My lips twitch with a grin. Selene is right. Those guys are assholes. Most of the people at my firm are assholes.

Still. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t say ‘fuckboy’ at work.”

“I can when I’m in your office and the door is shut. Do you ever take naps in here? It’s really quiet. I can’t hear anything through the door.”

“No, I don’t take naps in my office.” Though sometimes I want to. Other times I want to throw my desk chair through the window and scream into the void. “Did you need something? Did I forget a meeting?”

I keep everything programmed down to the minute in my phone. If I don’t, I lose track of it. I thought I had kept this morning intentionally blank, but it’s possible something came up over the weekend while I was focused on Stella’s wedding.

And distracted by Nova.

“No, you didn’t forget a meeting.” I hear the shuffle of papers and the click of her heels across the floor of my office. A drawer opens and closes, and the whir of a machine starts up. I guess she found the Nespresso. “I wanted to give you a heads-up. You had about ten messages from your dad on your office phone. And two from Mr. Billings.”

I grind out a curse between clenched teeth and rub my knuckles across my forehead. My dad almost tanked the company completely about three years ago with a boatload of shitty decision-making. Not only was he disregarding client interests and recklessly investing money on their behalf, he’d also been making inappropriate comments to a bunch of our female employees. Needless to say, the board decided to quickly and quietly relieve him of his position.

“How likely is it that Mr. Billings is calling about something my father told him?”

“Uh, safe to say that’s highly likely.”

My father has had…difficulty…letting go of his role. He calls me weekly with “advice” on how to do my job. He keeps in touch with most of his old clients too. The ones that didn’t care how he was acting or who he hurt in the process. The ones that were assigned to me as “legacy” when my dad was canned.

I sigh and breathe in deep through my nose. A plume of smoke has started to rise from the chimney stack over at Layla’s bakehouse, a hint of cinnamon carried by the wind. This place is my priority right now. My dad’s bullshit can wait. Mr. Billings can too.

“Can you slot Mr. Billings in for thirty minutes this afternoon? I’ll do damage control.”

“And your dad?”

I exhale, my breath a puff of white in the chilly morning air. “I’ll take care of it.”

At some point. Maybe.

THE LITTLE BELL above the door signals my arrival at the bakehouse, the smell of melted butter and crisp apples smacking me in the face. A rumbling groan tears its way out of my chest. This early, there’s only a few people in the front of the shop. Clint from the firehouse sits at a booth in the corner, sipping from a mug of coffee. And Cindy Croswell is busy at the takeout counter, collecting white carryout boxes with headphones on.

I love everything about the farm, but the bakehouse might be my favorite. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the front half, pine trees brushing against the glass on every side. Cozy booths with throw pillows and cable-knit blankets sit against the walls. Bistro tables with mosaic tops and mismatched chairs fill in the middle, and a counter runs along the back wall. Display cases with every treat imaginable anchor either side of it, and a little door leads to the back.

It’s always cozy, but it feels downright homey during the fall. It’s the version of home I always wished for while sitting at the too-big table in my parents’ formal dining room, eating a catered meal, and listening to the awkward silence stretch thick. This feels like comfort and belonging. Layla making apple pie in the back with bouquets of dried flowers in vases all over the place. Cinnamon sticks and cardamom and allspice heavy in the air.

Maybe I’ll just work from here for the duration of my trip.

Caleb pokes his head out from the swinging half door that leads to the back kitchen, brown eyes searching. They crinkle into a grin as soon as he spots me, the handsome bastard. I feel like he’s always either smiling or staring at Layla with heart eyes. I’m glad his unrequited longtime crush worked out for him.

“Hey, man. Wasn’t expecting you.” He tips his head toward the back. “Layla is working on some pie thing—”

“Apple pie strudels with a caramel filling, Caleb!”

His grin twitches wider. “Layla is working on apple pie strudels with a caramel filling if you want to come back.”

Like I’m going to ignore that invitation. I slip back behind the counter and follow Caleb to where Layla is holding a massive mixing bowl in one hand, a spatula-shaped thing in the other. She mixes it around and around in the bowl, offering me a smile.

“Hey. Did you need help with something?”

“Nah, just visiting.” I toss my messenger bag beneath the counter where Caleb is leaning. He has a butter croissant in his hand and another one on the plate in front of him, cheek bulging as he chews. As expected, he’s staring at Layla with cartoon hearts floating around his head.

I sigh and steal the croissant off his plate. He tries to protest but I shove the entire thing in my mouth.

“I figure if I’m here,” I mumble around flaky, buttery pastry dough, “I might as well capitalize on the benefits.”

Layla looks amused. Caleb looks irritated.

“That was my croissant,” he mumbles.

“I’ll give you another one,” Layla offers.

He straightens out of his slouch to beam at his fiancée. “Thank you.”

I roll my eyes and swallow the rest of the croissant. I don’t know how I found myself surrounded by couples desperately in love, but here we are. I love seeing my friends happy, of course, I just wish—

I don’t know. I don’t know what I wish. I wish it were me? I don’t think so. I have no desire for a relationship. That’s never been something I’ve craved for myself. I’ve seen firsthand how relationships can twist you into something you don’t recognize, desperately looking for a way out. No, thank you.

I guess I wish I could hang out with them and not feel like I’m the one that doesn’t belong. An aimless, drifting half to a nonexistent whole in a room full of perfectly matched pieces. I don’t want to be an imposition. I don’t want to be some…project or thing they feel like they need to fix.

I roll the sleeves of my flannel. “You need any help while I’m here?”

Layla nods. “You can take over for Caleb. He’s been manning the register while I get these strudels in the oven. Nico called in sick and Caleb has to head over to the school.”

Caleb is the Spanish teacher at the high school and, judging by the clock, about ten minutes behind schedule. He glances at his watch, curses, and strides across the kitchen. He drops a kiss on top of Layla’s head, grabs a croissant off a cooling tray, and then drops another kiss right below her ear. Her entire face scrunches up with her delighted smile and something in my chest plucks, just once. Caleb straightens, shoots me a look that’s vaguely accusatory—on account of the croissant, I guess—and disappears through the door without another word.

A pink-cheeked Layla looks at me with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry.”

I hold up my hands. “No apology necessary.”

She shrugs and continues whipping whatever batter is in that big metal bowl of hers. “I just—I know how it can be.”

“What?”

She waves her hand around her head. “All of this. The love at Lovelight. We can be extra and I know it.”

I grab a hand towel and fold it into neat squares, just for something to do with my hands. “You deserve extra, Layla. Don’t tuck away your happy on my account. I’m doing just fine.”

Maybe that’s it. It’s when they feel the need to walk on eggshells that it bothers me the most. It’s like they’re all waiting for me to fall apart at my perpetually single lifestyle when the truth is…I don’t want what they have. I don’t want to be held to another person’s expectations and fall short. I don’t want to build something with someone only to have it sour with time. Casual suits me best, and while I’m certainly no stranger to wanting things I don’t deserve and cannot have, a relationship isn’t something I yearn for.

Layla arches an eyebrow. I laugh.

“I am! Why does everyone always look at me like that when I say it?”

She clicks her tongue and finally sets down her bowl on the edge of the counter, reaching for a filling bag. She makes the work here look easy when I know it’s anything but. “Because you deserve better than fine. You deserve—” She glances around her kitchen, gaze landing on a stack of miniature cakes by the ovens. She points at them. “You deserve the whole cake, Charlie.”

I blink at her. “Okay?”

“You deserve the whole cake and I’m worried you’re settling for your…snacks.”

Ah. Okay, there it is. I scrub my hand against my jaw and try to tamp down my smile. “I like snacks, Layla.”

“All right.”

“Once you pop, you just can’t stop.”

She makes a face at me. “This analogy got gross.”

“You started it.”

“Yeah.” She scoops some of the caramel from her bowl and carefully folds it into a piping bag. “Yeah, I’d like to be the one to finish it, thank you.”

“Would you like to talk about your fight with Beckett instead?”

Her whole face darkens in a scowl. “No, I do not want to talk about that two-faced idiot.”

A laugh bursts out of me. “All because he eloped with Evie?”

She takes another heaping spoonful of caramel and shoves it into her bag. “All because he eloped with Evie and didn’t invite us. I know he didn’t want the whole big thing, but he could have said something.” She grumbles under her breath. “I had his cake planned and everything.”

“What were you going to make?”

“A sweet zucchini olive oil cake with lemon curd and cream cheese buttercream,” she sighs. “It would have been perfect.”

Fuck, it sounds perfect. “You could still make it, you know.”

Her eyes light up. “I could! I could make it and dump it on his front porch.”

Not what I had in mind. “Or…”

“Or I could make it and dump it on his head,” she finishes. “You’re right. That’s more satisfying.”

I stare at her. For such a tiny woman, she sure has a lot of devious thoughts swimming around in that brain of hers. A bell jingles from the front of the shop and I take that as my cue.

“I’m gonna—” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder in silent explanation.

“Try to sell the chocolate hazelnut cupcakes,” she cuts me off. “There’s another batch in the oven for later.”

“Got it, boss.”

Except when I elbow my way through the door, I don’t think I’ll be selling any cupcakes.

Because Nova Porter is standing on the other side of the counter, one elbow propped up on the display case. Deep red corduroy skirt. Black tights and Converse. A well-loved leather jacket over a faded Ramones T-shirt. She takes one look at me and her whole face turns into a thundercloud.

I smile in the face of her dismay, then slip her phone from my back pocket. “Looking for this?”

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