The Sweet Spot

10

As the weeks rolled by, it became impossible to deny the shift that had occurred between Oliver and me. What started as a rocky collaboration filled with constant bickering had somehow morphed into something else—something unspoken but palpable. The more time we spent together in the bakery, the more our interactions took on a different tone. The snarky comments remained, but now they were laced with a kind of playfulness, almost as if we were daring each other to cross a line neither of us was quite ready to admit existed.

And then there was Elliot, always at the center of our interactions. He adored Oliver, and it was clear that the feeling was mutual. Elliot's innocent requests to "learn cool chef stuff" had evolved into full-fledged lessons. Oliver was surprisingly patient with him, teaching him how to hold a whisk properly or explaining why certain ingredients reacted the way they did. It was heartwarming to watch, and I found myself smiling more often than I should have, just watching them together.

One afternoon, as I was frosting a batch of cupcakes, I glanced over to see Elliot sitting on a stool next to Oliver, intently watching as Oliver showed him how to fold dough. The sight made my heart swell, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "You're good with him."

Oliver glanced up, surprised by the compliment. "He's a smart kid. Picks up things fast."

"Yeah," I said softly, my gaze lingering on them. "He adores you, you know."

Oliver looked slightly uncomfortable at that, his usual stoic mask slipping for just a moment. "He's a good kid," he said again, almost as if he didn't know how else to respond.

But there was something else in his expression—something deeper that made my chest tighten. I knew Oliver had his walls, and I had never pried into his past. But watching him with Elliot, it was clear that he wasn't as detached as he wanted people to think.

As the afternoon wore on, we continued working side by side, the comfortable rhythm of our partnership easing the tension that always seemed to linger in the background. But then, as if on cue, Elliot piped up with one of his innocent questions.

"Mr. Steele, do you like my mom?"

Oliver froze for a split second, and I nearly dropped the piping bag in my hands. My heart raced as I looked up, meeting Oliver's gaze for what felt like an eternity. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something I couldn't quite name.

"Well," Oliver said slowly, his voice surprisingly calm. "Your mom is... stubborn."

Elliot giggled, completely missing the weight of the moment. "She is! She never lets me stay up late!"

I let out a shaky laugh, trying to play it off. "Okay, that's enough out of you, mister. Go wash up for dinner."

Elliot scampered off, leaving Oliver and me standing there in the middle of the kitchen, the question hanging in the air between us. I avoided his gaze, suddenly feeling the need to busy myself with something—anything—to break the tension.

"You handled that well," I said, my voice sounding more strained than I intended.

Oliver shrugged, his usual calm demeanor returning. "Kids ask what they want to know."

"Yeah," I murmured, feeling my cheeks flush. "They do."

For the rest of the evening, the air between us felt charged. Every brush of our hands, every glance we shared seemed to carry more weight than it had before. I could feel the attraction between us growing, and it terrified me. I wasn't sure if I was ready for this—if I was ready for the possibility of something more with Oliver.

But no matter how much I tried to push it down, the truth was becoming harder to ignore.

I was falling for him.

And I had no idea what to do about it.