The next morning, I decided I needed to get out of the house.
Not because I was upset, or anxious, or trying to prove anything. I just needed air. Space to breathe. Something normal, something familiar. And the bakery was that for me. It was warm, sweet, soft, filled with cinnamon and butter and memories of who I had been before my whole world flipped itself inside out.
So after breakfast, one of the drivers took me into the city. Jace had a lot of work on his hands so he couldn't take me. I didn't mind but he looked guilty. I had to kiss the guilt away.
The bakery looked just the same.
White awning. Gold lettering. The soft smell of sugar and toasted vanilla drifting out into the morning air. And the moment I stepped inside, the warmth hit me—the ovens going, the gentle chatter of the staff, the low hum of jazz.
This was my space.
My world.
It was my heart. Or at least part of it because my husband and unborn child had a huge chunk of it.
"Mrs. Romano!"
