“My darling,” her grandmother said, squeezing her shoulder. “You don’t need a man to be happy. But if you meet the right one, your heart will know. You won’t be able to help yourself from falling.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe that was true. It was more she was afraid to trust it.

After Gram went on her way, Tessa sat down next to her finished cake and decided to make another. Baking was the one thing she did where all her troubles fell away. Lilac thought she was good enough to make a go of it on her own, but she wanted to learn proper techniques from the best teachers. She wanted to learn how to set up her own business. And she wanted to understand everything about pastries. That’s why, one night after a little too much wine, she actually hit send on her application to pastry school.

It wasn’t the right time, she knew. Not with the business floundering. So if by chance she got in, which would be a miracle, she’d have to say no. But she couldn’t help wondering if she’d get in. For so many years, she’d dreamed of getting that letter.

By nine thirty, Tessa’s stress baking was still not relieving her stress. Now she was visualizing her application to the Chicago School of French Pastry sitting in a pile on a famous chef’s desk. She’d be French, of course, and would murmur approvingly at Tessa’s experience in her family’s multigenerational bakery.

But then…she’d see the bread on the résumé. Only bread, bread, and more bread. Where is the pastry experience? she’d ask. And just like that, Tessa would get tossed from the maybe pile to the no way pile.

Tessa sat in the silent bakery, noticing the light from the big, bright, pizza-pie moon flooding in through the window. The lovers’ moon was still there. She might carry a romantic gene and a curse on the women in her family that doomed them to fall head over heels, but her sensible side knew that some fairy-tale moon wasn’t going to save her. Nothing short of getting out of this town for good would do that.

Wine. That’s what she needed.

She checked the fridge in the back and all the storage cabinets. Nada. And she knew she didn’t have any at home in her apartment. She even rummaged through her deep desk drawers in the very back room, but the spreadsheets were still open on her computer, reminding her of their troubles. And that made her even more determined to find a bottle somewhere.

A glance at her phone told her it was almost ten o’clock. The grocery store was closed, and a trip to the next town and back would take an hour.