Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~8 min read
Day three of Sweet Haven being open, and Ivy officially had a nemesis.
She hadn’t meant to acquire a nemesis. Nemeses—nemesises? What was the plural?—weren’t part of her business plan. Her business plan involved kind customers, delicious pastries, and a peaceful existence where she could bake without anyone glaring at her through windows.
Sebastian Moreau—she’d learned his name from Margot, who owned the wine bar on her other side and seemed to know everything about everyone—apparently had other ideas.
The parking war started on day two.
Ivy arrived at 4:00 AM, like always, and parked in the left spot, like she had on opening day. She was midway through unloading her supply order when she saw it: a note tucked under her windshield wiper.
She pulled it free, squinting in the alley’s security light.
This is my spot. Please park in the right space. – SM
Neat handwriting. Curt. No “please” that actually sounded like please—more like “please” that meant “I’m being technically polite but I hate you.”
Ivy looked at the two parking spaces. Identical. Same size. Same distance from both doors. There was literally no difference except that he’d apparently decided the left one was his through sheer force of grumpiness.
She crumpled the note and parked there again the next morning.
4:00 AM on day three, she found another note:
I’m not joking. Right space. – SM
Ivy stared at it. Then at the bakery. Then at the restaurant, where she could see lights on in the kitchen and a tall figure moving around inside.
She pulled out her phone and typed a quick note, screenshotted it, and printed it on the small printer she kept for receipts. Then she tucked it under his windshield wiper—his very expensive, very pristine black Mercedes that screamed “I’m a chef who takes myself too seriously.”
Neither am I. There are two spots. I’m using one. You’re using one. Mathematics! – Ivy Sinclair (your NEIGHBOR)
She added a smiley face at the end.
The next morning, her wiper had a note:
Your ventilation is still blowing powdered sugar onto my mise en place. Fix it. – SM
She left a response:
Already called the HVAC guy. He’s coming Tuesday. Your dumpster is overflowing into my pickup zone. – Ivy
Smiley face. Obviously.
His response:
Trash pickup is Wednesday. It’s Tuesday. That’s how time works. – SM
Hers:
Maybe fill it less? Just a thought! – Ivy
Two smiley faces this time.
His:
Maybe mind your own business. – SM
No smiley face. Not even a period that could be generously interpreted as a tiny, sad smiley face.
Ivy stood in the alley at 4:15 AM, reading his note, and felt something bubble up in her chest. Not quite anger. Not quite amusement. Some dangerous combination that made her want to do something petty.
She looked at the dumpster. At the recycling bins scattered around it—his recycling, clearly, because she’d barely made any trash yet. Wine bottles. Cardboard. The detritus of a successful restaurant.
Ivy bit her lip.
Then she walked over and neatly organized all of his recycling into the proper bins.
She didn’t leave a note. She just did it. Then she went inside and started her croissants with a smile that felt slightly unhinged.
The war escalated.
Day five: She arrived to find he’d parked his Mercedes at a slight angle, just enough that it made it harder for her to pull into her spot. She had to do a three-point turn.
She retaliated by bringing his trash bins back from the curb after pickup and placing them neatly beside his door. With a note: You’re welcome! – Ivy Smiley face.
Day six: He parked fully blocking her in. She had to knock on his door at 1:00 PM—interrupting his lunch prep, based on the annoyed French cursing she heard—to ask him to move.
“You blocked me in,” she said when he opened the door, looking unfairly good in his chef’s whites despite the scowl.
“You parked in my spot,” he countered.
“It’s not YOUR spot!”
“I’ve been parking there for three years.”
“And now you’re parking on the right. Change is healthy. Builds character.”
His jaw twitched. Gray eyes narrowed. “You’re un-building my character right now.”
“I don’t think ‘un-building’ is a word.”
“Move your car to the right space, and I’ll move mine.”
“No.”
They stared at each other. Ivy became acutely aware that she was wearing her flour-covered apron and probably had cinnamon in her hair. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a culinary magazine. Sharp features. Strong jaw. Hair that looked artfully messy but was probably just regular messy because he ran his hands through it when he was annoyed, which seemed to be constantly.
He was objectively attractive, which made her more annoyed.
“Please move your car,” she said. “I have a delivery coming.”
“Say I can have the left spot.”
“No!”
“Then no.”
“You’re being childish!”
“You’re being stubborn!”
“I’M BEING STUBBORN?”
They were nearly shouting now. Someone across the street—Mrs. Fletcher, the elderly woman who seemed to be everywhere—was watching with undisguised glee.
Bash seemed to notice her too. His jaw tightened further, which Ivy hadn’t thought was possible.
“Fine,” he bit out. “I’ll move. This time.”
“How generous,” Ivy shot back.
He moved his car. She moved hers. They didn’t speak.
But when she went inside, she saw him watching her through his kitchen window with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
Day eight brought a new development.
Ivy arrived at 4:00 AM to find a Yelp notification on her phone. Someone had left a review. Her first review.
Her hands shook as she opened it.
Sweet Haven Bakery – 5 Stars
Best croissants I’ve ever had outside of Paris! The owner is delightful. So much better than the grumpy chef next door at Moreau’s who snarled at me when I asked if he sold pastries. Support this lovely new bakery!
Ivy’s heart sank.
Oh no.
She clicked over to Moreau’s page and scrolled through his reviews. Mostly five stars. Glowing praise. “Best restaurant in Willowbrook.” “Michelin-star quality.” “Chef Moreau is a genius.”
And then, posted two hours ago:
Moreau’s – 3 Stars
Food was excellent, but Chef was in a foul mood during our visit. Snapped at his staff. Gave my wife a dirty look when she asked about dessert. Maybe he should take lessons in customer service from the lovely baker next door! We’ll be going to Sweet Haven for dessert from now on.
Oh no no no.
Ivy read it three times, stomach churning. This wasn’t her fault—she hadn’t told anyone to compare them. But she could already imagine how he’d react.
She didn’t have to wait long.
At 6:00 AM, there was pounding on her back door. Not knocking. Pounding.
She opened it to find Bash standing there, phone in hand, absolutely furious.
“Stay away from my customers,” he said, voice deadly quiet.
“What?”
“You’re—what are you doing? Some kind of charm offensive? Stealing my clientele?”
“I’m not stealing anyone! I’m selling pastries!”
“You’re telling people to leave me bad reviews!”
“I would NEVER—” Ivy’s voice cracked. “I haven’t told anyone anything about you!”
“Then explain THIS.” He shoved his phone at her, showing the review.
She read it, then looked up at him. “I can’t control what people write! That person came in, yes. She bought croissants. She asked if I knew you. I said we were neighbors. That’s it!”
“You had to mention me at all?”
“She ASKED!”
“Well, congratulations.” His voice dripped with acid. “You’re the sweet, lovely baker and I’m the monster. I’m sure that’s great for your business.”
Ivy felt something crack in her chest. She’d been trying so hard. Trying to be kind, to be patient, to give him space. And he thought—he actually thought she was sabotaging him?
“Get out,” she said quietly.
He blinked. “What?”
“Get. Out.” Louder now. “I have never been anything but nice to you. I apologized for the music. I called the HVAC guy. I organized your recycling, for God’s sake! And you show up at my door at six in the morning accusing me of ruining your business? Get out of my bakery.”
Something shifted in his expression. Uncertainty, maybe. Or regret.
“I—”
“OUT!”
He left.
Ivy closed the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. Her hands were shaking. Her eyes were burning.
She would not cry. She wouldn’t.
From the other side of the wall, she heard pots clanging. Aggressive cooking noises. The sound of someone taking their feelings out on innocent vegetables.
Ivy looked at her croissants, waiting to be shaped.
“Well,” she whispered to them. “That went poorly.”
The war, apparently, was on.
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