I was staring at the blinking cursor on my computer screen, my thoughts drifting far from the spreadsheet I was supposed to finish, when a knock broke the quiet rhythm of the office. Before I could answer, the door swung open and the delivery guy leaned in, holding a bright pink bakery box tied with a white ribbon.
“Good afternoon, Emma! This is for you!” he said cheerfully, drawing the attention of half the room.
A few coworkers glanced over, smiling knowingly. Someone whispered, “Lucky you,” probably assuming Jake had surprised me with something sweet just because.
I forced a smile and took the box, my stomach tightening for reasons I couldn’t explain. Jake never sent cakes to my office. Not because he didn’t care—he just wasn’t that kind of man. Practical. Reserved. Not spontaneous.
“Thanks,” I said quietly, placing the box on my desk.
I waited until the delivery guy left and the office noise settled back into its usual hum before lifting the lid.
The smell of vanilla frosting hit me first. Then I saw the writing.
Neatly piped in dark chocolate letters across the pink icing were four words that made my vision blur:
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