Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“I’d appreciate that,” I answer, barely containing a laugh.
Hanging up with Phoebe, I kneel to help Olive with her shoes, my fingers working the laces into neat bows.
“Aunt Phoebe's taking you shopping today.”
Her face lights up as she shuffles close. “Really?”
“Really.” I grin at her. “For the wedding.”
Her eyes shine bright, and the guilt returns the same way it always does any time she mentions him. “Hella’s coming right?”
My chest tightens. “Yeah, baby. He is.”
“Good.” Her shoulders relax as she studies my final bow. “I miss him.”
I know you do.
I drive Olive to school, watching her skip through the front doors with her backpack bouncing against her shoulders. She's made friends quickly. The other kids gravitate toward her. There's something magnetic about Olive—something that draws people in.
I pull away from the curb and head toward the bakery. The familiar route calms me. Westbeach in the morning is peaceful. Salt air and coffee shops and the distant cry of gulls. It's home. It's safe.
It's everything Tāwaha isn't.
And that's the problem.
Even if things with Hella hadn't imploded, even if I'd stayed, even if I'd said yes—what kind of life would that be for Olive? Growing up at a motorcycle clubhouse? Surrounded by violence and danger and men who solve problems with their fists and worse?
Here, she goes to school. Friends. Normalcy.
Here, she has a chance.
I park behind the bakery and let myself in through the back entrance. The smell of fresh dough and sugar greets me, thick enough to taste. My body moves on autopilot through the familiar space while my mind stays stuck on Olive's smile this morning. Karian's already prepping the morning pastries, her dark curls pulled back in a messy bun.
“Morning, boss.”
“Morning.” The word comes out rougher than intended.
Peter emerges from the walk-in cooler carrying a tray of éclairs, condensation still clinging to the metal. “How's our girl?”
Our girl. Like she belongs to all of us now. Like we're some fucked-up family unit held together by flour and frosting. “Excited. Phoebe's taking her shopping after school.”
“For the wedding?” Karian wipes flour from her hands, leaving white streaks on her apron. “That's this weekend, right?”
My throat tightens. “Saturday.”
“You nervous?”
Nervous? Major understatement.
“A little.”
Peter sets the tray down with a clatter and leans against the counter, studying me with those too-knowing eyes. “How's the asshole handling things?”
“Which one?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He smirks. “The one with the bike and the bad attitude.”
My fingers find my phone without thinking, muscle memory from months of this routine. I pull it out and open the FaceTime app. The screen fills with their call history—a perfect line of seven-thirty timestamps. Every night at seven-thirty, Hella calls. Without fail. Without excuse. Every night, Olive answers with a smile that could light up the world, bouncing on her toes, already talking before the connection fully loads. Every night, they talk for an hour—about her day, her friends, her drawings. He listens to every word like they're gospel. He asks questions that prove he remembers everything she's ever told him. He tells her stories about bikes and roads and stars.
And every night, when she hands me the phone so I can say goodnight, his entire demeanor shifts.
The warmth vanishes.
Patience? Gone.
He becomes cold. Hostile. Cruel.
Two nights ago, he told me to find a new man. Said he'd moved on. Said whatever we had was done. It hurt more than I let on.
“He's fine,” I lie. “We're fine.”
Karian raises a brow but doesn't push.
The morning rush starts, and I lose myself in the rhythm of work. Orders and coffee and small talk with regulars who've become friends. Mrs. Herbert wants her usual. Mr. Jake orders enough cinnamon rolls to feed his construction crew. The high school kids filter in with their laptops and their complicated drink orders. This is the part I love about Westbeach, where everyone rallies around someone when something bad happens, like Richard. I managed to worm my way out of the Eastbeach bakery with the help of Hannibal’s lawyer, so shutting those doors meant I'd gained a lot of new customers from that side of town too. It was the best thing to happen to Cyanide & Sugar.
Normal. Safe. Predictable.
Around noon, Karian pulls me aside during a lull.
“Olive and my Vale are inseparable at school, you know.”
“Yeah?” A smile spreads over my face.
“Mrs. Patterson says they're like two peas in a pod. Vale always protecting her like a big brother, always sitting together at lunch, always partnering up for projects.” She grins. “It's adorable.”
I smile despite the ache in my chest. “She needs that. Friends her age.”
“She's thriving here, Mel. You made the right choice.”
Did I?
Because some nights, when I'm alone in bed with my phone clutched in my hand, I wonder. I wonder what would've happened if I'd stayed. If I'd said yes. If I'd been brave enough to accept what Hella offered.