Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
He stays silent, and God, that hurts worse than anything he could’ve said.
I step back, putting distance between us before I crumble. “Thanks for being honest with me,” I manage to say, even though it’s a lie. He wasn’t honest. I dragged it out of him.
Riot’s brow furrows. Something flickers in his eyes—regret? Frustration? I don’t know. Don’t care.
Not anymore.
“We’re good,” I tell him. “Acquaintances?”
“Well, we can’t be strangers.” His jaw flexes. “Yeah, acquaintances.”
It feels like another knife.
Keep it together, I tell myself silently.
I nod once, turn on my heel, and walk away before the tears hit. Before I do something embarrassing like beg him to stay. Before I tell him that friends are the last thing I want to be with him and acquaintances hurts wors than him being my enemy.
I pass Ally without looking at her.
I pass the display cases.
I pass the front door.
I step outside into the morning sunlight and suck in a deep, shaky breath.
I’m fine.
It’s fine.
Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
Not even close.
I don’t look back.
Because if I do, I’m terrified I’ll see him still standing in that hallway. I don’t dare allow myself to watch him letting me go.
I don’t get two steps down the sidewalk before my vision blurs. Not dramatically—there’s no sobbing, no gasping, nothing Ally would sprint outside to fix.
Just… tears. Quiet, hot, humiliating tears.
I swipe them away quickly, glancing around to make sure no one sees me falling apart like a greeting card gone soggy in the rain. Freedom Falls is too small of a town for messy emotions in public. The gossip pipeline would have breaking news within minutes:
Local bakery girl cries before 8 AM. Biker may or may not be involved. More at eleven.
I choke out a laugh—half hysterical, half bitter—and duck around the corner beside the hardware store, where the alley is quiet and shaded. I lean back against the brick wall, the cool surface grounding me.
It’s not like I didn’t see this coming.
The late-night texts slowing down.
The mornings where he slipped out without waking me.
The silences growing longer, heavier.
I wasn’t stupid. I just… hoped.
And that’s the most embarrassing part of all.
Hope is a dangerous drug when the man you want is allergic to feelings. I thought by controlling the narrative and telling him not to fall in love would keep my own emotions in line.
I tilt my head back against the wall, close my eyes, and breathe in the warm, yeasty scent drifting from the bakery vent. It’s comforting, familiar, safe. Everything Riot is not.
We can’t be strangers, repeats in my head.
Yeah, okay.
Sure.
Acquaintances don’t kiss the way we kissed.
Friends don’t touch the way he touched me. Strangers damn sure don’t look at someone like they’re the last sip of water in the damn desert.
But maybe I imagined that part. Maybe I wanted to see something that wasn’t there. Maybe all the soft moments I’ve been replaying for months were just a matter of convenience for him.
My chest squeezes tight.
I know I’m spiraling, but knowing doesn’t stop the descent.
A motorcycle engine revs somewhere in the distance—a deep, throaty growl that is unmistakably a Harley-Davidson.
My heart lurches stupidly.
No. Nope. No, no, no.
I refuse to be that girl—the one who hears a bike and thinks, Maybe it’s him. Maybe he changed his mind. I press the heel of my hand against my sternum like I can physically push the ache back in.
This is what I wanted, right?
No strings.
No complications.
No promises.
God, I’m an idiot.
A soft buzzing vibrates in my apron pocket. My phone. I pull it out, praying it’s a distraction.
Ally: You okay? He left.
I close my eyes again. The words hit harder than they should.
Me: I’m good. Just needed air.
Her reply comes instantly.
Ally: Liar.
I huff out a laugh, thankful for her bluntness, but I don’t answer. I can’t. If I try, I’ll start typing things like: My heart hurts. I think I cared more than he did. I think I loved him a little. And I think he knows.
Instead, I tuck the phone away and count my breaths until the pressure in my chest eases.
By the time I head back to the bakery’s front door, I’ve wiped my eyes, straightened my apron, and forced my expression into something resembling “emotionally stable human.”
Ally takes one look at me and softens.
“You want me to throw a scone at him next time he comes in?” she asks under her breath.
A real laugh bubbles up this time. “Maybe something heavier.”
“Bagels are lethal,” she offers.
“Perfect.”
Her smile fades into sympathy. “You sure you’re okay?”
No.
Not even remotely.
But she doesn’t need that weight today.
“I’ll be fine,” I reply, and even though it’s a lie, it feels like one I can grow into truth eventually. “Just needed it to be done in a clearly communicated way.”
She nods, squeezing my arm before turning back to customers entering the space.
For the rest of the morning, I bury myself in work—mixing batter, boxing pastries, ringing people up with automatic smiles. The kind of mindless motion that leaves no room to think. It’s safer that way.