The Sweet Spot

9

After the thrill of winning the Willow Creek Food Fair had settled, reality quickly crept back in. The bakery was busier than ever, with customers pouring in, excited to try the treats that had earned first place. Sweet Dreams had finally gotten the recognition I'd dreamed of, but with that came the pressure of maintaining the quality and reputation that brought people in.

One morning, after a particularly exhausting shift, I found myself slumped over the counter, staring at the long list of new orders. I'd barely had a moment to breathe since the fair, and every new order felt like another weight added to my shoulders. I was proud, of course—so proud of what I'd accomplished—but I wasn't prepared for the sudden influx of business.

As I mentally calculated how many more hours I could squeeze into the day, the bell above the door jingled. I didn't even need to look up to know it was Oliver. His presence was like a shadow—constant and unmistakable. He had been dropping by more frequently since the fair, though he always pretended it was for something casual like a coffee or to check in on Elliot.

"Busy day?" His voice cut through the quiet of the bakery.

I groaned, rubbing my temples. "You have no idea."

Oliver leaned against the counter, eyeing the list of orders in front of me. "Looks like you've got more than you can handle."

I didn't need the reminder. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," I muttered, more to myself than to him.

He didn't seem fazed by my frustration. Instead, he continued to study the list. "You're going to burn out if you keep going at this pace."

"I don't have a choice," I snapped, my exhaustion getting the better of me. "It's just me running this place, and now with all these new orders, I can't afford to slow down. If I don't keep up, I'll lose the momentum."

Oliver's expression softened slightly, and for a moment, I thought I saw concern flash in his eyes. "I could help," he said, his voice quieter than usual.

I blinked, unsure if I had heard him correctly. "What?"

"I said, I could help," he repeated, more firmly this time.

I let out a short laugh, the absurdity of his offer catching me off guard. "You? Help me? We'd kill each other in the kitchen within an hour."

Oliver smirked, but there was a hint of seriousness beneath it. "We might. But at least you wouldn't be drowning under all these orders."

I opened my mouth to argue, but he had a point. As much as we bickered, Oliver was a skilled chef. Having him in the kitchen would take some of the load off my shoulders, even if it meant enduring his critiques and endless sarcasm.

Before I could respond, Elliot came bounding into the bakery, his face lighting up when he saw Oliver. "Mr. Steele! Are you gonna show me how to do cool chef stuff today?"

Oliver glanced down at him, his stoic expression softening ever so slightly. "Not today, kid. Your mom needs my help."

Elliot's eyes went wide with excitement. "You're gonna help Mommy?"

I frowned, feeling torn. The idea of working with Oliver sounded like a disaster waiting to happen, but with Elliot's hopeful eyes on me and the mountain of work looming over my head, I didn't have much choice.

"Fine," I said reluctantly. "But if you start bossing me around in my own kitchen, I'm kicking you out."

Oliver chuckled, pushing off the counter. "Deal."

And that's how the most unlikely partnership began. Working with Oliver was, unsurprisingly, as infuriating as I'd imagined. He had his own way of doing things, and it clashed with my rhythm in the kitchen. He'd bark out orders like I was one of his sous-chefs, and I'd fire back, reminding him that I was the boss here. We bickered over everything—how to knead dough, how much sugar to use, even the best way to pipe frosting.

But beneath all the arguing, there was a strange sense of camaraderie. As much as we clashed, there was no denying that we worked well together. He pushed me to be better, to refine my techniques, and in return, I challenged him with my own creativity. Our styles were different—he was precise, meticulous, and focused on perfection, while I was more intuitive, letting the ingredients guide me. But somehow, in the chaos of it all, we found a balance.

It didn't go unnoticed, either. Elliot would sit at the little table in the corner, watching us with wide eyes, grinning as we bickered and bantered. He seemed to find the whole thing entertaining, and in a way, it was. It was as if Oliver and I had settled into a strange rhythm of friendly competition, each of us trying to outdo the other, but never crossing the line into real animosity.

One afternoon, after a particularly intense debate over the proper way to make éclairs, Oliver turned to me, wiping flour from his hands. "You're stubborn, you know that?"

I crossed my arms, giving him a pointed look. "Takes one to know one."

He smirked, leaning against the counter. "Maybe. But you're good. You've got talent. You just need someone to push you out of your comfort zone."

I opened my mouth to retort, but the words caught in my throat. His compliment—if that's what it was—took me by surprise. Coming from Oliver, that meant something.

"Thanks," I said, a little more softly than I intended.

He nodded, his expression unreadable as he turned back to the dough he was kneading. "Don't get used to it."

Despite the constant bickering, there was an undeniable chemistry simmering beneath the surface. I'd be lying if I said I didn't notice the way his hand would brush against mine as we worked side by side, or the way his gaze would linger on me just a moment too long when he thought I wasn't looking. There was a tension between us, one that neither of us was willing to acknowledge.

But as the days passed and we continued to work together, that tension became harder to ignore.