Page 26 of Faking it with my Bad Boy Crush

My phone buzzed. A text from my mother:"Call me when you get a chance, querida. I have some news."

I dialed immediately, grateful for the distraction.

"Mãe? What's going on?"

"Maya!" My mother's voice was bright with excitement. "I'm so glad you called. I have wonderful news—David got promoted! We're moving to Seattle at the end of the month."

My chest tightened. I loved my stepfather, and I was genuinely happy for them. But Seattle was five hours away by car and ferry—close enough to visit, far enough that I'd be completely alone on Lopez Island.

"That's amazing! Congratulations."

"Thank you, querida." She paused. "I know this means I won't be able to visit as often. But maybe... maybe this is good timing? You could come to Seattle more. Visit. See old friends from Canlis. Remember what you're missing."

The implication was clear. My mother still thought I'd made a mistake coming back to Lopez Island. That I'd given up my real life—my important life—for nostalgia and obligation.

"I have a business here," I said quietly. "I can't just leave for weekend trips to Seattle."

"I know, I know. But Maya, you're so talented. What you're doing at that bakery—it's wonderful, but it's also limiting. You could be working at Canlis again, or apply to open your own place in a city where people would appreciate what you can do—"

"People here appreciate what I do."

"Of course they do, I didn't mean—" She sighed. "I just want you to be happy. Truly happy. Not just... stuck."

After we hung up, I sat in the quiet office, staring at the photo of my grandfather on the bookshelf.

"Am I stuck?" I whispered. "Or am I exactly where I'm supposed to be?"

He smiled at me from the frame, eternally patient, eternally kind.

I thought about what Ethan had said this morning:Showing up when you work hardest. Being there for the unglamorous parts. That's what people do when they care.

My mother had never shown up at dawn. She'd never understood why I'd choose a small island bakery over a prestigious Seattle restaurant. She loved me, but she didn't see me—not really.

But my grandfather had. He'd seen me completely, understood my choices, valued what I was building.

And now Ethan Caldwell was offering to protect it.

Sunday passed in the usual rhythm of baking and cleaning and prep work for the week ahead. I tried not to think about Mondaymorning, about Ethan showing up at 6:30 AM like we'd agreed. Tried not to wonder what we'd talk about, how we'd act, whether the performance would feel as natural as it had at the farmers market.

Monday morning, my alarm went off at 3:45 AM as always. I went through my routine—jeans, CIA shirt, hair in a messy bun—and headed to the bakery in the dark.

By 6:15, I had the first batch of bread in the ovens and was starting on croissant dough when I heard the knock at the back door.

I opened it to find Ethan standing there in dark jeans and a navy henley, holding two coffee cups from the island's coffee shop. He looked different without the suit—younger, less polished, more like the boy I remembered.

"Good morning," he said, offering me one of the cups. "Large oat milk latte, right?"

"How did you know my coffee order?"

"I asked Tessa yesterday." He stepped inside when I held the door open.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did. This is part of the arrangement—showing up, making an effort, looking like I care." He glanced around the bakery kitchen, and something shifted in his expression. "It looks different than I remember. Bigger."

"I expanded the kitchen five years ago. Better equipment, more capacity." I took the coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands. "Thank you for this."

"You're welcome." He set his own coffee down on the counter, watching me return to the croissant dough. "Can I help? Or would I just be in the way?"