Page 6 of Faking it with my Bad Boy Crush

Chapter two

Heart of the Bakery

Maya

My alarm went off at 3:45 AM, and I was out of bed before the second beep. I’d been waking before dawn for many years. Four years of Seattle restaurant kitchens had trained my body to function on five hours of sleep and pure determination.

I pulled on jeans and a faded Culinary Institute of America (CIA) t-shirt—a relic from culinary school that was now more holes than fabric but too comfortable to throw away—and twisted my dark brown hair into a messy bun. My reflection in the bathroom mirror showed a woman who looked tired but fierce: light brown eyes that my grandfather used to say were the color of honey, olive skin that tanned easily in the summer sun,and the capable expression that came from running a business alone.

No makeup. No fuss. Just me, ready to make bread.

Twenty minutes later, I was at Honey & Hearth Bakery, unlocking the back door and breathing in the familiar scent of flour and possibility. This was always my favorite time of day, the quiet hours before dawn when the bakery belonged only to me and the dough.

My phone buzzed as I flipped on the lights. A text from my mother:"Just checking in with you, Tenho saudades tuas, querida.”

I smiled, thumbs flying across the screen:"Thank you, Mãe. I miss you, too."

My mother meant well. Isabel had spent years worrying that I'd given up too much by leaving Seattle, that coming home had been a sacrifice rather than a choice. But I'd made my peace with that decision.

I'd left Canlis—one of Seattle's most acclaimed restaurants, where I'd been senior pastry chef at twenty-seven—because family came first. Always had, always would. My grandfather had suffered a stroke, and no restaurant position, no matter how prestigious, mattered more than being there for the man who'd raised me after my father died.

Vovô had tried to stop me. "Stay in Seattle," he'd said, his voice weak but stubborn even from the hospital bed. "You are living the dream. My dream—a Romano at the best restaurant. You stay."

"I'm already packed," I'd replied, and that was that.

Years later, I didn't regret it. Not when I ran my hands over the commercial mixer my grandfather had bought more than forty years ago. Not when I pulled my great-great-grandfather's hand-written recipe cards from their protective sleeves. Not when I shaped dough using techniques passed down through fivegenerations of Romano bakers, refined by my CIA education and four years of fine-dining experience.

This bakery was mine now. Not just in ownership, but in vision and execution. I'd tripled revenue, expanded the product line, built partnerships across the San Juan Islands. The permit issues and property disputes weren't my failures. They were attacks from people who saw value in what I'd built and wanted it for themselves.

And I didn't surrender what was mine.

The dough came together under my hands. I'd made this bread thousands of times—my great-great-grandfather's recipe, brought from a small village outside Lisbon over a century ago—but I never tired of the process. The way the flour and water transformed under my hands. The moment when gluten developed and the dough went from shaggy to smooth. The quiet meditation of kneading.

My phone buzzed again. I wiped my hands on my apron and checked the screen.

Tessa:"Coffee run before I come in? I know you’ve been there since 4am, you workaholic."

Me:"You know me too well. Large with oat milk."

Tessa:"On it. Also, I have GOSSIP. The mainland invasion is real."

My jaw tightened. The "mainland invasion" was Tessa's dramatic way of describing the rumors about investors sniffing around Lopez Island properties. I'd heard whispers at the last business owners' meeting—someone from Seattle asking questions about struggling businesses, evaluating real estate, making offers.

I'd dismissed it as island paranoia. Now, I wasn't so sure. Tessa could be dramatic, but she was rarely wrong.

I turned my attention back to the dough, channeling my worry into the rhythmic push and fold of kneading. This was what I did when anxiety threatened—I worked. I created. I built things with my hands instead of spiraling into fear.

During my internship at Pastéis de Belém in Lisbon, my master baker, Senhor Costa, had watched me work through a particularly stressful service and said, "You have the gift of channeling pressure into precision. That is rare, menina. Most chefs crumble. You sharpen."

I'd carried those words through four years of brutal Seattle restaurant kitchens, through my grandfather's illness and death, through seven years of fighting to keep this bakery alive. I didn't crumble. I sharpened.

Whatever these mainland investors wanted, they'd find out quickly that I wasn't an easy target.

The back door opened and Tessa breezed in, carrying two coffee cups and radiating the chaotic energy that came from being naturally cheerful at 5 AM.

"Your caffeine, my queen." Tessa set down a large oat milk latte next to my workstation. Tessa Martinez was my best friend, the best employee I could ask for, and the only person who could make me laugh when everything felt overwhelming. She had bright green eyes, dark hair currently dyed purple at the tips, and the kind of infectious optimism that I needed on long days, even when it annoyed me just a little.

"You're a lifesaver." I took a long sip, savoring the warmth. "What's this gossip about mainland investors?"