The Billionaire’s Curvy Blossom

CHAPTER 15

(Frida’s POV)

The bell above the door gives one last soft ring, and then silence folds over the bakery like a blanket. The scent of coffee and sugar hangs thick in the air, wrapping around me as if to fill the space he’s left behind.

Alexander’s gone — but the place where he stood feels anything but empty. There’s a quiet hum still threaded through the room, like his presence hasn’t quite faded yet.

I brush my fingers over the counter where his cup sat. The faint ring of moisture glistens for a heartbeat before I wipe it away. The gesture feels simple, ordinary — and yet tender in a way I can’t explain.

“Frida,” comes Molly’s voice from the back, bright and teasing. “Was that who I think it was?”

I can’t help the smile that tugs at my mouth. “Who do you think it was?”

She appears in the doorway, dusted with flour and grinning like she already knows the answer. “The tall one. The quiet one. The one who makes you sound all soft when you talk.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You imagine things, Molly.”

She leans against the frame, eyes sparkling. “Maybe. But I saw the way he looked at you. Like he wasn’t just seeing you — he was remembering you.”

That makes my cheeks warm. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”

“Maybe,” she says, unbothered. “But movies wish they had chemistry like that.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the pastry display. My hands move automatically, but I’m aware of how clumsy they feel — like my body hasn’t quite caught up to my thoughts.

Molly’s voice softens. “You like him.”

I pause. The truth is too heavy to deny, too new to name. “I don’t know what I feel,” I admit quietly. “It’s… complicated.”

She nods, knowingly. “It always is when it’s real.” Then, with a small, kind smile: “Don’t overthink it. Just breathe.”

And with that, she disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone again — but not lonely.

The rest of the morning drifts by in a blur. Customers come and go, the bell rings and rings, and yet everything feels slightly altered. The colors seem softer somehow, the air lighter. Even the clatter of cups and the hum of voices fade into something muted, like background music to a thought I can’t quite let go of.

Every so often, I catch myself glancing toward the door — as if he might walk back through it.

I think about the way he said, I’m glad I came, the steady honesty in his voice, the way his gaze held mine without trying to disguise anything. He rarely says much, but when he does, every word feels deliberate, like he’s placing it somewhere it will stay.

By early afternoon, sunlight stretches long across the counter, warm and golden. Dust motes drift lazily through the air. I stop wiping a table and just… watch. The light, the jars, the soft hum of life moving through this small place.

It hits me, quietly — I’m happy. Not the kind that bursts or sparkles. The kind that settles deep, fragile and real.

When the rush dies down, Molly shoos me out early. “Go home,” she says with a grin. “You’ve been floating around all day. You’re no good to me like this.”

She’s right. I don’t argue.

⸻

Outside, the autumn air nips at my skin, carrying the scent of dry leaves and faint woodsmoke. Montana’s light shifts quickly this time of year — gold to gray in a heartbeat.

I turn back once, looking at the bakery’s windows glowing against the dimming sky. That small corner of warmth, the place he stood this morning, feels like it’s holding part of the day inside it.

By the time I reach my apartment, twilight has settled. I kick off my shoes, put the kettle on, and let the whistle fill the quiet. The sound feels grounding. Familiar.

I sit by the window with my mug cupped in both hands. Outside, the street is still — porch lights flickering on, the occasional car passing, a dog barking in the distance. The world feels both very far away and very close all at once.

And then, as naturally as breathing, my thoughts return to him.

Not the polished, composed version people see — but the man who stood in my bakery this morning with something raw in his eyes. The man who looked at me like he’d finally stopped running from something.

I remember the way his voice softened when he said my name, the almost-touch of his hand when he passed me the cup. I tell myself not to read too much into it, that he’s a visitor in my world, that people like him don’t linger long.

But then I hear it again, the echo of his voice — You will.

He hadn’t said it like a hope. He’d said it like a promise.

The tea cools in my hands. I lean my forehead against the window, watching the faint reflection of my own face against the night outside. The thought comes unbidden: it’s strange how someone can walk out the door and still feel close enough to touch.

Outside, the first drops of rain begin to fall. They trace slow, glistening paths down the glass. I watch them in silence, my chest tightening and easing all at once.

And I smile. Not because of what happened — but because of what might.

For so long, my life has been routine: mornings, customers, dough rising, days repeating. But now… now there’s a small uncertainty to everything. A softness at the edges.

And for the first time in a long time, not knowing what comes next feels good.

I take a slow sip of my tea — now lukewarm but still sweet — and whisper to the quiet,

“I hope he comes back.”

It’s not a plea. Not even a wish. Just truth — small, steady, and real.

Then I set the cup down, turn off the lamp, and let the rhythm of rain fill the silence.

Somewhere inside me, beneath the calm and the fear and the questions, something begins to bloom.

And this time, I don’t try to stop it.