The Sweet Spot

4

The next few days at Sweet Dreams were a blur of dough, flour, and exhaustion. Business was still slow, but I found myself pouring more energy into my baking than ever before. Every time I whisked an egg or measured out sugar, Oliver Steele's words echoed in my mind. His critique had gotten under my skin, and whether I liked it or not, I was determined to prove him wrong. Or maybe, to prove him right—if I could find that elusive balance between good and great.

But something strange happened. Oliver kept showing up, day after day, slipping into the bakery without much fanfare. He'd always order something different—a scone, a muffin, a tart—but he never stuck around for long. He'd critique whatever he was eating, sometimes in his usual blunt, no-nonsense way, other times with more subtle suggestions. And every time he left, I found myself feeling a mixture of frustration and... intrigue.

Why was he coming back? What did he want? Surely, if he thought my baking was as mediocre as he implied, he would've stopped showing up by now. But he didn't. And what's more, he'd come in at odd times—early morning when no one else was around, or late afternoon when the bakery was quiet. It was almost as if he didn't want anyone to know he was coming here.

It was on one of these quiet afternoons, when the bakery was empty except for me, that Oliver walked in again. I was behind the counter, icing a batch of cupcakes, trying not to think about how close I was to closing up for the day without having sold half of what I needed to. The familiar jingle of the bell above the door made me look up, and there he was.

I had to admit, he looked more... relaxed today. His usual scowl was still in place, but there was something less rigid about the way he carried himself. Maybe it was the fact that he was wearing a simple gray t-shirt and jeans instead of the usual designer clothes that screamed "I'm important."

"Back again?" I asked, trying to keep my tone casual as I smoothed the icing on a cupcake. "At this rate, I might start thinking you actually like my baking."

Oliver raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he approached the counter. "I wouldn't go that far, Little Rabbit."

There it was again—Little Rabbit. The nickname still baffled me, but I'd stopped asking about it. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much it got under my skin.

"Well, you keep coming back," I pointed out, setting the cupcake aside and giving him my full attention. "So either you're a glutton for punishment, or you're starting to come around."

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked around the bakery, his eyes lingering on the empty tables and the quiet atmosphere. "It's quiet in here."

"Yeah, it's been like that lately," I admitted, leaning against the counter. "Business has been slow."

He nodded thoughtfully, then glanced at the display case. "Got any of that carrot cake?"

I blinked, surprised. "You want to try it again?"

His eyes flicked to mine, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe I'm curious to see if you've improved."

I huffed, grabbing a slice of the carrot cake from the display and placing it on a plate. "I'll have you know I've been working on it. Just for you," I said with a hint of sarcasm.

He took the plate and fork, but before he dug in, he gave me a pointed look. "You should be working on it for you, not for me."

The comment caught me off guard, and for a moment, I wasn't sure how to respond. He was right, of course. This bakery was my dream, and any improvements I made should be for the sake of that dream, not to impress some grumpy chef who couldn't seem to stay away.

Oliver took a bite of the cake, his face giving nothing away as he chewed. I stood there, watching him, feeling that familiar flutter of anxiety in my chest. His critiques had been harsh, but they had also been... helpful. I'd gone over his comments a dozen times in my head, trying to figure out how to strike the balance he kept talking about.

He swallowed, his gaze meeting mine. "It's better."

Relief washed over me, but I tried not to show it. "Better? That's it?"

A small smile tugged at his lips, and I realized it was the closest thing to a real smile I'd seen from him. "Don't get cocky, Little Rabbit. It's still not perfect."

I couldn't help the exasperated laugh that escaped me. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"I've been told," he said with a shrug, taking another bite of the cake.

There was a brief silence between us, and I found myself watching him more closely. His guard seemed down today, less prickly than usual. It made me wonder what was going on behind that stoic exterior of his. The articles I'd read online had painted him as a culinary genius, but also as someone who had let his temper and ego get the better of him. I wondered what had really happened to drive him out of New York and into the quiet isolation of Willow Creek.

"What brings you back here, anyway?" I asked, folding my arms. "I mean, besides your apparent mission to critique every baked good I make."

Oliver paused, his fork hovering over the cake for a moment before he set it down. He looked at me, his dark eyes unreadable. "I needed a break from the city. From the... noise."

"The noise?"

He nodded, leaning against the counter, his posture relaxing slightly. "New York is loud. The people, the industry, the expectations—it's all-consuming. I was part of it for years, and I didn't realize how much it was draining me until everything fell apart."

I frowned, sensing the weight of those last words. "Is that why you left?"

His jaw tightened slightly, but then he let out a breath, as if releasing some of the tension. "Yeah. The scandal didn't help, but the truth is, I was already burnt out. Coming here was supposed to be a way to... escape."

"Does it feel like you've escaped?" I asked softly, genuinely curious.

Oliver looked around the bakery again, his gaze lingering on the warm, cozy atmosphere. "Some days, it does. Other days... not so much."

I nodded, understanding more than I thought I would. "Running a bakery in a small town isn't exactly an escape either," I admitted. "There's always something to worry about—bills, customers, whether or not people like your carrot cake."

That earned me another one of those almost-smiles. "You've got heart, though. That's more than a lot of people in this industry can say."

The compliment—if that's what it was—caught me off guard. Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded patronizing, but from Oliver, it felt... real. He wasn't the type to hand out praise lightly, so I took it for what it was.

"Thanks," I said, my voice softening.

He nodded, pushing the empty plate toward me. "Keep working on the cake. You're getting there."

I watched as he turned and headed for the door, the usual brusqueness returning to his stride. But just before he stepped out, he paused, glancing back at me over his shoulder.

"And stop worrying so much about what other people think, Little Rabbit. Focus on what makes you happy."

With that, he was gone, leaving me standing there, a strange mix of confusion and warmth swirling in my chest.

I wasn't sure what to make of Oliver Steele. He was gruff, blunt, and sometimes downright rude, but there was something else there, too—something deeper that he kept hidden behind that scowl of his. Maybe he wasn't as immune to the charm of Willow Creek and my little bakery as he wanted to believe.

As I cleaned up the bakery for the day, I found myself thinking about his last words—about focusing on what made me happy. It was easier said than done, especially when the weight of responsibility felt so heavy on my shoulders. But maybe he was right. Maybe I needed to stop worrying so much about proving myself to others, and instead, focus on why I had started this bakery in the first place.

I wasn't sure what tomorrow would bring, but one thing was clear: Oliver Steele wasn't done with Sweet Dreams—or with me—just yet