And then in that beat of silence when no one responds, I wage an internal debate over whether I should have said can instead of may and which one is actually right.

Ridiculous, but a way to fill the fleeting silence.

“Is it true what you said, Hendrix?” The honey-coated-over-gravel voice says my name and I know who it is instantly.

“Jase? How did you . . . never mind.” A simple internet search would tell him my phone number since he knew the business name. I’m flustered by the unexpected call, and it takes me a second to gather my thoughts. “Is it true that I said what?”

And while I sound bothered, a small part of me, the part in every single person that heartache can try but can’t exactly crush, flutters—for reasons I’d rather not acknowledge.

“About needing money to save your business.”

I pause at his words. Me and my big mouth. “What are you getting at?” I look around the bakery as if someone is there waiting to prank me.

“I was curious if you were serious. Is money really something you need?”

I laugh self-deprecatingly and it sounds like how I feel—confused. “I’m sorry. I—I just met you, why would I tell you that?”

“Because you want to. Because it’s been a shit month, and I’m a nice guy. You know as much as I do that it’s killing you not to say, ‘Yes it’s true,’ and then proceed to tell me what a prick that guy you were on the phone with was to you.”

“You have an active imagination, I’ll give you that.” I lean my ass against the kitchen island and smile.

“I do and you know you desperately want to even if it’s simply to keep me on the phone a bit longer because you like how the sound of my voice makes you feel.”

“And now that imagination has kicked into overdrive.”

“So, then what you said was true. You need money to save your company. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you need the money? Do your cookies taste like shit? Are you—”

“They taste like fucking heaven,” I say emphatically, drawing a deep, rumbling laugh through the line.

“A woman who believes in herself. I like it. So why don’t they sell?”

The man’s asking questions that are none of his business and yet I feel compelled to answer him. Maybe it was the kindness in his eyes or maybe it was his undeniable sex appeal—I don’t know. All I know is I want to tell him.

“What did the note say?” I ask.

“Note?”

“On the napkin the woman handed you. You want to know my business, I think it’s only fair that I get to know yours.”

He stutters a laugh, and I can picture that smile and those dimples deepening. “That’s fair.”

“Then what did it say?”