My Delivery Driver is a Billionaire in Disguise

7

Noah

I told myself I was only stopping by to return a box.

That was the excuse I gave myself as I parked near Sweet Crumbs a little after six that evening, well past the end of my actual shift, well past any reasonable reason to still be on this street. Dan's supervisor had emailed the route schedule that morning, and my name wasn't even on the evening list anymore. I had no real reason to be here.

I walked in anyway.

The bell rang above the door, softer than it did in the mornings, like even the sound knew the day was winding down. Sophia looked up from behind the counter, a little surprised to see me.

"Hey," she said, wiping her hands on a towel. "Didn't expect you this late. Everything okay with the morning order?"

"Everything's fine," I said, holding up the empty delivery crate I had grabbed from my van as a flimsy excuse. "Just returning this. Figured I'd drop it off instead of leaving it in the van overnight."

She raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but she didn't push. "Well, you're just in time. I'm about to close up."

The shop looked different this time of day, quieter, dimmer, most of the display cases already wiped clean and empty. A few chairs still sat pulled out from the small tables near the window, and Sophia moved toward them, flipping the first one up onto a tabletop with practiced ease.

Without really thinking about it, I set the crate down and reached for the chair at the next table, flipping it up the same way.

"You don't have to help," she said, glancing over at me.

"I know." I kept going anyway, moving to the next table. "But it looks like a two person job, and you've got two people standing here."

She laughed softly and let it go, and for the next few minutes we worked in an easy, comfortable rhythm, flipping chairs, wiping down tables, straightening the small vase of flowers by the window that had wilted slightly since morning.

It struck me, somewhere in the middle of it, how strange this felt. Not bad strange. Good strange. I had sat through countless board meetings discussing million dollar projects, signed contracts that reshaped entire city blocks, and none of it had ever felt as satisfying as stacking a few mismatched wooden chairs in a small bakery that smelled like cinnamon and warm bread.

"You're better at this than I expected," Sophia said, nodding toward the chairs I had already finished.

"Hidden talents," I said, keeping my tone light even as something heavier sat underneath it. If she knew even half of what my actual hidden talents involved, she wouldn't be smiling at me like that right now.

We finished the chairs and moved to sweeping the floor, her handling the broom while I held the dustpan, an arrangement that felt oddly domestic for two people who had only known each other a few weeks. She hummed quietly while she worked, the same soft, wordless tune I had noticed the morning I watched her through the window before I ever came inside.

"What's that song?" I asked.

"Hmm?" She glanced up, seeming surprised by the question. "Oh. Nothing, really. Just something my grandmother used to hum while she baked. I don't even know the actual words to it. Just picked it up from being around her so much."

"It's nice," I said, meaning it. "Sounds peaceful."

"She was like that. Peaceful, even when things were hard." Sophia swept the last bit of flour dust into the dustpan I was holding, our hands close together for a moment before she straightened back up. "I think about her a lot when things get stressful. Try to channel some of that calm she always seemed to have."

"Things have been stressful?" I asked carefully, even though I already knew the answer better than she realized.

She hesitated, glancing toward the front counter where I knew, from more conversations than I wanted to admit, that a folder of bills sat tucked away out of sight. "A little," she admitted. "Nothing I can't handle."

I wanted so badly to tell her the truth right then. That I knew exactly how stressful things had become, because my own company's name sat at the top of the very documents threatening to take this place away from her. That every conversation about the redevelopment happening around her felt like swallowing glass, knowing what I knew and saying nothing.

Instead, I just nodded and let the moment pass, hating myself a little more for it.

We finished closing up together, turning off lights, checking the back door, locking the front behind us as the last of the evening light faded into a deep blue dusk over the street. She turned to face me on the sidewalk, arms crossed loosely against the light chill in the air.

"Thanks for the help," she said. "You really didn't have to stick around for that."

"I wanted to," I said, and it was the most honest thing I had said to her all evening.

She smiled, and for a moment neither of us moved, the space between us feeling smaller than it had all day. I found myself wondering what would happen if I just told her everything right then, standing outside her shop with the streetlights flickering on above us. Whether she would understand, whether there was any version of this where the truth didn't destroy everything we had built over these past few weeks.

But the words stayed lodged in my throat, held back by fear I wasn't proud of.

"I should get going," she said eventually, breaking the silence first. "Early morning tomorrow, as always."

"Right. Of course." I stepped back, giving her space, even though some part of me wanted to close that distance instead. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't be much of a morning without you," she said, echoing words she had said once before, and it hit me harder this time than it had the first.

I watched her walk toward her car, waiting until she was safely inside before heading back to my own van parked down the street. I sat there for a long moment before starting the engine, staring at the darkened windows of Sweet Crumbs, feeling the weight of my secret settle heavier in my chest than it ever had before.

My phone buzzed against the passenger seat. I glanced down and saw my father's name flash across the screen, a single message waiting beneath it.

‘Contract needs your signature by Friday. No more delays.’