Chapter 18: The Weight She Carried
752 Words
Guy Harrison arrived at Sweet Haven just before closing.
Officially, he was there because of the gala.
Unofficially, he had stopped questioning why he kept finding reasons to visit.
The answer was becoming increasingly inconvenient.
The bell above the door chimed as he entered.
The bakery was quieter than usual.
Only a handful of customers remained. Most tables were empty, and the warm evening sunlight streamed through the front windows.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
Observing.
Tamara was behind the counter speaking to a customer. Her hair was tied back loosely, several strands escaping around her face. She looked tired.
Not the ordinary kind of tired.
The kind that settled deep into a person’s shoulders.
The kind people carried for weeks.
Maybe months.
When the customer finally left, she noticed him.
“You’re becoming predictable.”
Guy raised an eyebrow.
“Is that your way of saying hello?”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you’re here for work or because you enjoy making my employees gossip.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
Across the room, Mia immediately looked suspicious.
Dangerous woman.
Very dangerous.
⸻
Tamara led him to one of the corner tables.
The gala folder landed between them.
Schedules.
Floor plans.
Final guest counts.
Normal things.
Safe things.
Things that didn’t involve complicated emotions.
Exactly how Guy preferred it.
At least in theory.
They spent twenty minutes reviewing details.
Dessert stations.
Delivery timing.
Sponsor requests.
Everything appeared organised.
Everything appeared under control.
And yet…
Something felt off.
Whenever Tamara thought he wasn’t looking, her attention drifted.
Toward her office.
Toward a stack of papers on her desk.
Toward her phone.
Always back to the same places.
The behaviour wasn’t obvious.
Most people would’ve missed it.
Guy didn’t.
⸻
“How many hours have you slept?”
The question interrupted her mid-sentence.
Tamara blinked.
“What?”
“You look exhausted.”
“That’s very flattering.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“Thank you for clarifying.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
She noticed.
Unfortunately.
“Did you just smile?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Focus on the gala.”
Tamara laughed softly and shook her head.
For a few seconds, the tension she carried seemed lighter.
Then her phone vibrated.
The smile disappeared instantly.
Guy watched as she glanced at the screen.
Supplier.
The name was visible for barely a second before she turned the phone over.
She didn’t answer.
The phone vibrated again.
And again.
Three calls in less than two minutes.
Guy said nothing.
But he noticed.
⸻
Later, after he left, Tamara remained in the bakery office alone.
The evening had grown quiet.
Mia and Emily were cleaning downstairs.
The supplier invoice sat open on her desk.
Alongside the overdue payment notice.
And the bank statement she had been avoiding.
She rubbed her temples.
Numbers.
Everything came back to numbers.
The gala payment would help.
But not enough.
Not immediately.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
Mia stood in the doorway.
“You’re still here.”
“So are you.”
“Yes, but I’m not pretending to work.”
Tamara smiled despite herself.
Mia entered and sat opposite her.
Her gaze fell on the paperwork.
The smile faded.
“You should’ve told us.”
The words were gentle.
Which somehow made them harder to hear.
“It’s my problem.”
“No.”
Mia shook her head.
“It’s your responsibility.”
A pause.
“But it’s our bakery too.”
Tamara looked down.
Because that was the problem.
Sweet Haven wasn’t just hers anymore.
It belonged to people who depended on it.
People who trusted her.
People who believed she could save it.
And lately…
She wasn’t entirely sure she could.
⸻
Across the city, Guy sat alone in his office.
The gala folder remained open on his desk.
Yet he wasn’t reading it.
His thoughts kept returning to the same image.
A phone screen.
A supplier calling repeatedly.
The exhaustion in Tamara’s eyes.
The way she kept looking toward her office.
As though something unpleasant waited there.
He leaned back in his chair.
Thinking.
Not about the gala.
Not about sponsors.
Not about revenue.
About a bakery owner who clearly needed help and would probably rather fight a bear than ask for it.
For reasons he couldn’t explain…
That thought stayed with him long after midnight.
- Writer
