The Sweet Spot

7

The days leading up to the Willow Creek Food Fair flew by in a blur of flour, sugar, and frantic creativity. My kitchen became a chaotic laboratory of trial and error, with Elliot darting around and occasionally offering his opinions—which were usually about whether or not something was "yummy." His six-year-old stamp of approval was endearing, but I knew I had to aim higher.

As the fair loomed closer, a sense of urgency buzzed in the air. I'd taken Oliver's advice to heart, pushing myself beyond the safe, predictable recipes I'd clung to for so long. But there was always that nagging voice in the back of my mind, whispering that I was taking too many risks. The experimental flavors—like lavender-lemon tarts and spicy chocolate cupcakes—were delicious, but would they appeal to the judges at the fair?

There was no time to second-guess myself. The decision was made, and I had to stick with it. I'd gone bold, just like Oliver said, and now I had to own it.

It was the morning before the big day, and I was elbow-deep in dough, trying to get a batch of rosemary-infused shortbread cookies just right. Elliot sat at his little table, coloring away, occasionally glancing up to see if he could sneak a cookie.

"You'll get one once they're baked, buddy," I said, smiling at him as I wiped my flour-dusted hands on my apron.

He looked up with that innocent, gap-toothed smile of his and nodded. "Okay, Mommy. But they smell really yummy!"

"Good sign, right?" I said, more to myself than to him.

As I slid the cookies into the oven, I felt the familiar swirl of anxiety and excitement rise up. It wasn't just about the competition anymore; it was about proving to myself that I could do this. The bakery needed a boost, and the fair was my chance to put Sweet Dreams on the map. I wasn't just competing for the prize or the recognition—I was competing for our future.

Just then, the bell over the door chimed, and I didn't even need to look up to know who it was. Oliver had a way of entering a room that carried a sense of quiet authority. I glanced up, wiping my hands on a towel, as he strolled in, his usual stoic expression in place.

"Busy day?" he asked, his voice as low and gravelly as ever.

I sighed, shaking my head. "Isn't it always?"

He smirked slightly, walking over to the counter and leaning against it, his arms crossed. "Fair's tomorrow. You ready?"

I hesitated, glancing at the oven and the various half-prepared trays of pastries scattered around the kitchen. "As ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound like confidence."

I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest. "It's not that I'm not confident. It's just... I'm nervous, okay? I've never done anything like this before."

He watched me for a long moment, his gaze intense but unreadable. Then, to my surprise, he nodded, as if he understood. "Good. You should be nervous."

I blinked, thrown off by his response. "I should?"

"Yeah," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "It means you care. It means you're pushing yourself. If you weren't nervous, I'd be worried."

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, letting his words sink in. There was truth in what he was saying, even if it wasn't what I wanted to hear. The nerves I felt were a reminder of how much this meant to me, of how important Sweet Dreams was—not just for me, but for Elliot.

Oliver glanced at the tray of lavender-lemon tarts cooling on the counter. He picked one up, inspecting it with the same critical eye I'd come to expect. Without a word, he took a bite, chewing slowly as he considered the flavors.

"Well?" I asked, unable to stop myself from fishing for feedback.

He swallowed, then nodded. "That's bold. Unexpected. The lavender is subtle but adds complexity to the lemon. You're on the right track."

A rush of relief flooded through me. Coming from Oliver, that was high praise. "You really think so?"

He gave me a small, approving nod. "Yeah. You're taking risks, and it's paying off. But remember—presentation matters just as much as flavor. People eat with their eyes first."

I nodded, absorbing his advice. Presentation. I hadn't given it much thought, but he was right. The food had to look as good as it tasted. I had a mental checklist of things to adjust, but there was no time to panic.

Oliver's visits had become a strange kind of lifeline in the past few days. As much as his gruff demeanor could be maddening, his critiques had pushed me to be better. He'd show up at the oddest times, offering a comment here, a suggestion there, never staying long, but always leaving me with something to think about. It was like he was invested in my success, even though he pretended not to be.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

Oliver looked up, surprised, his brows furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, why are you here every day, giving me advice? What do you get out of this?" I gestured around the bakery, as if to highlight the oddness of the situation. "You don't exactly strike me as the mentor type."

He was silent for a moment, as if weighing his response. Then, with a shrug, he said, "You remind me of someone."

I blinked. "Who?"

"Myself," he said simply.

The confession hung in the air between us, surprising me. Oliver rarely shared anything personal, and I hadn't expected him to start now. But the weight of his words carried a strange kind of comfort. He understood what it was like to care about something so much that the fear of failure loomed over you, threatening to knock you down. Maybe that's why he kept coming back.

"You don't have to do this alone, you know," he added, his tone softening just a fraction.

I swallowed, feeling an unexpected lump in my throat. For so long, I had been carrying the weight of the bakery and my responsibilities on my own, too proud to ask for help, too afraid of what it would mean if I admitted I couldn't do it all. But standing here, with Oliver's quiet support, I realized maybe I didn't have to shoulder it all by myself.

"I appreciate that," I said quietly.

He gave me one of his rare, fleeting smiles. "Don't mention it."

We stood in a comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air. Then, with a quick glance at his watch, Oliver straightened. "I've got to go, but I'll see you at the fair tomorrow. Don't forget—presentation."

"I won't," I promised, feeling a bit lighter than before.

As Oliver turned to leave, Elliot ran up to the counter, his little face beaming. "Bye, Mr. Steele!"

Oliver paused at the door, glancing down at Elliot with a smirk. "See you, kid."

When the door closed behind him, I let out a long breath. Tomorrow was the big day. Everything I'd worked for was riding on this. But somehow, with Oliver's words still echoing in my mind, I felt... ready. Nervous, yes, but ready.

"Are you gonna win, Mommy?" Elliot asked, looking up at me with wide eyes.

I knelt down to his level, brushing a stray curl out of his face. "I'm going to do my best, buddy. That's all we can do, right?"

He nodded seriously, his little hand reaching out to squeeze mine. "You're the best baker, Mommy."

My heart swelled with love for him, and I hugged him tight. "Thank you, sweetie. That means the world to me."

As I stood back up, I glanced around the bakery, feeling a strange mixture of exhaustion and excitement. The hours ahead would be grueling, but I knew, deep down, that I had something special. Sweet Dreams was more than just a bakery. It was a place of hope, of possibility. And tomorrow, at the fair, I was going to show everyone what it meant to me.

I glanced at the oven timer and smiled.

Tomorrow, I'd give it everything I had.