Page 22 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
A second later, footsteps cross the floor, light and quick. The lock clicks, and the door swings open just enough for Paige to peek out. Her hair’s still pulled back, though quite a bit of it has fallen, a few strands stuck to her cheek, and there’s a faint smudge of paint along her jaw.
“Ben?” Her voice is soft, like she’s not sure I’m real. “What are you doing here?”
I glance past her into the bakery. Counters are covered—mixing bowls, open boxes, a couple of paint cans in the corner. It’s pure chaos.
“Was locking up next door,” I say, shoving my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. “Saw your lights on. It’s 1:00 in the morning, Paige.”
She blows out a breath and leans a shoulder against the doorframe. “Yeah. I lost track of time.”
My brow lifts. “Doing what? Rearranging the whole damn place?”
Her mouth curves like she’s fighting a smile. “Something like that. I’m taping the walls so I can paint tomorrow, but…well, it turns out I overestimated how much I can do in one night.”
I glance over her shoulder again and see long lines of painter’s tape running the length of the wall from floor to ceiling in evenly spaced intervals. “Have you been at this all day?”
“More or less.” She shrugs, but I catch the tired slump in her shoulders.
“Why didn’t you just call it a night?”
Her eyes flick away, toward the mess. “Because if I stop now, I’ll lose momentum. And I’m already behind where I wanted to be.”
I shift my weight, fighting the urge to step inside. “You’re going to burn yourself out before you even open.”
She smiles faintly. “I’ll be all right. It’s fun.” She winces. “Well, itwasfun. Now, it’s just tiring.”
I nod toward the wall. “Want help getting the rest up? Then you can call it a night before the sun comes up.”
She hesitates, then steps back, opening the door wider. “All right. But only if you promise to do it exactly the way I want without any bitching or telling me it would be better this way or that.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “I can’t make that promise.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s the faintest hint of relief in her expression as I step inside.
The place smells like paint and sawdust. Two of the walls are already done, painted a soft, airy blue that makes the space feel open and bright even under the harsh overhead lights. The color is clean and fresh, like a spring sky after rain.
The other two walls are still bare, but long strips of painter’s tape run from floor to ceiling in evenly spaced lines, turning the surfaces into neat, geometric patterns.
I glance around, nodding toward the taped walls. “You going to use the same blue for those stripes?”
She straightens from where she’s crouched by the outlet, picking up a roll of painter’s tape. “Yeah. Same blue, alternating with white. It’ll be whimsical and cute—exactly the vibe I want for a bakery.”
“Whimsical,” I repeat, letting the word roll off my tongue like it’s in a foreign language.
She smirks. “Ugh, you’re such a boy. People are going to walk in here and feel happy. That’s the goal.”
I take in the crisp blue walls again, then the meticulous stripes she’s been laying out. “I can see it,” I admit.
Her smile softens at that, just for a second.
“Okay,” she says, holding out the roll of tape to me.
I take the roll from her, the cardboard core still warm from her hand. She steps closer, pointing to the already-finished section like she’s about to train a new hire.
“Okay, so the tape needs to be exactly seven centimeters apart,” she says, gesturing to the width. “No more, no less. If it’s off, even by a hair, I’ll see it every time I walk in here, and it’ll drive me crazy.”
I glance at her fingers, then back to the wall. “You measuring, or is this all by eye?”
“Measuring,” she says with confidence. “I have an extra ruler around here somewhere.”
