It looked as if his mouth was trying to say something, screaming something, a vein in his neck protruding against his smooth skin. I couldn’t hear him. All I could hear was those same words repeating over and over and over in my head. “Stage-four cancer … Too late … I’m dying …”

The whistling of the kettle brings me back from those heartbreaking memories haunting my mind, and I shake my head, collecting myself as best I can. That was the day it all ended. Everything. That was the day I lost my mom. Although she didn’t pass away until about six months later, I lost her that day. In fact, with that one phone call, I lost everything. College. Momma. That was even the day I started losing Nash. Everything I loved was just snatched out from underneath me without warning, with one simple call.

It’s funny how your life can go from exceptional to devastating within the flash of an unexpected minute, and there’s nothing you can do about it when it happens.

Chapter 8

With the smell of cinnamon and sugar hanging in the air throughout the bakery, I have a little kick in my step, some gusto in my belly and a smile on my face as I open up the store for the after-church rush. I’ve been up since four o’clock, baking test batches for Nash and Anna’s wedding cake for them to try tomorrow and, if I wasn’t so excited, I’d probably be exhausted. But Nash wants to hang out today. Just the two of us. He said so himself, last night. There has to be a reason behind it. I know I wasn’t imagining it when I saw the flash of jealousy in his blue eyes as he watched Harley take my hand when we were leaving the country club. I saw it with my own damn eyes.

I’d sent him a text earlier to see what we were doing, where he wanted me to meet him, but that was forty-five minutes ago. Now, I keep finding myself checking the time in between customers, wondering what the hell is even going on. It’s almost eleven when I finally get to catch a break from the morning rush. With a heavy sigh, I take a sip from my glass of iced tea, drumming my fingers against the countertop, watching the clock on the far wall tick so excruciatingly slowly, it’s as if each second is mocking me. When I’m just about to give up and resign myself to the tray of freshly baked éclairs out back in the kitchen, my cell begins to ring, and I almost dislocate my shoulder trying to reach into my back pocket in time to answer it.

Nash.

“Hey!” I smile through the phone, trying not to give away my relief.

“Hey, Murph.” He chuckles from the other end as if he knows I’m more than excited to speak to him. “I got your text,” he continues. “Sorry, Anna and I got stuck talking to my grandma at brunch.”