Chapter 17 017
EMILY
Ryan didn’t come back the next day.
Or the day after that.
I kept waiting for him to walk through the bakery door—to hear the familiar jingle of the bell, to look up and see him standing at the counter with that careful, uncertain look in his eyes. I imagined him asking if Zara could have another cookie. Asking if we could talk for five minutes. Asking anything at all.
But the door stayed quiet.
The bell only rang for regular customers. Morning commuters. Moms with strollers. Old men who ordered the same pastry every single day. The Range Rover never appeared across the street. The sidewalk outside my window stayed empty of him.
I told myself it was fine.
I told myself he probably needed time. That what he’d gone through hadn’t been small or simple, and neither was suddenly stepping into the life of a three-year-old he’d missed entirely.
I told myself Zara and I were okay on our own.
We had been for three years.
But every time the bell rang, my heart jumped anyway. Every time a tall shadow passed the front window, I looked up too fast.
A week passed.
The routine of the bakery carried me through my days—measuring flour, wiping counters, answering emails, smiling until my cheeks ached—but underneath it all was a constant hum of awareness. Like I was holding my breath without realizing it.
It was late afternoon when I finally saw his car again.
I was wiping down the front counter after the lunch rush, the scent of sugar and yeast still heavy in the air, when something outside caught my eye. I glanced through the window and froze.
The black Range Rover was parked across the street.
Same spot as before. Tinted windows. Engine off.
Ryan sat inside, hands on the steering wheel, staring at the bakery like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to come in.
My stomach flipped so hard I had to grip the counter.
I dried my hands on my apron and looked down at Zara, who was sitting at the little table near the window, coloring with intense concentration. Her tongue peeked out between her lips as she dragged a purple crayon across the page.
“Sweet girl?” I said gently.
She looked up, crayon paused mid-stroke. “Yeah, Mommy?”
“Go outside and tell Mr Blue Eyes that Mommy says he can come in.”
Her eyes went wide. Bright. Hopeful. “Really?”
“Really,” I said. “Go on. Stay on the sidewalk.”
She scrambled down from the chair, nearly tripping in her excitement, pushed the door open, and ran outside.
I stayed behind the glass, my breath shallow, watching everything unfold like it wasn’t quite real.
Zara waved both arms wildly.
Ryan’s door opened immediately.
He stepped out, shut the car behind him, and crouched down just in time for Zara to launch herself straight into his arms. He caught her easily, like it was instinct, like his body already knew how. He hugged her so tight I could see his shoulders shake even from here.
Then he lifted her high, spun her once, laughing, and carried her back toward the bakery.
My chest ached.
I hurried away from the door before they came in. Grabbed a rag. Pretended I was still wiping the already spotless counter. My hands were trembling. My heart was beating too fast.
I didn’t want him to see how much I’d missed him standing in my space.
The bell jingled.
“Hey…”
Ryan’s voice was soft. Careful.
I looked up.
He stood just inside the door, holding Zara on his hip. She was grinning ear to ear, curls bouncing. Ryan looked tired—shadows under his eyes, his hair a little messy like he’d been running his hands through it too often—but there was something lighter about him, too. Like he’d let go of something heavy.
“Hey,” I said back.
I nodded toward Zara. “I see you guys have seen each other.”
He smiled. Small. Real. “Yeah. I’ve been… I had to clear my head. Waiting for the right moment. I didn’t want to scare her.”
Something tight loosened in my chest. “You didn’t scare us.”
Zara patted his cheek. “Mr Blue Eyes wants to take me out, Mommy.”
Ryan raised his brow at me, hopeful but careful. “If that’s okay.”
I didn’t hesitate. “That’s okay.”
He looked like he wanted to say more—his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. Instead, he set Zara down gently.
She ran off to grab her coloring book.
Ryan stepped closer to the counter, his voice dropping. “When should we tell her?”
Heat crept up my neck. “Maybe… maybe when you’re done playing with her today.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay. One day at a time.”
“One day at a time,” I echoed.
He turned back to Zara. “Hey, princess. You wanna go have some fun with me?”
She spun around instantly. “Yes! Can we get ice cream?”
He laughed, the sound easy. “Ice cream. Park. Whatever you want.”
She ran to me and hugged my legs. “Mommy, can I?”
I crouched and kissed her forehead. “Go have fun, baby. Be good for Mr Blue Eyes.”
“I will!” she said brightly.
Ryan lifted her again. She wrapped her arms around his neck like she’d always belonged there. He looked at me over her shoulder.
“Thank you, Em.”
I nodded. “Bring her home when she’s ready. I’ll text you the address.”
“I’ll take good care of her,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
And they left.
The bakery felt quieter the second the door closed behind them.
I left almost immediately after they left. Told Eddie I wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t question it—just hugged me and said, “Take care of yourself, boss.”
I drove home in a haze.
The moment I stepped inside, I changed out of my flour-dusted clothes into soft leggings and one of my favorite oversized sweaters. I straightened the living room. Fluffed pillows. Wiped the coffee table even though it was already clean.
I put fresh flowers in a vase on the kitchen island.
I turned on the lamp in the corner so the house would feel warm when they walked in.
Then I sat on the couch.
And waited.
My phone stayed silent. No texts. No updates.
I stared at the wall.
What did this mean?
He was taking her out. Spending time with her. Building something with her.
And me?
Was I just the mom who handed her over? Or was I part of it too?
Were we going to be back together as a family?
The question pressed heavily against my chest.
Part of me wanted to run from it.
Part of me wanted to chase it.
I pulled my knees up to my chest.
The clock ticked.
I waited.
And somewhere deep inside, a tiny, scared, hopeful part of me whispered—
Maybe.
Maybe we could.
Maybe this time, we’d get it right.