Chapter 1

“I’m telling you, Liv,” Milly said, tugging her long auburn hair into a high ponytail, sweat still glistening faintly on her pale skin after her early morning spin class, “I’m thriving single. I don’t need a man, I need results. My abs are better than they were when I dated that personal trainer.”

Her phone was wedged between her cheek and shoulder as she moved around her spotless kitchen, the morning sun filtering through the tall windows of her Boston apartment and casting golden stripes across the white marble countertops. A finch landed on the iron railing outside, its speckled chest rising and falling with soft chirps as it pecked at something invisible. The bird’s feathers shimmered with hues of olive green and burnt gold, like fallen autumn leaves catching the morning light. Milly’s gaze lingered on it.

“You say that every time we talk,” Liv replied on speaker, her voice dry with amusement. “And yet every time you sound like you’re one well-mixed cocktail away from crying into your throw pillows.”

Milly laughed. “You’re confusing me with Lauren. She’s the crier.”

“Nope. Lauren is happily married. And I’m engaged, remember? You’re the tragic one now, my dearest bridesmaid.”

“Rude,” Milly muttered, crouching to refill her filtered water bottle. “Not tragic. Independent. Empowered. Emotionally stable and in love with her own reflection.”

“Sure, Jan.”

Milly rolled her eyes. She loved her friends, she really did. But something had shifted. Their conversations weren’t the same. The phone calls were shorter, less spontaneous. Dinners got postponed. Texts read and left unanswered until two days later. The closeness they used to share now felt like a sweater one size too small—still familiar, still comforting, but no longer the right fit.

“I’m serious, Liv. I’m happy. I have my business. I have my routine. I finally beat my personal best on deadlifts last week. I don’t have time to babysit another Tanner.”

That name still had a bitter taste.

Tanner: all charm, white teeth, and green smoothies—until she caught him with his assistant nurse in the hospital break room. Four years together, unraveled by lipstick smudged on his button-down and an inbox full of “accidental” flirty emails.

She got over it. Mostly.

“Well,” Liv said, chewing something on the other end, “Just don’t turn into one of those weird fitness hermits who never leaves their apartment. You need sunlight and carbs, Mil.”

Milly smirked. “Sunlight, check. Carbs—well, maybe when I’m eighty.”

As if summoned by fate, her next run around the neighborhood ended with her stumbling upon something she hadn’t noticed before. Just a few meters down from her redbrick complex, past the lamppost with the peeling sticker and the row of concrete planters blooming with purple petunias, a new bakery had appeared. The sign above the door read Burrow & Crumb, etched into dark stained wood in warm, looping script. There was ivy curling along the window frames, real ivy, thick and verdant, with the kind of deep green leaves that belonged in secret gardens.

Milly slowed her pace.

She stood at the sidewalk, the late morning breeze tugging at her tank top, her black gym leggings clinging to her long, lean frame. The scent that drifted through the open door was otherworldly. Not just sugar. Not just butter. It was warmth and vanilla and something rich and nutty and yeasty, something that made her stomach growl before her brain could object.

It had been months since she allowed herself anything remotely “indulgent.” Her diet was clean, militant. She calculated macros in her head like other people counted dollars. But the smell—that smell—was primal. It was memory and hunger and comfort all at once.

“Maybe just one,” she murmured aloud.

Inside, Burrow & Crumb looked like it had been plucked from a fairytale and dropped right into Boston. The walls were exposed brick, not the trendy kind—authentic, scarred, filled with decades of wear. The windows let in buttery sunlight that fell across weathered wooden tables, each one different from the last. There were mismatched chairs, some with paint peeling from the legs, and a shelf filled with old cookbooks and small potted plants. A vintage gramophone in the corner played something warm and jazzy, like Ella Fitzgerald on a rainy evening.

The queue was short, but she barely noticed it. Her eyes were glued to the pastries. Glazed buns oozing berry jam. Rustic loaves dusted in flour. Croissants with layers so thin they looked like golden tissue paper. A peach tart with crust edges that looked almost too perfect to be real.

Then she looked up—and nearly stumbled backwards.

The man behind the counter was enormous.

Easily six-foot-four, maybe more. His presence filled the space—not just physically, but in a way that radiated. He had wide, powerful shoulders under a white apron smeared with flour and a dark shirt clinging to the roundness of his belly. His arms were thick and dusted with golden hair, the kind of hair that caught light like copper wires. His hands were enormous, calloused, and busy arranging a tray of buttered rolls. His face was something else entirely—strong jawline, dimpled cheeks, and the most ridiculous baby-blue eyes she had ever seen. A mop of curly blond hair sat slightly askew on his head, like he’d been pushing it back all morning with floury fingers.

He looked like a lumberjack who had traded his axe for a rolling pin.

Milly blinked. Then again. She refused to believe what her stomach was doing. Or her chest, which suddenly felt very warm.

He smiled as she stepped forward, eyes locking on hers. “You look like a chocolate croissant kind of girl.”

She laughed, a short, surprised bark that escaped before she could swallow it. “That’s… actually what I was about to order.”

“See?” His grin widened. “I never miss.”

He reached below the counter and pulled out one still warm from the oven. “First one’s on me. Call it intuition.”

“Are you trying to ruin me?”

“Only a little.”

His name, he said, was William. He owned the place. Graduated from culinary school a few years back, did the European tour thing, baked in Lyon, apprenticed in Amsterdam, finally decided to open his dream bakery here in Boston because, quote, “no one here does crusty bread like the French.”

Milly barely heard the details. She was too busy watching his mouth when he talked. Too aware of the way his thick forearms flexed when he slid another tray into the case. Her brain was screaming, He’s huge, Mil. Like, really huge. You are not into this. This is not your type. You like men with six packs and Apple Watches and protein powder under their sinks.

But her eyes said otherwise.

So did her stomach.

She took the croissant to a table by the window. Her fingers sank slightly into the still-warm pastry. The first bite was unreal. Flaky. Melted chocolate just the right side of bitter. Buttery layers that dissolved on her tongue. The texture, the flavor, the warmth—she moaned softly before she could stop herself.

This wasn’t a snack. This was a religious experience.

She ate the whole thing in under three minutes, staring out the window at the ivy, her mind oddly blank. Except for one thought that kept sneaking in:

He’s beautiful. But he’s… not supposed to be.

Her feet were moving before she even decided. Back in line. Another croissant. No questions. No excuses.

“Back so soon?” William teased.

“I need to know if the first one was a fluke.”

“It wasn’t.”

It wasn’t.

The second one was even better, or maybe it was just the fact that she’d stopped pretending she didn’t want it.

Later, at home, Milly laid out her yoga mat in the living room. Her muscles moved through each pose on autopilot, but her mind was somewhere else. Back in that bakery. Back at that counter. Back on the way he looked at her—not with hunger, not like Tanner or any of the others—but with warmth. Like he was genuinely glad she was there.

She stared at the ceiling during Savasana, heartbeat calm, breath steady.

What the hell just happened?

Whatever it was, she was pretty sure it wasn’t over.

Work started at precisely 9:00 AM. Milly didn’t need an alarm—her internal clock was carved out of granite, especially on weekdays. After her yoga cool-down and a long, contemplative shower (in which she may or may not have replayed William’s smile fifteen separate times), she dressed in her usual work-from-home uniform: sleek black joggers, a pale beige knit top, and a messy bun that still managed to look professional on Zoom.

Her second bedroom was her office. Everything in it had a purpose. Adjustable standing desk. Whiteboard for goal tracking. A tiny espresso machine that hissed like a loyal dragon each morning. Pinned above her monitor were post-its with client deadlines, a quote from Sheryl Sandberg, and a Polaroid of her and her team from last year’s company retreat, all grinning in ski jackets on a Vermont slope.

Milly was a marketing consultant, mostly for lifestyle and wellness brands. Today, she had three client calls, two pitch deck revisions, and one content calendar to finalize. Nothing groundbreaking, but enough to keep her fingers dancing across her keyboard from breakfast to lunch.

And lunch—oh, lunch.

She had already planned it while her 10:30 call with a protein shake startup was still ongoing.

Okay, four red leaf lettuce leaves. Maybe five, but only if they’re small. One third of a cucumber, sliced paper-thin. Half an avocado. No more. A tablespoon of sunflower seeds. One boiled egg. No yolk.

Milly scribbled it down in the corner of her planner like a sacred code. The salad she assembled at 12:07 PM was a masterpiece of portion control and symmetry. The lettuce was arranged in overlapping fans, the cucumber slices laid like scales around the bowl. The egg whites were quartered with surgical precision.

She chewed each bite slowly, eyes flicking over her laptop screen, and yet—between every third forkful and every third Slack ping—William crept back into her mind.

His stupid laugh. His huge, warm hands. His voice, deep and unhurried, like someone who didn’t race through life, who wasn’t afraid to take his time.

She chewed harder.

He’s not even your type, she told herself. You dated a pediatric neurosurgeon last year, for God’s sake. The guy was on the cover of a regional medical journal. Your last three exes had gym routines stricter than yours and wore cologne that cost more than your electric bill.

Her brain: But William smelled like warm bread and soap.

Milly grunted and pushed the bowl away, grabbing Eustace from his favorite perch on the windowsill. He let out a disgruntled mrrrph as she pulled him into her lap.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she muttered, burying her face in his thick gray fur. “You don’t get flustered by weird, mountain-sized pastry men.”

Eustace blinked at her, slow and unimpressed.

“I mean, he’s sweet. And yeah, maybe his eyes are nice. And sure, he looks like he could lift a truck with one arm—but he’s… he’s fat. You don’t date fat guys. You’re the one who rolls your eyes when Lauren talks about her cuddly boyfriend. You’re the one who said you want a man who can run a marathon, not eat one.”

She scratched Eustace behind the ears. He purred, smug.

She scowled. “Stop judging me.”

By 4:00 PM, she had finished two of her pitch decks and finalized an influencer strategy for a new vitamin gummy startup.

At 6:45 PM, Milly shut her laptop with a decisive click. The moment her workday ended, she shifted from PowerPoint warrior to reluctant socialite. Tonight was the wedding tasting for Liv and Roger—a mini banquet set up by their caterer, complete with candlelit tables, monogrammed menus, and enough silverware to arm a very fancy war.

Milly stood in front of her open closet, towel-wrapped from her second shower of the day, hair still damp and clinging to her collarbone. She eyed her options with surgical scrutiny. She wanted to look effortlessly gorgeous but not like she was trying. Something flattering but casual. Soft but not sloppy.

She landed on a flowy rust-colored blouse that brought out the warmth in her freckles, paired with black cigarette pants and low-heeled boots. A dash of mascara, a touch of highlight on her cheekbones. Enough to say I still care without saying I’m trying to outshine the bride-to-be.

By 7:30 PM, she was stepping into the private dining room of an upscale French restaurant in Back Bay. The lighting was golden and low, casting everything in a warm glow. Soft jazz hummed through the speakers, and the long oak table was covered with tasting cards, champagne flutes, and a row of covered dishes, each one labeled in calligraphy.

“Mil!” Liv squealed, coming in for a tight hug. She was wearing a white jumpsuit and a glowing smile. Her blonde hair was styled in soft waves, her engagement ring glinting like it had its own light source. “You look amazing!”

“So do you. I mean, obviously—you’re glowing like a nuclear bride.”

“Please,” Liv rolled her eyes. “Roger and I have been eating cake samples for three days straight. If I glow, it’s from sugar.”

Roger appeared at her side, tall, dark-haired, and ever-grinning. “Hey, Milly,” he said warmly, pulling her into a quick side hug. “Prepare your tastebuds. We are entering Michelin-star-level territory.”

“I brought an appetite,” Milly said, even though that wasn’t entirely true. Her stomach still felt oddly unsettled. Not in a bad way—just… off. Like she was waiting for something to happen, and couldn’t figure out what.

As the first dish was unveiled—a miniature truffle-stuffed chicken roulade—Milly took her seat between Lauren and a woman she didn’t know, probably one of Liv’s coworkers or college girlies, she didn’t bother to know their named, Liv, Lauren and her were the original golden trio since kindergarten. Everyone had place cards with their names elegantly printed, and the menu included four courses, each with two versions to compare. Liv was running this tasting like a military operation.

“I swear,” Roger joked, as they all dug into their tiny plates, “if one of the Beef Wellingtons has half a gram more mushroom than the others, Liv will detect it and send it back.”

“Not true,” Liv said, licking a smear of fig glaze off her thumb. “I’ll just weep in the bathroom and redesign the menu from scratch.”

Milly laughed harder than she had in days. “I’m not even kidding,” she told Roger. “She once made us taste-test ten kinds of vanilla for a cake. For YOUR birthday. Ten.”

Roger leaned toward Milly, whispering conspiratorially, “And she picked the one that was infused with a single vanilla bean grown on a volcano slope in Madagascar by monks.”

Liv gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. “It was ethically harvested!”

Everyone burst out laughing.

The night flowed like that—wine, little bites of heaven, gentle teasing, and plenty of jokes. Lauren and the others swapped stories, reminisced about college, and poked fun at how different things were now. But Milly… Milly kept catching herself watching Liv and Roger when they weren’t talking.

She watched the way Liv leaned into Roger’s arm like it was instinct, like her body naturally curved toward him. The way she fed him a bite of risotto without a word, and the way Roger kissed the back of her hand mid-conversation. How she rested her palm on the curve of his stomach when he stood up to talk to the caterer, like it belonged there.

And later, when the Beef Wellington did finally come out—two versions, one with wild mushrooms, one with porcini and red wine—Liv sliced off a bite of each and fed them both to Roger, one after the other, waiting for his face to give away which was better. He chewed with mock seriousness, then nodded sagely.

“The mushroom one has exactly five percent more flavor.”

Liv rubbed his belly affectionately. “My human truffle pig.”

Milly laughed along with everyone else, but something inside her twisted. Not with envy—no. It wasn’t that shallow. It was yearning. That deep-bone ache of remembering what it was like to be part of a “we.” To have someone who noticed when you were tired or excited or quietly spiraling in your head. To be touched like it was a habit, not a privilege.

She used to have that. Or at least the illusion of it. With Tanner, the touches were always calculated. Performative. William, on the other hand—

No. Stop.

Her mind dragged his image up anyway. His eyes when he talked about food. The creases in the corners of his mouth when he grinned. His massive arms, yes, but more than that—his presence. He made space feel safe. He filled it with warmth.

Milly reached for her champagne and took a long sip, trying to rinse him out of her brain like a bad song stuck on repeat.

He’s not your type. You date jawlines, ambition, ambition with abs. You don’t crush on men who could probably bench press your car. You don’t get flustered by bakery owners who call you a chocolate croissant kind of girl like it’s a compliment instead of a joke.

And yet.

When dessert came—miniature lemon tarts and chocolate soufflés—Milly took a bite of the croissant-shaped shortbread and instantly thought of his croissant. Warm, rich, still glowing with oven heat.

Her throat tightened.

She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to stay. All she wanted was to stop thinking about a man who smelled like flour and smiled like he actually liked her.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He had smiled like that. And now, she couldn’t stop remembering.