Page 44 of Mom Com

“I’ve lost count,” he says, and I can hear his smile, “but you’ve sighed enough this morning to give a heartbroken high schooler some serious competition.”

My eyes widen. “I have not,” I say, which only makes me sound more immature.

He glances over his shoulder. “The offer still stands, if you’d like to confide in me.”

He sounds so genuine that I hesitate, realizing part of me wants to do just that. I frown.

“Why did you say all that stuff last night about the bakery?” I ask, hoping he can make sense of it for me.

He stops kneading his dough, turning in my direction like he’s prepared to give this his full attention.

“I just don’t get it,” I continue. “You told your family you would work with them. So then why are you here?”

“Because I want to be.” He looks so sure of himself that I only get more confused. “Do you remember when we were kids and we used to have bake-offs here every Sunday?” he asks like there’s any chance I forgot. “I’ve traveled quite a bit since then, studied with world-renowned pastry chefs, I even started a bakery in London, but I gave it up.”

“Why?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

“Because,” he says, and pauses like he’s remembering something, “none of it was this place.”

For a moment, the silence that hangs between us is overwhelming. I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect Wilder to answer with such sincerity. It throws me, and in a flash of sentimental stupidity, I feel that same inexplicable pull toward him I used to as a teenager.

I plod across the grassy square toward the bakery, my pom-pomed hat drawn tight over my ears and my hands shoved deep into my coat pockets. Jake tries to hold my hand, but I tell him my fingers are too cold, which is mostly true.

“Almost time for the holiday market. You excited?” he asks, his cheeks lifted in a smile.

I attempt to smile back, but it feels underwhelming. “I’m basically the market’s best customer.”

He chuckles and we’re about to cross the street to the bakery when Jake slips his arm around my waist. “Well, get ready then, because two Sundays from now I’m buying you the biggest fried dough Haverberry has ever seen.” He pulls me in for a kiss.

Before I can consider it, I turn my cheek to him.

He releases me from the embrace, his smile disappearing. “Did I do something I don’t know about?”

“What? No,” I say, embarrassed I rejected him, and not even sure why. I glance toward the bakery as an excuse like Mrs. Varma or my dad might see us through the window.

“Okay,” he says, “then how about we go someplace where I can kiss you. Let’s go to the diner.”

I scrunch up my nose. “The diner has terrible hot chocolate... like the worst.”

He nods like he knew I was going to lodge that objection. “Then let’s go to the bakery. We’ll get our hot chocolates to go and take them down to the beach.”

I shake my head. “Too cold.”

He frowns. “Would you rather I dropped you at home?”

“Not at all. Why would you ask that?”

“You just seem... I don’t know... not too stoked to be hanging out with me?”

I break eye contact. “Everything’s fine.”

He gives me a look likecome on. “Is this because of the other night?”

My heart pounds. “No.”

“Because if you weren’t ready—”

“I was ready.” But even as I say the words, my stomach knots up. And suddenly I’m angry at myself. Why am I making things weird? Not to mention that just last week I was actually proud of myself for leaning into something new, finally moving on and doing something for me.