I walk through slowly, trailing my fingers along the counter, leaving tracks in the dust.
“The kitchen’s through there,” Saul says, hovering near the entrance like he’s not sure if he should follow. “Commercial oven, industrial mixer, walk-in cooler. Should have everything you need.”
I push through the swinging door. And my breath catches.
The kitchen is... perfect.
Not fancy. Not Pinterest-perfect. Just real.
It’s been through some shit and came out on the other side with flour in its hair and no time for bullshit.
Stainless steel counters scarred from years of use. A six-burner stove that looks like it could survive a nuclear apocalypse. The kind of kitchen I used to have dreams about. Literal dreams. Erotic dreams, if I’m being honest.
Back when I was baking cookies in my depressing little apartment with a hand mixer that sparked when you looked at it wrong. Before Saul set me up with the good stuff as Beth.
I run my hand along the counter. Feel the dips and grooves where other bakers have worked before me.
This is mine. Not borrowed. Not temporary. Mine.
Zoey’s, technically. But Zoey is just Stevie in a fake mustache trying to pass for emotionally stable.
The woman who owns a bakery in a small Colorado town and bakes things for people who will never know she used to make cookies for mobsters.
“Is it okay?” Saul is in the doorway, watching me with those blue eyes that see too much.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
His expression softens. “Good. That’s... good.”
I want to tell him that perfect isn’t the same as okay. That I can stand in the middle of a dream and still feel like I’ve been dropkicked through a grief-powered blender.
That all I can think about is Enzo trying to cream butter like he was fighting it, flour in his hair, laughing at himself for being terrible at something for once.
But I don’t.
Because if I start talking about Enzo and butter and battle-wounded mixing bowls, I might end up sobbing into a bag of powdered sugar.
So I just nod and turn away. Pretend I’m not seconds from crying on the floor of my new kitchen like it’s theGreat British Breakdown Off.
The apartment above the bakery is small.
One bedroom. A bathroom. A living area that’s also a kitchen that’s also a dining room that’s also maybe a panic attack staging area.
Because I’m a federal witness, not a princess.
And square footage is apparently reserved for people who don’t fall in love with men who own murder gloves.
But it has windows. Big ones that let in afternoon light and look out over a street lined with trees that are starting to change color. Fall in Colorado. I’ve never seen it before.
I’ve never seen a lot of things before.
It’s mine. Actually mine. Not borrowed. Not temporary.
And I hate that I can’t share it with them.
Can’t text Enzo a picture of the view. Can’t leave the door unlocked for Dario to find his way here.
This is everything I wanted and it feels hollow.
