Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~6 min read
Margot’s wine bar was neutral territory.
That’s what Margot had insisted when she’d offered her space for the “Great Dessert Summit,” as she was calling it. Ivy had texted Bash to arrange a meeting—three days of agonizing over the exact wording of a message that basically said “we have to do this, so when?”—and he’d responded with: Thursday, 7 PM, Margot’s. Don’t be late.
Ivy arrived at 6:55, because being late would give him ammunition. The wine bar was cozy and warm, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs and a chalkboard menu that listed wines with descriptions like “makes you forget your ex” and “pairs well with poor decisions.”
Margot was behind the bar, polishing glasses. She looked up when Ivy entered and grinned.
“Ah, the star-crossed collaborators,” she said.
“We’re not star-crossed,” Ivy said, sliding onto a barstool. “We’re just… regular-crossed. Annoyed-crossed.”
“Mrs. Fletcher says you’re in the denial phase.”
“Mrs. Fletcher needs a hobby.”
“Her hobby is you two,” Margot said cheerfully, pouring Ivy a glass of white wine. “The whole town’s hobby is you two. You’re better than reality TV.”
Ivy groaned and dropped her head to the bar.
The door opened. She didn’t have to look to know it was Bash—she could feel the temperature in the room drop three degrees.
He sat two stools away. Margot poured him red wine without asking.
“So,” Margot said, leaning against the bar with undisguised glee. “The dessert. How’s that going?”
“We haven’t started yet,” Ivy said.
“Obviously,” Bash added.
“Well, you’re both here now. Get to it.” Margot made a shooing motion toward the corner booth. “I’ll bring snacks. Wine’s on the house. Try not to kill each other in my establishment.”
Ivy grabbed her wine and her notebook—she’d come prepared with ideas—and headed to the booth. Bash followed, carrying a leather portfolio that looked expensive and professional.
They sat across from each other.
Ivy took a fortifying sip of wine and opened her notebook. “Okay. So. The food festival. We need a dessert that represents both of us. I was thinking—”
“Chocolate,” Bash said.
She blinked. “What?”
“Chocolate. It’s versatile. I can do a dark chocolate component, you do something sweeter. Balance.”
“I… actually had a chocolate idea too.” Ivy flipped through her notes. “Chocolate croissant bread pudding with—”
“Too heavy.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Bread pudding is too heavy for a festival. People are walking around, eating from different vendors. They want something elegant. Refined.”
Ivy’s jaw tightened. “It’s a fall festival. Bread pudding is comforting. Seasonal.”
“It’s pedestrian.”
“It’s DELICIOUS.”
“It’s not sophisticated enough.”
“Not everything has to be sophisticated! Sometimes people want comfort food!”
Bash’s eyes narrowed. “This is a high-profile event. Food critics attend. It needs to be impressive.”
“It can be impressive AND comforting!”
“Name one Michelin-starred restaurant that serves bread pudding.”
“Name one person who goes to a small-town festival expecting Michelin-star food!”
They glared at each other across the table. Ivy’s hands were clenched around her wine glass. Bash’s jaw was doing that twitching thing again.
Margot appeared with a charcuterie board. “How’s it going?”
“Great,” Ivy said through her teeth.
“Wonderful,” Bash added, voice flat.
“Uh-huh.” Margot set down the board and retreated.
Ivy took a breath. Okay. Different approach. “What if we do something with layers? I do a pastry component, you do a—”
“Deconstructed,” Bash interrupted. “Chocolate mousse, hazelnut tuile, coffee gel, gold leaf.”
Ivy stared at him. “That’s not a dessert. That’s a science experiment.”
“That’s modern cuisine.”
“It’s pretentious!”
“It’s REFINED!”
“Who are you trying to impress? The dessert should make people happy, not confused about which part to eat first!”
Bash sat back, arms crossed. “You want to make cupcakes with sprinkles, don’t you?”
“I—no! I want to make something that tastes GOOD and makes people SMILE! Not something they need a manual to eat!”
“So you do want cupcakes.”
“I swear to God—”
“What about a tart?” Bash said, cutting her off. “Classic. I do a dark chocolate ganache, you do the crust.”
“Just the crust? So I’m basically your assistant?”
“You’d be handling the pastry. That’s your specialty.”
“And you’d be handling the ‘important’ part?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it!”
Bash’s knuckles were white against the table. “Do you have ANY interest in actually collaborating, or do you just want to argue?”
“I’m trying to collaborate! You’re shutting down everything I suggest!”
“Because your suggestions are—” He stopped himself.
“Are what?” Ivy leaned forward. “Say it.”
“Too simple.”
“Simple doesn’t mean bad!”
“For this event, it does.”
Ivy felt heat rising in her chest. The familiar tightness. The voice that said she wasn’t good enough, wasn’t skilled enough, wasn’t enough period. Every head chef who’d dismissed her ideas. Every time someone patted her on the head and told her to stick to “simple, pretty things.”
She stood abruptly. “You know what? You do the dessert. Alone. Make it as complicated and pretentious as you want. I’ll tell Mayor Whitmore I tried.”
Bash stood too. “You can’t just quit.”
“Watch me.”
“We signed an agreement!”
“Then YOU figure it out! Make your molecular gastronomy nightmare and I’ll show up and smile! That’s all you want anyway—someone to look pretty and stay out of your way!”
His expression flickered. Something that might have been regret. “That’s not—”
But Ivy was already grabbing her bag, her notebook, her dignity. She threw money on the bar for Margot and headed for the door.
“Ivy, wait—”
She didn’t wait.
Outside, the autumn air was cold against her flushed cheeks. She walked fast, heels clicking on the sidewalk, breath coming in short bursts.
This was a mistake. All of it. Coming to Willowbrook. Buying the bakery. Thinking she could escape the restaurant industry’s toxicity when it apparently followed her everywhere.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Margot: He’s still sitting here looking like a kicked puppy. What happened?
Ivy typed back: He’s impossible. I can’t work with him.
He said your bread pudding idea wasn’t bad.
After I left?
Yeah. Also said you were talented. Then ordered another glass of wine and looked sad.
Ivy stared at the message. Bash thought she was talented? Bash, who looked at her croissants with the critical eye of someone evaluating a potential threat?
Another text: For what it’s worth, I think you’re both being stubborn idiots. You’re more alike than you think.
Ivy shoved her phone in her pocket and kept walking.
She was nothing like Sebastian Moreau. Nothing at all.
Even if a tiny, traitorous part of her brain whispered that maybe Margot had a point.
Even if she’d noticed the way his hands moved when he talked about food—precise and passionate.
Even if his eyes were less gray and more silver when the light hit them right.
Even if—
No.
Ivy unlocked Sweet Haven and stepped into the dark bakery. Home. Safe. Hers.
She’d figure out the dessert. Somehow. Without Bash’s help.
And if Mayor Whitmore had a problem with that, well.
Ivy was getting very good at dealing with problems.
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