Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~7 min read
James Thorne arrived at Sweet Haven at exactly 10:00 AM with a camera crew.
Ivy had not been prepared for a camera crew.
“Don’t worry,” Thorne said cheerfully, setting up his recording equipment. “This is just for the online version of the article. My readers love seeing chefs in action. You two don’t mind, do you?”
Bash and Ivy exchanged glances. Bash looked like he minded very much. But he said, “Of course not.”
They’d been in Ivy’s kitchen since 8:00 AM, prepping ingredients, reviewing their process, and very carefully not talking about last night’s almost-kiss. Now they stood at her work station, acutely aware of cameras pointing at them, and tried to act natural.
“So,” Thorne began, settling into a chair with his notebook. “Tell me about this collaboration. How did it start?”
Bash and Ivy looked at each other.
“We hated each other,” Ivy said honestly.
Thorne’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
“She played music too loud,” Bash added. “At 4 AM.”
“He was grumpy about literally everything,” Ivy said.
“She parked in my spot.”
“It wasn’t your spot!”
They were bickering again, and Thorne was writing notes with barely concealed amusement.
“So how did you get from hating each other to creating one of the best desserts I’ve had this year?” he asked.
Ivy softened. “The mayor made us.”
“Mayor Whitmore required us to collaborate for the food festival,” Bash explained. “We tried to work together and failed spectacularly.”
“Then I had a panic attack at 2 AM,” Ivy continued. “And he helped me make bread.”
“And we realized,” Bash said, looking at her, “that we work better together than apart.”
The way he said it made it sound like more than just cooking. Thorne clearly noticed.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “And how does the creative process work? Who leads?”
“We both do,” Ivy said. “It’s equal. I handle the pastry elements, he handles the flavor complexity.”
“She brings heart,” Bash added. “I bring technique. Together it’s—”
“Balanced,” Ivy finished.
Thorne smiled. “Show me. Walk me through making this dessert together.”
They’d made this dessert so many times it should have been automatic. But with cameras watching and a critic taking notes, every movement felt weighted.
Bash started the caramel. Ivy tore the croissants. They moved around each other in the small kitchen with the ease of practice.
“The key,” Bash said, stirring the sugar, “is controlling the bitterness. Caramel can go from perfect to burned in seconds.”
“And the croissants need to be day-old,” Ivy added, layering them into ramekins. “Fresh ones won’t absorb the custard properly.”
“Ivy’s croissants are extraordinary,” Bash said. “Best lamination I’ve seen.”
Ivy looked up, surprised. He’d complimented her before, but never so publicly. Never on camera.
“His caramel is perfect,” she said. “The bourbon adds warmth without overwhelming. And the salt cuts the sweetness.”
“She taught me that,” Bash admitted. “The balance. I tend to go too dark, too bitter. Ivy reminds me people actually want to enjoy what they’re eating.”
Thorne was writing furiously.
They assembled the desserts in comfortable silence. Bash made the custard while Ivy melted the chocolate. She’d reach for something and find he’d already moved it closer. He’d need a measuring spoon and she’d hand it to him without looking.
“You two have done this before,” Thorne observed.
“A few times,” Ivy said.
“A hundred times,” Bash corrected. “She’s a perfectionist. Refused to serve it until it was flawless.”
“He’s worse,” Ivy countered. “He tasted each batch six times and adjusted the salt by individual grains.”
“Precision matters.”
“Control freak.”
“Chaos gremlin.”
They were smiling at each other now, the bickering affectionate. Thorne was practically glowing.
“This is fascinating,” he said. “The chemistry between you two—it’s palpable. And it translates directly to the food.”
Bash cleared his throat. “Should we… should we put these in the oven now?”
Forty minutes later, they pulled out perfect individual bread puddings. Golden tops, custardy centers, the smell of bourbon and caramel filling the kitchen.
Bash plated with his usual precision. Ivy added the final touches—a dusting of powdered sugar, a fresh mint leaf.
Thorne tasted it slowly, savoring each element.
The silence stretched.
Ivy’s heart was pounding.
Finally, Thorne set down his fork. “Remarkable. The technical skill is evident, but what makes this special is the soul. You can taste the collaboration. The push and pull between refined and rustic. Precise and playful.”
“So it’s good?” Ivy asked, unable to help herself.
Thorne laughed. “Ms. Sinclair, it’s exceptional. Both of your businesses are exceptional. But together? You’re something else entirely.”
Bash’s hand found Ivy’s under the counter. Squeezed once.
She squeezed back.
“I have one more question,” Thorne said, looking between them with knowing eyes. “This collaboration—is it just professional?”
Ivy froze.
Bash’s grip on her hand tightened.
“Because,” Thorne continued, “what I’m seeing is two people who’ve found their complement. In the kitchen and, I suspect, beyond it. That kind of connection is rare. My readers will want to know—is Willowbrook witnessing a culinary partnership or a love story?”
Ivy looked at Bash. He was already looking at her.
“Both,” he said quietly. “If she’ll have me.”
Ivy’s breath caught. “On camera? You’re asking me this on camera?”
“I’m terrible at this,” Bash said, turning to face her fully. “At people. At feelings. At everything that isn’t cooking. But you make me want to try. You make me want to be softer. Kinder. Better.” His thumb brushed her knuckles. “So yes. On camera. In front of a critic. In front of the whole town if necessary. I want this. I want you. If you want me too.”
Ivy was crying. Happy tears, surprised tears, overwhelmed tears.
“You’re such an idiot,” she said, laughing through the tears. “Of course I want you.”
She kissed him.
Right there, in her kitchen, with cameras rolling and James Thorne watching and probably half the town about to hear about it.
She kissed him, and he kissed her back, and it was worth the wait. Soft and searching and perfect.
When they broke apart, Thorne was beaming.
“Well,” he said. “That’s definitely going in the article.”
The interview wrapped at noon. Thorne packed his equipment, promised the article would run next week, and left them with his blessing.
Ivy and Bash stood in the empty bakery, still holding hands.
“We’re going to be in a national food publication,” Ivy said. “Kissing.”
“Mrs. Fletcher is going to lose her mind,” Bash said.
“The whole town is going to lose their mind.”
“Probably.”
They looked at each other and started laughing. Real, genuine, slightly hysterical laughter.
“So,” Ivy said when they calmed down. “We’re doing this? Actually doing this?”
“If you want to.”
“I want to.” She squeezed his hand. “But slowly. We still have the festival. Our businesses. A lot of very public pressure.”
“Slowly is good,” Bash agreed. “I’m not good at fast.”
“And we’ll have to tell people. Leo. Margot. The mayor.”
“They already know.”
“They suspect. Knowing is different.”
Bash pulled her closer. “I don’t care if the whole world knows. I’m terrible at hiding things anyway. I’ve been staring at you through windows for weeks.”
“I know. I’ve been staring back.”
“I know.”
They stood there, holding each other in the quiet bakery, and Ivy felt something settle in her chest. Something right.
“One more thing,” Bash said.
“Yeah?”
“That dinner I promised you. Tonight. Somewhere that’s not our kitchens.”
Ivy smiled. “You’re asking me on a date?”
“I’m asking you on a date.”
“Then yes. Absolutely yes.”
He kissed her again. Slower this time. Sweeter.
And Ivy thought: this is what all those romance novels talk about. This feeling. This rightness. This sense of coming home.
She was falling in love with Sebastian Moreau.
No—she’d already fallen.
And from the way he was looking at her, he’d fallen too.
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