Page 66 of Faking it with my Bad Boy Crush

The question was whether he'd stay.

We'd talked about loving each other, about wanting to be together. But we hadn't talked about the practical details—where we'd live, what he'd do for work, how we'd build a life when his entire career was in limbo and my bakery demanded seventy-hour weeks.

Tonight, I decided. Tonight we'd have that conversation. Figure out what "together" actually meant beyond romantic declarations and shared legal battles.

The day passed in the familiar chaos of Sweetheart Week opening—tourists flooding the bakery, special orders for hotels and restaurants, the constant rhythm of baking and selling and restocking. Tessa worked beside me, handling customers while I focused on production.

"You're distracted," she said around 3 PM, catching me staring at my phone for the third time in an hour.

"I'm worried about tonight's conversation with Ethan." I shaped another batch of heart-shaped pastéis de nata—the special Sweetheart Week edition that tourists were buying by the dozen. "We need to talk about the future, but I don't know how to start that conversation without sounding like I'm pressuring him."

"Just be honest. Tell him what you want. See if it matches what he wants." Tessa boxed up an order for a local hotel. "You're both terrible at indirect communication. Just say what you mean."

"What if what I want is impossible right now? What if he's not ready to commit to staying when his entire future is uncertain?"

"Then you figure it out together. That's what people do when they love each other." Tessa gave me a pointed look. "But you'll never know if you don't ask."

At 6 PM, I closed the bakery and headed home to prepare dinner. Something simple but meaningful—Portuguese kale soup, my grandmother's recipe, with fresh bread from the bakery. Comfort food that saidI want to build a life with youwithout being too obvious about it.

I'd just started chopping kale when my phone rang. My mother.

"Mãe? Is everything okay?"

"Everything's wonderful, querida. David and I are settling into Seattle, the new job is perfect—" She paused. "But I'm calling because I saw the news coverage about your legal case. The fraud investigation, the survey results, everything. Maya, why didn't you tell me how serious it was?"

"Because you've always thought coming back to Lopez Island was a mistake. I didn't want to hear 'I told you so' about corporate investors targeting the bakery."

"I wouldn't have said that." Her voice was soft, hurt. "Maya, I may not always understand your choices, but I never wanted you to lose the bakery. Never wanted you to face that alone."

"I wasn't alone. Ethan helped me—"

"The lawyer who destroyed his career to protect you." My mother's tone was complicated—concern mixed with something that might have been approval. "That's... that's significant."

"I know."

"Are you in love with him?"

The question caught me off guard. "Yes. I am."

"Good. You deserve someone who fights for you." She paused. "I need to apologize. For making you feel like coming home was giving up. For not understanding that success isn't just about prestigious jobs and big cities. You built something remarkable, Maya. And you found someone who values it enough to sacrifice everything to protect it. That's not settling. That's winning."

My throat tightened. "Thank you. That means more than you know."

After we hung up, I stood in my kitchen, processing my mother's words. She'd finally understood. Finally saw my choice to come home as success rather than sacrifice.

Now I just needed to make sure Ethan understood the same thing about staying.

At 7:15 PM, Ethan still hadn't arrived. I checked my phone—no messages, no missed calls.

I texted: "Everything okay? Dinner's ready whenever you are."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally: "Running late. Be there soon. Sorry."

Something felt off about that message—too brief, too careful.

At 7:35, headlights finally appeared in my driveway. I opened the door before Ethan could knock, and immediately saw that something was wrong. His expression was tight, stressed, his usual composure cracking at the edges.

"What happened?" I asked, pulling him inside.