“But—”
“But what?”
“But why would you buy a dive shop when you don’t even live here? Why would you buy an empty commercial building two blocks from Something Borrowed and Maine Hardware? Is it your mission to torture me? Or were you planning to open a competing business?”
“I do live here, it’s not a competing business, and I only plan to torture you sexually.” He looked around and, in case that virgin deputy was following him, added, “In a consenting, non-criminal way.”
“But.” It seemed to be all she could mutter.
“Don’t think,” he warned as if that were solid, logical advice. “Trust me, don’t think too hard about it. Just let it sit. Be with it for a while.”
“Don’t think? Be with it? Are you deranged? Never mind that deputy. Have you ever been tested for PTSD? I don’t mean that in a bad way; I have the utmost sympathy for trauma survivors,” she said, holding up a hand. “I have Genevieve Moreau for a mother. But I seriously think you’re crazy.”
He laughed. “Crazy in love.”
And then he pointed up. Way up.
To the temporary vinyl sign hanging far above those iron doors.
The one he hand-drew earlier this week and Evergreen recreated, in conjunction with a graphic artist.
“Look up, cupcake.” A sudden lump formed in his throat, and he had to swallow hard or risk crying in front of her. “It’s yours.”
Shielding her eyes from the sun, she looked up. Inhaled sharply. And laid a hand over her mouth.
Her gaze darted back and forth between him and the sign as if she thought one or the other might disappear.
Yellow Daisy Bakery
The logo was just as she’d sketched it ten years ago.
Right down to the funky yellow daisy dotting the only I.
The font was trendy and fresh—again, according to Evergreen—and the colors were Chloe’s chosen trio from a decade ago. Sharp black, crisp white, and a signature bold yellow.
It looked stunning on the vintage white painted brick.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her hopeful voice cracking.
“Trying to win back your heart.” His probably cracked too. “And other parts of you.”
She didn’t respond.
Just stared at the storefront, taking in the rundown building. Probably counting the money he’d lose restoring it into a permit-abiding, health-inspector-approved food service business.
“I was thinking a bakery might be nice,” he said and, when the silence got awkward, added, “Or a strip club.”
She laughed, the sound blubbery. Laced with disbelief.
“You wanna go inside and have a look? It’s a hot mess, I’ll warn you. But just imagine with me, okay?”
Because this wasn’t going as planned.
He’d expected her to jump up and down, throw her arms around him, profess her undying love, and propose to him. Or at least say yes when he proposed to her.
All right here in front of a nearly condemned building he put his life savings into.
Instead, he was getting little to no reaction.
The iron doors screeched when he removed the padlock and opened them, guiding her inside. The stamped tin ceiling hung precariously, the plastered walls were disintegrating, and the floor was littered with debris. Vacated rodent nests adorned the corners.
And then there was the odor.
“Ignore the aroma,” he said, clearing a path to the center of the wide-open space.
Dust particles danced in the beams of sunlight coming through the door, as well as a maze of cobwebs. He added pest control to his mental checklist.
“Watch your step. Those flip flops are not OSHA approved, cupcake. Don’t fall, bust your ass, and sue me,” he joked, looking around his newfound investment.
“How big is this?” she murmured, looking in all directions.
“Three thousand square feet. Another three above us.” He pointed upward, the building two stories tall. “The second story is a private residence. It’s a full gut too, but has four bedrooms. Once it’s rehabbed, a family will fit comfortably. I’ll rent it.” At a significantly reduced rate.
He pointed to the back of the building. “There’s green space behind us that comes with the property. A courtyard that will fit a shade structure. Great for kids.”
Cade’s kid, specifically.
Their studio apartment above the auto shop didn’t have a bedroom for the baby. A baby needed a bedroom. And green grass to play on.
“I was thinking the kitchen could go along this north wall,” he offered, gesturing toward that section. “It’s windowless and perfect for side by side double ovens.”
Chloe followed his gaze but didn’t respond.
“And maybe the front counter here,” he added, kicking away mounds of fallen duct work and insulation. “With chilled glass display cases and chalkboard menus like you wanted?”
No comment.
“You could have tables and chairs in this area here.” He moved toward the large picture windows fronting the sidewalk. “Once the plywood comes down, sunlight will flood the space. In the morning, it’ll be bright and cheerful. Perfect for coffee and reading. Maybe get some comfy lounge chairs?”
He kept moving. Kept talking.
So she didn’t have the chance to tell him no.
“The white brick outside is a great contrast to your signature yellow. We can do that same white on the inside if you want. If you still want yellow. You can change up the colors. The logo on the sign is a mock-up, and nothing’s set in stone, so revisit that with Evergreen. It’s your bakery, you make the final decisions. Oh, and look at these.”
Quickly tapping through his phone, he pulled up a website for commercial-grade appliances.
“I sourced blast chillers, and refrigerators, and industrial-grade mixers that you bolt to the floor. They’re stainless steel inside and out. And speaking of the floor, I have samples in my truck. I picked up some black and white checkerboard options. Once we level out the concrete, the tile will go in easily. If you don’t want tile anymore, we’ll go with something else. Maybe you’d prefer a wide-plank wood, or a herringbone set marble—”
“Jameson.”
“Marble looks classy. It stains, yeah, but no problem. I can have it sealed.” Anything to make her dreams come true. “And like the logo, you can change the name too—”
“Jameson.”
“I know you chose it forever ago, and you’re not seventeen anymore, so maybe you want something different—”
“Jameson, stop!” She grabbed both his hands to get his attention. “Breathe.”
That’s when he realized she was crying.
Rivers of tears, freak-his-shit, kind of crying.
“Jesus, are you okay? Am I overwhelming you? Did you step on a nail? Those flops are not suitable footwear.”
Laughing while crying, Chloe wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her forehead against his chest.
“I’m better than okay,” she murmured around a sniffle. “Overwhelmed, yes, but I don’t have a nail in my flop.”
Taking a deep, relieved breath, he hugged her back. Closed his eyes and savored the feel of her in his arms.
Relaxed his hold a bit so he didn’t break her ribs.