“Two weeks,” he says.
“Two weeks.”
“You’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be okay.” I want to mean it. I hope it’s true. “I have a bakery to open. Cookies to bake. Menus to plan. I’ll stay busy.”
“That’s my girl.”
His girl. The words settle into my chest like something warm and permanent.
“Go,” I tell him. “Before I change my mind and hide your car keys.”
He kisses me one more time, quick, hard, like he’s sealing a promise.
Then he gets in the car.
I stand on the sidewalk and watch him pull away. Watch until his taillights vanish around the corner.
And I wait. Wait for the hollow feeling. The familiar ache. The punch of abandonment.
But it doesn’t come. Not the way it used to. There’s a tug in my chest, sure. A flutter of nerves. But it’s not a wound, it’s a bruise. One I’ve learned to live with.
I turn toward the building behind me.
The Blue Door gleams in the morning light.
My bakery. My new beginning. A life I’m building with my own two hands.
I head inside. The air smells like cinnamon and fresh coffee. The tables are bare. The display case is waiting. Everything is almost ready.
I walk to the back, open the cupboard, and reach for a mug.
It’s chipped. Blue.
Enzo’s.
I hold it for a second, fingers wrapped around the curve he once touched. I pour the coffee. I use the mug. I don’t cry about it.
Okay, Ialmostcry, but only in that noble, single-tear way like I’m in a war movie.
I miss him. I miss Dario. And I always will. But today’s not about them.
It’s about cinnamon and countertops and the fact that I have a second chance I never thought I’d get.
I take a sip and immediately burn my tongue.
Perfect.
Just how Zoey Carter starts her first real day. Scalded, horny, and a lot like Stevie Reeves.
I can work with that.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
ENZO
Six weeks.
