Page 107 of Whisking It All

Jamie unlocked the front door of the restaurant and entered the darkened dining room, the faint sound of the Brilliant British Bakes theme music carrying through from the kitchen. His breath caught in his chest as hope flared to life behind his sternum. With stilted steps, he made his way towards the kitchen, the blood moving through his veins with a buzzy feeling, like his very cells were vibrating.

He pushed through the doors from the dining room and forgot how to breathe. Tessa’s back was to him as she swayed to the music and worked at one of his workstations, a kitchen torch in her hand. His hungry eyes roamed over her, taking in every curve, every strand of hair that flowed over her shoulders. She stilled, her spine straightening as though she knew she was being watched, and very slowly she turned to look at him over her shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, half expecting her to disappear like smoke on the wind.

“I would think it’s obvious,” she said, tilting her head towards the torch in her hand.

“I’ve never known someone to break and enter just to fix themselves a snack,” he said.

“What about to apologize?” she asked.

He searched her face, letting himself wade in her raven-dark eyes, wanting to keep his guard up. But he knew he had no defenses against her. This was Tessa, Whisky, the woman he’d been waiting for his whole life. He wound through the workstations, his hands clenched to keep from shaking as he made his way to her.

“What are you making?” he asked.

Tessa held up a notecard, Louise’s neat handwriting scrawled across the front. “Sweet potato pie.”

She stepped away from the workstation to show him the pie resting on the counter, the sugar crust topping she’d been torching bruléed to crackling perfection. “I thought it was time I made you that pie.” She flipped the card over and held it out to Jamie. “And I thought maybe there were some traditions we might want to revive.”

Jamie took the card. On the back, she’d written the date, but the rest of the card was blank. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“I was hoping you could help me decide what to write. What we’re commemorating,” she said, her voice shaky with nerves. He met her eyes, his fingers gripping the recipe card. “We could commemorate that I’m moving to Aster Bay. Permanently.”

He sucked in a breath, his chest bursting, but he held himself back as she continued.

“Or my very first lease in my own name.” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her notebook, retrieving a folded piece of paper from within its pages and placing it on the counter. “I cashed out my trust this morning and put down a deposit on the empty storefront across from Natalia’s shop.”

“That’s great,” he said, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. Ethan must be so happy.

She tapped the front of her notebook and handed it to him, gesturing for him to open it. He flipped through page after page of notes about Aster Bay—where to get the best berries, her favorite flavor of goat cheese, which chutney from the farm stand was the best for eating with crackers straight from the jar. Sketches of the view from the roof of his restaurant, from the back porch of his cottage, the second floor tasting room at Nuthatch. Lists of special events throughout the year—the spring bazaar at St. Anthony’s and the ecumenical Thanksgiving feast, the Easter egg hunt on the town common and the polar plunge at the beach. Bursts of inspiration with ideas for the recipes they’d inspired scrawled in the margins.

On the last page, she’d written a menu: sweet potato pie, beet cake with bourbon custard, bananas foster with cardamom caramel and goat cheese ice cream, cheesecake bars with honeycomb crumble, fig and peach pie, Bakewell tart Swiss roll. On and on, the recipes she’d dreamed up or perfected over the last few weeks.

“We could celebrate the opening of my new bakery,” she said, her voice unsure. “I’ve even hired my first staff. Kyla and Cheryl.”

His chest ached with pride, his blood thick and slow as he processed her words.

She took a step towards him, setting the notebook aside and twining her fingers with his. “Or that I’m sorry for running away.”

He rested his forehead against hers, his free hand landing on her waist. He needed to touch her, to ground himself with the feel of her skin on his skin.

“I’m so sorry, Jamie. You were right. I was scared and I ran. This is my home.” She pressed her free hand to his chest, just above where his heart hammered against his rib cage. “You are my home.”

“What happens the next time you get scared?” he asked.

“I won’t run.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I love you.” He pulled back to meet her eyes, warmth filling his chest. “And my love is greater than my fear.”

He captured her mouth, drinking the words from her lips. She released a little sob against his kiss, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him. She tasted like spun sugar and home and his. They broke apart, panting, and he leaned his forehead against hers again.

“I love you, too,” he said, holding her closer. “And I know what we should commemorate.”

Still holding her against him with one hand, he reached over and picked up the pen that lay on the counter next to the recipe card, scribbling: The first time we said I love you.

“You were worth the risk,” she whispered.

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