Page 85 of Faking it with my Bad Boy Crush

"I'm not jinxing it, I'm reporting factual data. You should be thrilled. This is the vindication tour, Maya. The island council almost yanked your contract because of 'controversy,' and now you're single-handedly funding half their tourism budget."

"I would like it on the record that I'm thrilled internally. Externally I'm covered in flour and running on four hours of sleep and mild panic about whether we have enough butter to survive the afternoon rush."

"We have enough butter. I did inventory at six this morning like a responsible business partner, unlike some people who were busy having tearful reunions on seawalls."

"That was one time."

"That was Tuesday, and also apparently every night since, because Ethan's toothbrush has taken up permanent residence in your bathroom." Tessa grinned. "Speaking of the man himself—"

The bell over the door jingled, and Ethan walked in looking significantly less like a man facing potential disbarment and significantly more like someone who'd just won something. He was practically vibrating.

"I need five minutes," he said, already reaching for my apron strings like he intended to physically remove me from behind the counter. "Sit down. I have something to show you."

"I have a line of tourists who want pastries, I cannot just—"

"Tessa can handle the line. Tessa is extremely capable. Tessa, tell her you're capable."

"I am extremely capable," Tessa confirmed, already sliding into position behind the register like she'd been waiting for this exact cue. "Go. Whatever this is, his face is doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where he looks like he's about to either propose or hand you a subpoena, and given the general chaos of your relationship, I genuinely cannot tell which."

"It's not a subpoena," Ethan said, sounding personally offended. "I've had quite enough of those, thank you."

He pulled me to the small table in the back corner—the one reserved for special orders and occasional crying—and spread a folder full of documents across the surface with the triumphant flourish of a man who'd clearly been waiting all morning to do this.

"Okay," I said, sitting down. "What am I looking at?"

"Ironclad legal protection. For Honey & Hearth. Permanently." He tapped the top document like it was Exhibit A in the greatest case of his career, which, considering his recent career trajectory, was setting a fairly low bar. "I spent the last week working with Richard on this instead of just reacting to whatever Marcus threw at us next. We filed a comprehensive protective trust that puts the bakery's property, the business itself, and all associated assets into a structure that cannot be touched by future predatory investment schemes. Not by Marcus, not by anyone."

I stared at the document, trying to parse legal language through the haze of sleep deprivation and powdered sugar. "In English, please. I have a business degree in pastry, not litigation."

"In English: nobody can ever do to you again what they tried to do six weeks ago. No manufactured property disputes, no falsified surveys, no coordinated pressure campaigns designed to force a sale. The trust structure means any future attempt to interfere with your ownership triggers automatic legal review and locks the property from transfer for a minimum of two years while it's investigated." He flipped to the next page. "I also cross-referenced every property line with three independent surveys—not just the one that already proved Hutchins lied—so there's zero ambiguity about your boundaries going forward. Nobody gets to 'accidentally' misplace a fence again."

"You did all this in a week? While also dealing with your own ethics hearing prep and Marcus's lawsuit and everything else?"

"I did all this specifically because of Marcus's lawsuit and everything else." He looked up at me, something vulnerable flickering behind the excitement. "I can't fix my own legal mess right now, Maya. I can't guarantee I'll keep my license, or that his civil suit won't bankrupt us, or that any of this ends well for me personally. But I could guarantee this. I could make absolutely certain that whatever happens to me, your grandfather's bakery is untouchable. Forever."

“Ethan—" I reached out to hold his hand, my eyes brimming with tears of joy.

"There's more." He was already flipping to the next section, clearly too invested in his own momentum to notice I was two seconds from crying into a legal document. "I also secured a small business protection line of credit through a community lending fund Patterson & Associates works with. It's not activated unless you need it, but if the civil suit does drain our savings, there's a financial buffer so the bakery itself never becomes collateral damage. Your business stays completely insulated from whatever happens to my bank account."

"You built me a financial force field."

"I built us a financial force field. It covers both of us, actually, which Richard insisted on including once he found out I was planning to only protect your assets and let mine burn." He finally looked up, some of the frantic energy settling into something quieter. "I know I can't control the ethics board. I can't control Marcus. I can't even really control whether I have a career six months from now. But I could control this. And Ineeded you to have something solid, something guaranteed, in the middle of all this chaos I dragged into your life."

I looked down at the documents—pages and pages of careful, deliberate protection, built by a man who was simultaneously fighting for his own professional survival and still finding time to make absolutely sure I never had to be afraid again.

"You didn't drag chaos into my life," I said finally, my voice thick. "You draggedjusticeinto my life. There's a difference. The chaos was already here. Marcus and Hutchins built the chaos. You're the person who's spent six weeks cleaning it up, even while your own life was falling apart."

"I wanted to give you something certain. Something that couldn't be taken away, regardless of what happens with the ethics board or the lawsuit or any of it." He reached for my hand across the table, knocking over a stack of paperwork in the process, which felt appropriately on-brand for both of us. "Whatever happens to me professionally—if I lose my license, if Marcus somehow wins, if I end up working at the grocery store—Honey & Hearth is safe. Forever. That's not negotiable. That's done."

I stood up, pulling him with me, and kissed him with enough enthusiasm that a nearby tourist audibly said "aw" and took a photo, which I told myself I would deal with later, possibly by asking them to please not post it anywhere my mother might see it.

"I love you," I said against his mouth. "I love you, and I love this absolutely absurd, overqualified, borderline-obsessive gesture of protection you just handed me on a Saturday afternoon like it's no big deal."

"It's a fairly big deal, actually. It took me a week and several very tense phone calls with a title company."