Page 43 of The Sweetest Ingredient

Was this really happening? Was he ready to confess his undying love for me?

My stomach did somersaults worthy of an Olympic gymnast. The evening spent together on the rooftop had been magical. I started planning our wedding guest list in my head, feeling my heart flutter. We’d honeymoon in Bora Bora, sipping mai tais on the beach. Then I mentally engraved our names on shared monogrammed towels and imagined our children Brad and Sabrina. They’d have his smile and my eyes?—

“Last night was nice. Talking and sharing. except we need to be practical.” His voice sounded gruff yet tender, like sandpaper dipped in honey. “This isn’t the right time to pursue anything romantic.”

Wait...what? I blinked, my throat constricting.

“W-what do you mean? What about Brad and Sabrina?”

His forehead scrunched. “Who?”

“Never mind.”

“Doughy Desires is at a crucial point in its marketing campaign, and I can’t afford any distractions,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Which means the whole dating-an-employee thing...”

There it was. The ‘E’ word. Employee. That’s all I was to him. How had I misread the signs? Here I was, scripting our Austen-esque climax, and instead, I’d stumbled into a Brontë level tragedy.

A lump formed in my throat, my dreams dissolving like sugar in hot tea. “Oh.”

“I just can’t get involved with anyone.” He braced himself on the counter, avoiding my gaze. “We just finished updating the bakery, and your support on the rebranding has been instrumental, which I appreciate, but there’s a long way to go before we achieve financial stability.”

“Okay, yeah,” I said slowly, trying to process his words. “I get that.”

Bishop finally looked at me. “It doesn’t seem right to mix work with...other things. It complicates matters. My focus has to be on the bakery for now.”

My chest hollowed out. “The rooftop was...what, a footnote?”

He was quiet, then said softly, “No, not exactly. I just hope you understand.”

But I didn’t, not at all. Not one bit. We had shared a special moment and now he was dismissing it like it meant nothing more than an inconvenience.

“Yeah, no, you’re completely right,” I said, inching backwards. “Work should be your priority.”

“I don’t want it to be awkward between us.”

I mustered a grin, brittle as a burnt cookie. “No one wants that.”

He patted my shoulder. “Just cause the timing’s off doesn’t mean I don’t care about you as a person.”

A vendor entered the bakery, requiring Bishop’s attention. He excused himself, leaving me standing there with my heart aching.

Maxwell Turner had offered me a graphic design gig, a lifeline to help pay for Bree’s music school. And with the Bishop chapter ending on a not-so-fairytale finale, why not take it? Although working for Bishop’s rival felt wrong, perhaps it was time to put on my big girl apron and move on.

Taking a deep breath, I made a hasty decision. I seized a piece of paper from the counter and scribbled a note. After thanking my boss for everything and apologizing for complicating things at work, I ended it by saying I was going to take the job with Maxwell.

I scurried out the door as quickly and quietly as possible. Outside, I hopped on my bicycle, feeling the wind tussle my curls. The sun was shining brightly, casting a warm glow on the town.

“Perhaps it’s for the best.” I pushed my legs harder on the pedals.

Once I started my new job, I could tell Bishop the truth, and drop the pretense of my pastry prowess before it crumbled like a poorly made pie crust. Honesty seemed not only necessary, but strangely freeing—I owed him, and myself, that much. We wouldn’t be working together anymore and I could shrug off the guilt I’d being carrying for months.

I glanced over at a couple holding hands, my heart throbbing. My would-be romance with Bishop had wilted before it ever bloomed. We weren’t meant to have an Emma and Mr. Knightley moment. No, we were more like Catherine Morland and John Thorpe—a doomed relationship from the start.

When I reached Sweet Sensations, I locked up my bike, then opened the bakery door. I crossed the threshold, soft jazz playing overhead. Within the showcase, miniature cakes in every color huddled together. The interior was awash in bright, clashing rainbow hues—even the walls, tables and chairs.

I squared my shoulders. “Hello?” I called out, stepping up to the counter. “Maxwell? Are you here?”

“Ah, Miss Middleton. How nice to see you again.” Maxwell slunk out from the kitchen with the grace of a cat who’d just heard the can opener. “To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”

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