Back at the bakery, Summer paced around the kitchen, her adrenaline still surging. She’d finally said her piece. Laid it all out there. She should be feeling triumphant right now—so why was there a flicker of guilt burning in the back of her mind?

Summer tried to push it away. She had work to do for tomorrow, starting with a fresh batch of that famous peach cake. Of all the recipes on offer, that had been the stand-out hit with her crowds, so she wanted to be sure to have more for them in the morning.

She got to work, putting on her favorite music and setting out her stand mixer, bowls, and spoons. The peaches had been delivered that morning, fresh from the farm stand, and as she sliced them into juicy pieces, the sweet fragrance filled the air.

“I saw the posts online. That cake is getting famous.”

She startled. “Mom?”

Eve was standing there in the doorway. Summer sighed, and braced herself for another fight, but instead of a cutting comment, her mother took a step closer.

“You use bourbon, for the peaches, don’t you?”

Summer paused. Eve actually looked curious, peering over at the spread of ingredients. “Yes,” she answered cautiously. “I soak them, just while I prepare the rest of the cake batter. I tried leaving them overnight,” she added. “But the cake got so boozy, it should have carried a warning.”

Eve gave a small smile. “I tried that once, with my banana whiskey bread. We were testing different ratios for the cookbook, and my assistant messed up. I came back to find half the production staff tipsy, having a food fight.”

Summer nodded. She was still on edge, waiting for the lecture about being grateful, and knowing her place, and how she owed everything to her mother. But Eve didn’t seem to be looking down her nose at Summer, for once. She almost seemed tired, watching Summer prepare the filling.

“I crush some of the peaches into the frosting, too,” Summer found herself explaining. “And sometimes make a jam to spread between the layers.”

“Isn’t that too sweet?” Eve asked.

“No, I keep it light and tart, to contrast the frosting.” Summer nudged the jar over. “Try some.”

Her mother took a spoon and dipped it into the sticky golden jam. She tasted it like she was tasting a fine wine: sniffing it first, trying it with the tip of her tongue, then finally putting the whole spoon into her mouth. Her expression changed. “You’re right, it is tart. Is that . . . lemon?”

Summer nodded. “Peaches can get cloying, if you don’t balance them with something more acidic.”

Eve almost looked impressed. “This is the kind of thing my viewers would love to see,” she said, moving closer. “We could do the whole segment right here. Me teaching you how to make it, for a special family dinner . . .”

“Mom, no.” Summer tensed up all over again. Just when she thought that they could share a nice moment together, Eve had to go and wreck everything. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want to be on your show.”

“But—”

“No buts!” Summer exclaimed, louder. “Why won’t you just listen to me? What’s the big deal, anyway? You have a million pitches from all your production staff. You could shoot anything else in the world if you wanted to, so why are you pushing this whole fake family thing?”

“They don’t want anything else from me.” Eve’s composure seemed to crumble. “The show is a flop, my ratings are in the gutter. My publisher says they might even cancel my contract!”

Wait, what?

Summer blinked at her in disbelief. “If this is just a trick to manipulate me . . .” she said, watching as Eve slumped onto a kitchen stool.

“No tricks. I’m on the way out,” she said, looking at Summer in despair. “They only want kids with likes and clicks and shares these days. Did you see the guy they gave my primetime slot to for the summer? He’s barely out of high school, but he has a hundred thousand followers.”

She reached for the plate of donuts Summer had out on the counter and stuffed one into her mouth in a single bite.

Her mother, eating carbs? This had to be bad.

“What happened?” Summer asked, still reeling.

Eve sighed. “Nobody cares about doing things the right way anymore. Why watch a middle-aged woman tell you how to host a perfect dinner party, when there’s some millennial in skinny jeans claiming you don’t need a floral centerpiece to have a good time? Imagine it.” Eve shuddered. “No tablescapes! And don’t get me started on the food. No training, no elegance, just fast-food mash-ups and candied bacon. Even Martha Stewart is in on it now. You know she has a show with that rapper?”

“Snoop Dogg.” Summer nodded.

Eve winced at the words. “The whole network is obsessed. It’s why we’re trying this whole ‘family-friendly’ angle. They say it’s my last chance to be approachable and relevant.” She sniffed, looking lost. “After twenty-five years! I made that network, I put it on the map, but none of it matters anymore. Not if I can’t get hash-tagged by some drunk girl drinking two-for-one mimosas at brunch!”

“Oh, Mom, I’m sorry.” Summer put down the whisk and hugged her. “I know how much you love your show.”

“It’s not just the show, it’s everything,” Eve cried. “The cookbooks and the restaurant and the bakeware collection. It all depends on me, don’t you see? If I’m not out there in front of a camera, then it all dies away.”

She sniffed again, her perfect mascara smudging at the edges, and Summer was hit with a rush of sympathy. Her mom had built an empire, there was no denying that. Eve had dedicated her life to her career, and even though Summer would have given anything for her mother to have put her first instead—given her even a little of the time she’d spent on financial reports and screen tests—she still couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

If her mom wasn’t the great Eve Bloom, TV personality and famous chef, then who was she? What did she have?

Not a perfect, approachable family, that’s for sure. No partner, no pets, and no friends—at least, none she didn’t keep on retainer.

Summer sighed. What was the world coming to when she actually felt pity for her mom? “They really think you getting all warm and fuzzy will help the ratings?” she asked.

Eve nodded morosely, and took another donut. Summer gently plucked it from her hand. “If you’re going to throw that diet out the window, you better do it right. Here,” she said, finding the box in the fridge she’d been saving for herself. “Chocolate éclairs. Go crazy.”

“My favorite.” Eve sounded surprised. She took a bite and closed her eyes in pleasure. “Oh, that’s good.”

“Maybe you could tell me that sometime,” Summer couldn’t stop herself from muttering.

Eve’s eyes flew open. “You know you’re good,” she said briskly, polishing off the rest of the pastry. “You don’t need flattery. You need to be pushed to be better.”

Summer blinked. “No, that’s you,” she corrected. “I’m happy to take compliments and support, anytime.”

“You always were the difficult one.” Eve gave her a bemused look. “This is really what you want from you life?” she asked, looking around the kitchen. “It’s so . . . small.”

“Maybe to you,” Summer said, returning to her mixing bowl. “I know it’s not prime-time, or two thousand square feet on the Vegas strip. But it fits me just right.”

“And that British man?”

Summer’s head snapped up. “Grayson? He’s . . . not in the picture. Not anymore.”

Eve arched an eyebrow. “He seemed squarely in the frame to me.”

Summer shook her head. “It’s not like that. He doesn’t know what he wants,” she added, feeling that now-familiar pang of regret and longing.

“People rarely do.” Eve took another éclair. “You know what your father said when I told him I’d got that first screen test? I said I wanted to be the biggest thing in the industry, and he just looked at me, and asked, ‘Why?’ Why?” she repeated. “He didn’t understand it at all. How I could want something that was all mine. They’re always threatened by that.”

Summer shook her head. “It’s not like that. Grayson . . . He’s been more supportive than anyone. I couldn’t have done this without him.”

“Hmm.” Eve took another bite. “Well, don’t lose any sleep over it. He’s just a distraction from all of this. You don’t need him.”

Something about her tone stung. “The way you don’t need anyone?” she shot back.

Eve fixed her with a stare. “I know I haven’t been the kind of mother you wanted, one of those women with home-cooked meals and feathered bangs and mother-daughter bonding time. But I raised you, and I pushed you to be the best that you could be, and I like to think I showed you that you can have all of this, without waiting around for a man to give it to you.” She got to her feet. “I’ll let you finish here. I know you’ve got a long night ahead.”

Eve leaned in, and dropped an air kiss on Summer’s cheek. She looked at the éclair box and sighed. “Sven will make me pay hell for that in the gym next week.”

She headed for the door.

“Wait,” Summer called, before she could stop herself. “I’ll do it for you. The episode.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could take them back.

“You will?” Eve looked shocked. “Oh darling, it’ll be wonderful. We’ll have Marcie do something with your hair, and set up the cameras right here, and—”

“But I have some conditions,” Summer interrupted. Eve paused.

“Like what?”

“First, you shoot here after-hours, so you don’t interrupt my customers,” Summer said firmly. “We’ll do a segment of me behind the counter, at least three minutes of screen-time. With the bakery name up on screen,” she added. “I’ll be the one teaching you, how to make my peach cake.”

“One minute of screen-time for the bakery,” Eve countered. “And I’ll have the network feature you in their magazine, too.”

“Two minutes, and Marcie keeps her hands off my hair.” Summer held fast, and her mother broke into a smile.

“It’s a deal. I taught you well.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

Eve looked around with new eyes. “You know, this could be a great franchise opportunity,” she said. “The charming corner bakery . . . We could co-write a cookbook, with all your recipes, and—”

“Mom,” Summer cut her off, warning.

“Alright, I’ll quit when I’m ahead.” Eve smiled. “You’ll see, this is a marvelous opportunity. Think of all the people who’ll get to see your work.”

Summer sighed. “I know.”

“And I’ll be happy to work with you. You know, I am very proud.” Her mom gave her a warm smile, but before Summer could even process it, she was whisking off through the door.

“Perhaps we could get a fresh coat of paint before filming?” her voice echoed. “Something warmer to suit your complexion.”

Summer waited for the door to close behind her then sank back against the counter.

What had she just signed up for?

Hopefully, a big boost in promotion for the bakery. Summer may be stubborn, but even she couldn’t argue with exposure like that. With any luck, the extra screen-time would help reach customers—and keep the great Eve Bloom in business a while longer.

After all, her mom safely back in the city with her TV empire was better than Eve on the loose out here.

But was her mom right—was Grayson just a distraction?

Or was he part of what made this all worthwhile?

Summer felt a surge of emotion. She wasn’t like her mom, single-mindedly pursuing her ambitions at the expense of everything else in her life. She’d spent years following that path, and it had only left her stressed and anxious and alone. It was the reason she’d made the leap and moved out here to do things her way: so she would have balance in her life, and time for everything that made it worthwhile. Friendships and inspiration . . .

And love.

Summer paused, looking around the kitchen. At her bakery, the dream she’d built from scratch. It was everything she’d wanted—but it still wasn’t enough.

She wanted more. She wanted laughing together over dinner and kissing so hard, the world disappeared. She wanted those long, breathless nights discovering every inch of his body, and waking up in his arms the morning after, that sleepy moment when dreams slipped away and she felt him holding her close, and realized with a flush of pure joy that she got to spend a whole new day with him.

She wanted Grayson.

Summer grabbed her keys and headed for the door. She’d spent close to twenty years bottling up her feelings about her mom, and she wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. She couldn’t settle for scraps of affection, but if Grayson had changed his mind and was ready to let her in . . .

She owed it to them both to give him one last chance. To fight for what she wanted, and take that risk.

Because love was worth it. Always.

And she’d inherited something from her mom, at least. The Bloom women never gave up on their dreams without a fight.