Chapter 1
“I swear to God, Lex, if one more person asks me if I can make their wedding cake ‘gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, but still taste exactly like regular cake,’ I’m going to lose my shit.”
“Tell them you’ll make it taste-free too while you’re at it,” Lexi cackled through the phone. “What do these people think baking is? Actual magic?”
I shifted my bag to my other shoulder, the weight of it making my muscles ache. “The woman actually asked if I could make it ‘less cakey.’ What does that even mean?”
“Maybe she wanted a pancake?”
“That’s basically what I gave her,” I snorted, sidestepping a couple who were too busy eating each other’s faces to notice they were blocking half the sidewalk.
My phone buzzed with a text notification. “Great, speaking of disappointments. Guess who just texted?”
“Please tell me it’s not Tristan ‘Im-afraid-of-commitment-but-let-me-waste-three-years-of-your-life’ Montgomery.”
“The very same. He wants to ‘grab coffee and catch up.’”
“Tell him to catch up with his therapist instead. That man needs professional help, not caffeine and your emotional labor.”
I laughed so suddenly I nearly choked. “Jesus, Lex.”
“Am I wrong, though?”
“No, that’s why it’s funny.” I paused at a crosswalk, watching the streetlights change. “Anyway, I’ve got to be at the shop by five tomorrow. There’s this wholesale account I’ve been trying to land, and—”
“Hold up,” Lexi interrupted. “What’s with that voice?”
“What voice? This is just my voice.”
“Nuh-uh. That’s your ‘I’m-fine-but-actually-dying-inside’ voice. I’ve known you long enough to recognize when you’re about to snap.”
I sighed, knowing there was no point in lying to her. “It’s just... the usual. Bills, staff problems, equipment breaking down.”
“When’s the last time you had actual fun? And I’m not talking about testing new recipes or whatever bullshit work-adjacent thing you’re about to claim.”
I stopped walking, my mind embarrassingly blank. “I... went to that wine and painting night last month?”
“That was four months ago, and you left early because you got a call about the refrigerator breaking down.”
“Shit, was it really that long ago?”
“You need to relieve some stress before you turn into a human pressure cooker. Do something wild for once.”
“Yeah, no. I don’t have time for—”
“No,” Lexi cut in, her voice dropping an octave. “You’re going to do exactly what I say.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you were so dominant, Rivera,” I teased. “Should I be calling you ‘mistress’ now?”
She burst out laughing. “You wish. But seriously, you need to give yourself room to not overthink everything for once in your damn life. Do something you wouldn’t ordinarily do.”
As she spoke, my eyes landed on a neon sign about half a block ahead: “The Lounge.”
The warm glow from inside spilled onto the sidewalk like an invitation.
“Maybe I’ll stop for a drink before heading home,” I said, surprising myself.
“Yes!” Lexi practically screamed into the phone. “Do it! And talk to a hot guy—preferably one with abs and no emotional baggage.”
“Right, because those are so easy to find in New York,” I laughed. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Make bad choices!” she sang before hanging up.
I stood outside the bar for a moment, already listing the reasons this was a terrible idea. I had early prep. I needed sleep. I’d probably regret the calories in whatever overpriced cocktail I ordered.
“Fuck it,” I muttered, pushing my hair back from my face. “Just one drink won’t hurt.” I pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside.
The Lounge was far more upscale than I’d expected—all dark wood, brass fixtures, and leather booths. I quickly realized I was underdressed compared to the clientele, mostly executive types and well-preserved women in designer clothing.
I slid onto a stool at the bar, feeling both out of place and oddly relieved to be somewhere no one knew me. Three seats down sat a man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit.
He was staring into his glass of amber liquid, as if it held the secrets of the universe. His dark hair was slicked back and shaved at the sides, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
I found myself wondering what kind of problems someone who looked like that could possibly have.
The bartender approached with a polite nod. “What can I get you?”
“Bourbon, neat,” I said, surprising myself. I usually ordered wine, but tonight called for something stronger.
From the corner of my eye, I caught the suit guy glancing up at my drink order. When I turned to meet his gaze, he quickly looked back down at his glass. The intensity in that brief moment of eye contact sent an unexpected flutter through my chest.
Lexi’s voice echoed in my head: ‘Talk to a guy!’ But the moment passed, and I decided against it. I wasn’t here to pick up men; I was here to decompress.
The bourbon arrived and I took a slow sip, letting the burn travel down my throat.
“Long night?”
I opened my eyes to find the suit guy looking directly at me this time, one eyebrow slightly raised as he gestured to my drink.
I laughed softly. “I guess you could say that.”
His eyes were fixed on mine now, and I found myself unable to look away. “You look like you’re having a long night too,” I added.
“That obvious, huh?” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Just escaped a company party. Three hours of fake-smiling at people I despise.”
“Sounds excruciating.”
“You have no idea.” He swirled his drink. “Though I’m guessing your night had its own brand of torture.”
Something about him made me want to keep talking. Maybe it was the way he seemed genuinely curious, or maybe it was those eyes—an unusual pale green that stood out against his dark features.
“I’m Fiona,” I said, surprised by my own forwardness.
He hesitated, just long enough for me to notice, before responding. “Nick.”
“So what kind of work requires fancy parties and designer suits, Nick?” I asked, taking another sip of bourbon.
Another slight pause. “I work in the music industry.”
“Like a music producer?” I asked.
A soft smile played across his lips. “Something like that. What about you?”
“I own a pastry shop.”
I watched his face carefully, half-expecting the usual polite disinterest. Instead, he shifted on his stool to face me more directly.
“Really? What kind of pastries?”
“French-inspired, but with some unconventional twists.”
“That sounds amazing,” he said, and the genuine interest in his voice caught me off guard. “What made you want to be a pastry chef?”
“My grandmother, actually. She was from Lyon and taught me everything when I was growing up.” I stopped myself before mentioning her death. That wasn’t first-drink conversation material.
Before I knew it, we’d fallen into an easy rhythm of conversation. Nick moved to the stool beside mine, and one drink turned into three as we talked about everything from the best bakeries in Paris (he’d been to several I’d only dreamed of visiting) to the worst restaurants we’ve ever attended.
There was something magnetic about him—the careful way he chose his words, how he listened with his full attention, the occasional brush of his knee against mine that sent electricity up my spine. He was clearly holding back parts of himself, which only made me more curious.
Two hours flew by like minutes. The attraction humming between us was undeniable, hanging in the air unspoken but acknowledged in lingering glances and subtle smiles.
“Last call!” The bartender’s voice broke the spell.
I reached for my purse. “I should settle up.”
“Please, let me,” Nick said, already signaling to the bartender.
“That’s not necessary—”
“I’d like to,” he insisted, sliding his card across the bar before I could protest further.
Outside, the night had grown colder, but I barely noticed. We stood facing each other on the sidewalk, neither making a move to leave.
“So,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from fidgeting.
“So,” he echoed, looking suddenly uncertain—a stark contrast to his confidence inside.
Nick ran a hand through his hair. “I’m staying at The Archer,” he said, then quickly added, “It’s just up the street.”
My heart skipped. “Is that so?”
“I’m not—” he started, then sighed. “This isn’t something I normally do, but I don’t want the night to end yet.”
Nick’s eyes searched mine, his confidence faltering. “We could just... talk.” He swallowed visibly. “Or not. I understand if you’d rather head home.”
I bit my lip, weighing my options. Every practical instinct screamed that I should politely decline and catch an Uber home. I barely knew this man. I had to be up in a few hours. This wasn’t like me.
But maybe that was exactly why I should do it.
“Okay,” I heard myself say, the word hanging between us like a dare.
Nick blinked, as if he hadn’t expected me to agree.
“Yeah?” he asked, his voice lower as a soft smile appeared.
“Yeah,” I confirmed, surprising myself with how steady I sounded when my heart was racing. “Just to talk.”
“Just to talk,” he repeated, nodding perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. He gestured up the street. “It’s this way.”
