Page 29 of The Sweetest Ingredient

He was quiet, staring out the windows. I caught a certain softness in Bishop’s eyes that hadn’t been there before, making me wonder what he was really thinking.

“My bakery is struggling and I can’t afford to pay you more right now. As for Maxwell...” he said, his voice lowering slightly.

“What about him?”

He massaged his forehead as if he had a sudden headache. “Be careful. You shouldn’t trust him or his offer.”

But how could I refuse the chance to lift my family out of hardship? My heart and mind warred, twisted by sense and sensibility.

“I’m sorry, Bishop. I didn’t come here to upset you,” I said, my voice cracking.

“I know. It’s just complicated.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Of course I want you to stay. You’re important to me, Kenzi. More than you know, but I can’t—I won’t—stand in the way of what’s best for your family.”

The job offer from Maxwell loomed over me like an ominous thundercloud, threatening to shatter the fragile world I had built at Doughy Desires. If I took the position, I could provide for Bree and myself. We wouldn’t have to worry about overdue bills or tuition fees anymore. But at what cost?

I inhaled sharply. “Then tell me not to go. Give me a reason to turn him down.”

Bishop’s jaw tightened. “I care about you too much to influence you one way or another.” He looked away, his voice thick with emotion. “But...don’t rush into anything.”

I shuffled my feet. “It’s just...it’s so hard.”

Bishop stepped closer, his gaze searching mine. He took my hand and squeezed it, his touch igniting my skin. “I only want you to do what’s right for you and your family, even if...” His words trailed off, and he released my hand. “Give me a week to think about this.”

I nodded, blinking back the sting of tears. “Okay.” He wanted me to stay. My heart soared, feeling a little lighter.

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled for now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Bishop.”

I left, the door jingling closed behind me. The evening breeze tousled my curls as I unlocked my bike, the handlebars cold beneath my trembling fingers. No matter what I chose, it felt like I would be giving something precious up and the realization tore at my heart.

As I pedaled home, the streetlights cast flickering shadows on the pavement, mirroring the uncertainty that clouded my thoughts.

I reached the familiar corner leading to my apartment, my chest heavy with indecision. Leaning my bike against the railing, I sighed. There had to be a way to balance my responsibility to my family and my desire to stay with Bishop. But how?

Chapter Twelve

A week had gone by and I still couldn’t decide if I wanted to accept the job at Maxwell’s bakery. So, I kept working at Doughy Desires, mastering recipes and perfecting intricate pastry designs.

I stood by the counter, idly flipping through the pages of my battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, while Bishop arranged the last batch of pastries in the display-case. Darcy and Elizabeth’s banter normally had me hooked, but the book in my hand might as well have been a prop for all the attention I was paying to it.

Was it anxiety over Bree’s conservatory tuition? Conflicted over Maxwell’s job offer? Or concern that the bakery was going under?

All the above.

As Bishop placed the final raspberry Danish on the shelf, I thought this might be a good time to confess my secret. I’d told him about Maxwell’s employment proposition and it hadn’t gone as bad as I’d feared. But telling him I’d never corrected his assumption that I was a professional baker could backfire completely.

The words sat on the tip of my tongue, but I held back. Admitting I lied was going to be a bitter pill to swallow. He would probably fire me and then I’d have to go work with Maxwell, which I really didn’t want to do.

There had to be a solution…

The afternoon light streamed through the windows, painting the bakery in a wash of gold. As the clock ticked on, Doughy Desires settled into its afternoon lull, leaving the bakery as quiet as a library on Sunday.

My gaze roamed over the scarred tables, each one bearing silent testimony to the years of coffee spills and frenzied butter knife mishaps. Chairs wobbled on uneven legs, the backs worn so thin you could trace the grain of the wood with a fingertip. The paint on the walls, once a bright yellow, had dulled to the shade of week-old vanilla frosting. Even the light fixtures carried a sepia tone, their bulbs giving off a dated glow.

A slow smile curved my lips. This place was begging for a makeover, which might bring in more business, and then I wouldn’t have to work for Maxwell.

Sounded like a win-win to me. Now I just had to convince my boss.

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