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If I could use one now, I’d wish to take back my foolish words.

“These are absolutely delicious,” Bellamy says quickly, grabbing another rejected cookie. “What’s the minimum number of cookies to purchase?” he asks. “I might need to place a standing weekly order.”

Of course he would. His love of sugary treats rivals his love of people.

As Bellamy and Willa discuss details, I lift the cookie to my nose and take a deep inhale. Sweet vanilla and something else … almond, maybe?

My mouth waters. I can almost taste it. When was the last time I allowed myself to eat processed sugar? Bellamy tells me I’m too regimented—though he uses a less polite term—about my daily five-mile runs and my refusal to eat sweets.

I realize the room has grown quiet, and both Bellamy and Willa are watching me expectantly to see my reaction.

Immediately, I drop my hand, palming the cookie, feeling a flush work its way up my neck at their attention. This small moment has become too significant.

“We should let you get back to baking,” I say without looking at Willa.

“Right,” Bellamy says. “I’ll be in touch about my orders. Do you have a website?”

Willa pulls a card from a pocket I hadn’t seen in her apron. “All my information is here, and you can place orders online.”

“Wonderful.” Bellamy tucks the card into his pocket. “One more cookie for the road?” he asks, batting his lashes at Willa.

I know he’s not genuinely flirting, but it still bothers me. I’m not sure if it’s his ability to build familiarity so quickly. Or if it’s because he’s turning his charms on Willa.

“You’re incorrigible, aren’t you,” Willa says, swatting at him with the dish towel I used earlier.

“I’m not sure you should insult future long-term customers,” Bellamy says.

“Here,” I say, holding out my piece of cookie. “You can have mine.”

Again, I’ve upset Willa. I can see it in the way her lips purse as she walks back to the stand mixer, testing out the icing consistency and pretending we’ve already gone. She looks hurt, like rejecting a cookie is rejecting her.

It makes me want to grab the tin of broken pieces and shovel them into my mouth.

I try to remind myself that it shouldn’t matter as we say quick goodbyes and leave Willa to her work. This is the same woman who appeared in my closet just last night and is either confused or lying about how she got there.

But already, something has shifted in the way I see her. Which shouldn’t happen. Can’t happen.

She’s a resident here, and I don’t need to make friends. I certainly won’t be making any once I announce the first round of changes I intend to make. One of which needs to be ending the free use of spaces like this.

The thought of telling Willa that has me pulling out my tin of mints and popping one in my mouth. It’s fine. I need the separation and the space. A firm boundary between us.

But all day long, the smell of sweet almond sugar cookies lingers around me, just like thoughts of the woman who bakedthem. And for the first time in years, I find myself truly longing for something sweet.

Chapter Five

Willa

As though someonehas pressed a giant red button, my brain devolves into panic mode over the next few days. Mostly because I can’t stop thinking about Archer.

One part of my brain keeps circling back to his interest in my arrangement with Galentine regarding the commercial kitchen. Iknowshe should have charged me to use the space. The person I hired to do my taxes last year was shocked I didn’t have more overhead costs, especially in terms of my baking space. But here’s the thing: my profit margins are so close (read: nonexistent) that if Ididhave to pay for the kitchen, it would be the thing that puts me out of business.

I’ve been lucky. And I think Archer Gaines is the physical embodiment of my luck running out.

Then there’s theotherpart of my brain. It’s not worried about kitchens or rent or businesses. That part of my three-pound thinking organ is consumed with things like the way Archer smells and his response to me bossing him around. How good it felt to stand with my cheek pressed to his chest as I tied apron strings behind his back.

What possessed me to do that?!?

No idea. But I started to see another side to the man I’d written off as stuffy and grumpy and too old—even if very attractive.