Read Chapter 35: The Last Bake

The phone was still warm in her hand when Clara walked into Julien’s kitchen just after dawn. He was at the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, flour dusting his forearms like pollen. The smell of proofing dough hung thick and sweet in the air.

She didn't sit. She didn't take the coffee he pushed toward her.

"I took the job."

Julien's hands stilled on the dough he was shaping. He didn't look up for a long moment. When he did, his face was a careful blank—the same expression he wore when a batch of croissants came out of the oven slightly overdone. Assessing. Holding back judgment until he knew more.

"I see," he said.

"It's not because of Martine." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "It's not because of the festival, or Delacroix's review, or any of it. It's just—" She pressed her palm flat against the cool marble counter. "I don't know who I am here."

Julien wiped his hands on a towel with slow, deliberate movements. "You know who you are, Clara. You've just been telling yourself a different story."

"Is that supposed to help?" Her voice cracked.

"It's supposed to be honest." He set the towel down. "You told me you wanted to stay for your aunt's legacy. Then you told me you wanted to stay for the bakery. But you never told me you wanted to stay for *you.*"

She opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came out.

"London is safe," Julien continued. "London is what you know. I understand that." He moved around the counter, stopping a respectful distance away—close enough to touch, far enough to let her breathe. "I'm not going to ask you to stay."

Clara blinked."What?"

"If I have to convince you, then you'll always wonder if you made the choice for the right reason. You'll always wonder if it was me, or your aunt, or some romantic idea of Provence that kept you here." His jaw tightened. "I won't be your excuse, Clara. When you come back—"

"If," she said.

"When you come back," he repeated, "I want it to be because you couldn't imagine your life without this place. Without the bakery. Without me. Not because I asked."

Her chest squeezed. "That's very noble of you."

"It's not noble. It's self-preservation." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You broke my heart once by leaving. I won't give you the chance to do it twice with my own permission in your pocket."

Clara wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she was staying, that she'd never meant to leave—but the London offer was still burning in her phone, the deadline still ticking toward Friday. She'd spent all night staring at the ceiling, the email glowing in the dark like a lighthouse warning her away from the rocks.

Her aunt's letter was on the nightstand. She hadn't been able to read it again.

"When do you leave?" Julien asked.

"Tomorrow afternoon. The position starts Monday."

He nodded once. "Then you have a full day left." He gestured toward the oven. "I was about to make pain de campagne. The last proof. Want to help?"

Clara stared at him. "You want me to bake with you. Now."

"I want to teach you something you haven't learned yet. It's a gift. You can take it with you." He turned back to the counter, retrieving the round of dough and pressing his thumb into its center. "The last proof is the most important. The dough has already risen once. It's full of ambition. It's doubled in size and thinks it knows everything." He folded the edges toward the center, reshaping the mound with a practiced gentle pressure. "But it doesn't know it needs to rest again. Not to rise higher—to settle deeper."

Clara stepped closer despite herself. "And if it doesn't get the second proof?"

"Then it bakes too fast, cracks on the surface, and the inside stays raw." He looked at her. "It looks finished. It's not."

She joined him at the counter, her hands finding their old rhythm as she helped him shape the loaves. The silence between them was not comfortable, but it was honest. Outside, the village was waking—shutters opening, a dog barking somewhere down the lane. Delacroix's review was scheduled for this morning. The whole village was probably girding itself to testify against her.

"You know," Clara said quietly, "you could have made this easier."

"How?"

"By telling me to stay. By making me feel like I was abandoning you."

Julien set the last loaf on the baking sheet. "You're not abandoning me, Clara. You're choosing yourself. The version of yourself you know how to be." He dusted his hands one final time. "If that version doesn't include me, then I was never part of it to begin with."

Something cracked in her chest. She turned away before he could see her face, busying herself with the flour bin, the bench scraper, anything.

"I'm putting the bakery up for sale," she said. "Tomorrow morning. Before I leave."

Julien didn't flinch. "I know a realtor in Aix. She handled M. Roche's place last spring. Reliable. Gets good prices."

Clara wanted to scream at him for being so reasonable. So calm. So utterly *French* in his acceptance of heartbreak as a natural part of life.

"Why aren't you fighting for me?" she demanded, whirling around.

Julien set down his knife. "Because I fight for what I want every day," he said quietly. "And I've been fighting for you since you arrived. But a man can only hold a door open so long before he has to trust the person to walk through it on their own."

He reached into his pocket and pulled something out—a folded piece of paper, worn at the edges. He held it out to her.

"Read it later," he said. "On the plane, maybe."

"What is it?"

"A recipe. The one I would have given you if you'd stayed." He placed it in her palm. "But maybe it's better if you don't open it. Some things are only meant to be made in the place where they're born."

Clara's hand closed around the paper. She felt the weight of it, the possibility held inside its folds.

She wanted to open it now. She wanted to tear it open and memorize every word and refuse to leave.

Instead, she tucked it into her pocket.

The front door of the bakery burst open, and a breathless Camille leaned against the frame. "Clara! Delacroix is here. He's asking for you. And he's got Martine with him, and a notebook full of questions about the festival."

Clara glanced at Julien. He was already reaching for the oven, sliding the pain de campagne in to bake.

"Go," he said softly. "Face them. One last time. With your head held high."

She nodded, squared her shoulders, and walked toward the door. Halfway out, she stopped and looked back at Julien.

"If I asked you to come with me to London—"

"Don't ask me." His eyes were steady, warm, unbearably kind. "Because you already know the answer."

Clara turned and followed Camille into the village square, the folded paper in her pocket burning against her thigh, the shape of it an unspoken promise she wasn't sure she was brave enough to keep.