Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~5 min read
The week after the review published was chaos.
Good chaos, but chaos nonetheless.
Sweet Haven had lines wrapped around the block every morning. Ivy had to hire two part-time employees just to keep up with demand. She was baking triple batches of everything, running out of ingredients, frantically calling suppliers.
Moreau’s was booked solid for the next two months. Bash had to turn people away. He brought Leo on full-time and hired another line cook.
They barely saw each other except in passing—quick kisses in the alley between rushes, exhausted waves through windows at midnight.
“I miss you,” Ivy texted him on day five of the madness.
“I’m twenty feet away,” Bash responded.
“Might as well be twenty miles.”
“Dinner? Tomorrow? My place? I’ll cook.”
“You cook all day.”
“I’ll cook FOR you. Something not on the menu. Something just for us.”
Ivy smiled at her phone. “Deal. What time?”
“After service. 10 PM?”
“I’ll be there.”
Bash’s apartment was small and surprisingly cozy. Ivy had never been inside before. It was above the restaurant, all exposed brick and dark wood and windows that overlooked Main Street. Books everywhere—cookbooks, food history, French novels. A kitchen that was immaculate and professional. A bedroom she very deliberately didn’t look at too long.
“This is nice,” she said, taking it in.
“It’s cramped,” Bash said, stirring something on the stove. “But it’s home.”
He’d made coq au vin. Served it with crusty bread and a simple salad. They ate at his small table by candlelight, and Ivy felt something settle in her chest.
“This is perfect,” she said.
“It’s peasant food.”
“It’s delicious. And you made it for me. That makes it perfect.”
Bash smiled. That rare, genuine smile that transformed his whole face. “I wanted to do something normal. Just… us. No cameras. No crowds. No pressure.”
“I love it.” Ivy reached across the table. He took her hand. “I love this. Us. Even when it’s crazy.”
“It’s going to stay crazy,” Bash said. “The festival is in two weeks. After that, who knows. The article brought attention. More reviews will come. More pressure.”
“We can handle it.”
“Can we?” His thumb traced circles on her palm. “I don’t want this—us—to get lost in the noise. I don’t want to lose you to success.”
Ivy’s throat tightened. “You won’t. Bash, we’re a team. In the kitchen and out of it. The success is shared. The pressure is shared. All of it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
They finished dinner and moved to his couch. Ivy curled into his side, and he wrapped an arm around her, and they sat in comfortable silence.
“My mother would have loved you,” Bash said quietly. “She always said food should bring joy. I forgot that for a long time. Turned it into competition. Into proving myself. But you reminded me.”
“What was she like?”
“Strong. Funny. She worked three jobs to put me through culinary school. Never complained. Never gave up.” His voice roughened. “She died the year I graduated. Never got to see me cook professionally. Never saw any of this.”
Ivy squeezed his hand. “She sees. I’m sure of it. And she’s proud.”
“I hope so.”
They sat there as the candles burned down, and Ivy thought about all the things she wanted to tell him. About her own parents—whoever they were—and the foster homes and the loneliness. But also about finding her place. Finding him.
“Thank you,” she said instead. “For this. For cooking for me. For letting me in.”
Bash kissed the top of her head. “Thank you for breaking down my walls. For being patient with my grumpiness. For making me want to be better.”
“You’re already wonderful.”
“I’m a work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all?”
They fell asleep on the couch, tangled together, and for the first time in weeks, Ivy slept through the night.
The festival prep ramped up.
Mayor Whitmore called mandatory meetings. Vendors needed coordinating. Setup needed planning. And Bash and Ivy needed to finalize their dessert presentation.
They decided to do a live demonstration. Make the bread pudding on-site, serve it warm to festival-goers. It was ambitious and terrifying and exactly the kind of thing that could go spectacularly wrong.
“We’re insane,” Ivy said, looking at the plan.
“Completely,” Bash agreed. “But if we pull it off…”
“It’ll be amazing.”
“It’ll be us.”
They practiced the demonstration until they could do it in their sleep. Timed every step. Practiced their banter. Made sure the portable equipment worked.
Leo and Margot watched one of the practice runs and applauded at the end.
“You two are disgustingly cute,” Margot said.
“And coordinated,” Leo added. “It’s like watching a cooking show. A romantic cooking show.”
“We’re not that cute,” Bash muttered.
“You literally just wiped flour off her nose and called her sunshine,” Leo said. “You’re THAT cute.”
Ivy laughed. “He’s right. We’re gross.”
“Wonderfully gross,” Margot corrected. “The town loves it. You’re like our mascots now. The grump and the sunshine. The chef and the baker. Star-crossed lovers who found their happy ending.”
“We’re not at the ending yet,” Bash said. “We’re just getting started.”
But he was smiling when he said it. And when he looked at Ivy, his eyes were soft with promise.
Two weeks until the festival. Two weeks until they showed the town—and themselves—what they could really do together.
Ivy couldn’t wait.
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