He takes in a breath, but the second he opens his mouth again I glance over his shoulder at the clock.

“Oh, shit.”

Adam whips around, looking for whatever it is that’s made my face go pale. “What is it?”

“I have to leave. Right now.”

“Where’s your car?”

“I’ll take it in the bakery truck. It’s around back.”

“Okay.” He turns again. “Shouldn’t it go—”

“The boxes are right here. Each tier goes in—”

“I got it.”

I whip my apron off and run to the sink, washing off the last of the excess frosting, and then move back toward the table. Adam is settling the top layer of the cake gently into one of the boxes emblazoned with my bakery’s logo on it like he’s done this a million times.

I rush to his side and, with infinite care, separate the two largest layers. Inside a minute, we have them safely packed into the boxes, and I gather up the stands that will hold it all together once we get to the country club and shove them into a paper bag, slinging the handles onto the crook of my elbow.

We. Like he’s going with me.

This has been strange enough. I’m not going to let him—

“Are you ready? Where’s your coat?”

“I don’t need it.”

I turn on my heel and head toward the kitchen door, the two heaviest boxes cradled in my arms. I don’t turn around until I get to the exit. Adam comes close behind, my black coat draped over his arm, the other two boxes held firmly in his hand.

“In case you get cold.”

There’s something so sweet in his voice that it brings me up short. Who is this man? It’s not the asshole who pushed me away in front of his friends nine years ago.

My heart beats a little faster, but I’m not ready to let go of that yet. The wound is still pulsing just under the surface, and more words catch in my throat—but there’s no time.

I pull open the door with the crook of my finger and Adam slips out, me a step behind.

“Damn.”

His whisper brings my gaze to the street, which is covered in a fine dusting of silent snow. It’s gorgeous—but I need it to stop, just for a few more minutes.

I breathe in the cold, crisp air and get another hint of his scent and I nearly throw everything to the ground and run to him. Instead, I put the cake boxes carefully on the sidewalk, where there’s no snow, just under the awning, and pull my keys out, locking up tight.

The van is down a narrow alley, parked in the single spot behind the bakery, and I open the back doors with my second pinky and load in the boxes. There are little slots in the custom floor I had made that are just the right size to hold them steady while I drive. Adam puts his in, and I throw the bag on top of it all, slamming the door shut.

I have fourteen minutes to get to the country club. Shit, shit, shit.

Whipping my keys out of my pocket, I head toward the driver’s side door and get in, starting the car with a bit more violence than I’d intended. The engine roars to life and I throw it into drive.

There’s a tapping on the window.

Adam stands outside, his sweatshirt abandoned inside the bakery, looking at me, his blue eyes endless, his grin as delicious as I’ve ever seen. He’s asking me a question without words.

“Get in,” I call through the window, and now my heart does stop. It was one thing when he was in the bakery, but sitting next to me in the van—

Soon we’ll have nothing in common again, just like the last nine years. Once this cake is delivered, it’s all over.

I feel every second pass with every heartbeat thundering in my chest as I pull out onto Main Street. The country club is a couple of miles out of town. Adam reaches forward for the dials and heat pours over us. I’m glad I’m not wearing the jacket that Adam holds in his lap.

“That feels good.”

Something about his words breaks something loose inside of me. I keep my eyes glued to the road, but I can’t keep my mouth closed. He’s just too close, his body overwhelming me, and I have to…I have to—

“You know what doesn’t feel good?”

“What I did to you nine years ago?”

This should take the wind out of my sails, but instead my heart hammers against my rib cage.

“That felt like shit.” My voice rises, a little out of control, along with the stress of this razor-thin timeline. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, Adam. I don’t know why you came back. I don’t know why you came to my store. But if you’re going to explain yourself, this is your one chance, because I’ve spent nine years—”

“I have too, Val. Nine years of nothing but regret.”