Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~7 min read
The email from Mayor Diane Whitmore arrived on a Tuesday morning, and Ivy knew she was in trouble the moment she saw the subject line: Mandatory Meeting – Downtown Business Relations.
She was elbow-deep in brioche dough, and her stomach dropped straight through the floor.
This was about Bash. Had to be.
The meeting was scheduled for 2:00 PM that day. Non-negotiable. The email was cc’d to one other person: Sebastian Moreau.
Ivy wiped her hands on her apron and let out a long breath. Two weeks. She’d been in Willowbrook for exactly two weeks, and she was already getting called to the principal’s office.
Mayor Whitmore’s office was on the second floor of the town hall, a charming brick building that looked like it belonged on a postcard. Ivy climbed the stairs at 1:55 PM, stomach in knots, and found Bash already sitting in the waiting area.
He looked up when she entered. Their eyes met.
Neither spoke.
He was in dark jeans and a black button-down, no chef’s whites for once. It made him look less intimidating. Almost normal. Except for the scowl, which appeared to be a permanent feature.
Ivy sat three chairs away and studied her hands.
The silence was excruciating.
“I didn’t tell people to leave you bad reviews,” she said finally, quietly. “Just so you know.”
A pause. Then: “I know.”
She looked up, surprised.
His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the wall. “The review was… not your fault. I was having a bad day. I took it out on you.”
It wasn’t quite an apology. But from him, it felt close.
“Okay,” Ivy said.
More silence.
“Your croissants are good,” he added, still not looking at her. “Excellent lamination. Proper butter ratio.”
Ivy blinked. “Did you… did you try one?”
“Leo bought them. I tried a piece. For quality assessment.”
“Quality assessment.”
“It’s important to know the competition.”
“We’re not competing. You make dinner. I make breakfast and dessert.”
He finally looked at her. “Everything’s a competition.”
Before Ivy could respond, the office door opened. Mayor Whitmore stood there—a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair, sharp eyes, and the expression of someone who did not have time for nonsense.
“In,” she said. “Both of you.”
They filed in like chastised children.
The office was small and tidy, with photos of Willowbrook covering the walls. Main Street in different seasons. The annual food festival. Happy families at the farmer’s market. It was aggressively charming, which somehow made this whole situation worse.
Mayor Whitmore sat behind her desk and folded her hands.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked.
“The reviews?” Ivy tried.
“The parking situation?” Bash offered.
“The fact that half the town has started taking bets on whether you’ll kill each other or kiss each other?”
Ivy choked on air. Bash’s expression went carefully blank.
“I—what?” Ivy managed.
Mayor Whitmore pulled out her phone and started reading. “Mrs. Fletcher has money on kissing by Christmas. Margot says killing by Halloween. The book club is split. Tom at the hardware store thinks you’ll do both, though I’m unclear on the logistics.”
Ivy wanted to sink through the floor. Beside her, Bash had gone very still.
“The point,” Mayor Whitmore continued, “is that your very public feud is bad for business. For ALL downtown businesses. Willowbrook’s charm is community. Cooperation. Happy local owners supporting each other. Not…” She gestured between them. “Whatever this is.”
“He started it,” Ivy said, then immediately felt like she was twelve.
“She parks in my spot,” Bash countered.
“There are TWO spots!”
“I’ve been here for THREE YEARS!”
“That doesn’t mean you OWN—”
“ENOUGH.” Mayor Whitmore’s voice cracked like a whip. They both shut up. “I don’t care who started it. I care about ending it. Our town’s reputation depends on downtown being a pleasant place to visit. Right now, tourists are coming back with stories about the feuding food businesses. That’s not the brand we’re building.”
Ivy’s cheeks burned. She hadn’t thought about it like that. Hadn’t considered that her stupid parking war with her grumpy neighbor might actually hurt other people.
“What do you want us to do?” Bash asked, voice carefully neutral.
Mayor Whitmore pulled out two pieces of paper. “Sign these.”
Ivy took hers. Good Neighbor Agreement was printed at the top in official-looking font. She skimmed the contents:
– Both parties agree to maintain civil and professional relations
– No public arguments or disputes
– No negative commentary about the other business
– Mandatory collaboration on the annual Fall Food Festival dessert (October 15th)
– Shared alley maintenance responsibilities
“You’re making us work together?” Ivy looked up, horrified.
“The food festival is our biggest tourist draw of the year,” Mayor Whitmore said. “Every downtown food business collaborates on something. It’s tradition. You two will create a dessert together. Something that showcases both your talents. And you’ll be pleasant about it.”
Bash was reading his copy with the expression of someone being asked to eat glass. “This is—”
“Non-negotiable,” Mayor Whitmore interrupted. “You will work together, or I’ll revoke both your business licenses for disturbing the peace.”
“You can’t do that,” Bash said.
Mayor Whitmore smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. “Try me.”
Silence.
Ivy looked at the agreement. At the signature line. At Bash, who was staring at his copy like it had personally betrayed him.
This was insane. She couldn’t work with him. They could barely be in the same room without arguing. Creating a dessert together? Impossible.
But she’d taken out a massive loan for Sweet Haven. She’d burned every bridge at her old job to come here. She couldn’t lose her business license. Couldn’t fail. Not again.
“Fine,” she said, and signed.
Bash watched her, jaw working. Then he grabbed a pen and signed too.
Mayor Whitmore collected the agreements. “Wonderful. The festival is in six weeks. That gives you plenty of time to create something amazing. I expect you both to attend the planning meeting next Tuesday. Together. And smile while you’re there.”
“Anything else?” Bash asked, voice tight.
“Yes. The parking spots. You alternate. Odd days, Ivy gets the left spot. Even days, Sebastian gets it. I’ve already had the spaces repainted with numbers. If I hear about any more disputes, I’m converting them to two-hour public parking.”
Ivy’s mouth fell open. “You can’t—”
“I’m the mayor. I absolutely can.” She stood, indicating the meeting was over. “Now get out of my office and go be good neighbors. And for God’s sake, stop giving Mrs. Fletcher ammunition. She’s getting insufferable.”
They left in silence. Walked down the stairs in silence. Hit the sidewalk in silence.
Then:
“This is your fault,” Bash said.
“MY fault?!” Ivy whirled on him. “You’re the one who can’t share a parking space like a normal human being!”
“You’re the one who plays music at volumes that violate noise ordinances!”
“I turned it down!”
“After I had to pound on the wall!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry my JOY offends you!”
“Your joy is LOUD!”
They were standing in the middle of Main Street, voices rising, and Ivy was distantly aware that people were watching. Mrs. Fletcher, sitting on a bench with her knitting. Margot, outside her wine bar, grinning. A couple of tourists with cameras.
Bash seemed to notice too. His jaw locked.
“I have prep,” he said stiffly, and turned to walk away.
“Yeah, well, I have—I also have prep!” Ivy called after him. “So much prep! More prep than you!”
He didn’t turn around. Just kept walking, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tense.
Ivy stood there, breathing hard, fists clenched.
This was fine. Everything was fine. She just had to work with her nightmare neighbor on a dessert for the town’s biggest event. While being civil. And not murdering him.
Easy.
She turned to head back to Sweet Haven and caught Mrs. Fletcher watching her with undisguised delight.
“Still think we’re going to kiss?” Ivy called over.
Mrs. Fletcher just smiled. “Oh, honey. Even more so now.”
Ivy fled before she could respond.
Behind her, she could have sworn she heard Margot laughing.
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