The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Five

Maya waved a hand. “No guilt. You’re a one-woman show—illustrator, children’s author, chief cookie baker, and proud fox enthusiast.”

“I try,” I said, laughing as I pulled Isla closer, brushing a crumb from her cheek. She responded by pressing her cheek to mine, sticky and warm.

“Oh—and there was this other one,” Maya added, casually tossing the pencil aside. “Tall. Wears tension like a scarf. You know the type—black turtleneck, eyes like thunderclouds, mouth set in permanent disapproval.”

I choked back a laugh. “That bad?”

“He barely spoke, and when he did, it was like words cost him money,” Maya said. “But you know what? People listened. He’s got presence. Cold, brooding presence, but still—people orbit him.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The photographer?”

“Bingo,” Maya smirked. “Leah was buzzing about him too. Apparently, he’s a big deal in the editorial world. Not that he ever introduced himself properly. He sort of... hovered. Took everything in. Said maybe five words total.”

I raised my brows. “That sounds exhausting.”

“Exactly,” Maya sighed, leaning back. “Give me a small-town muralist any day.”

Isla had crawled under the table now, humming softly to herself as she laid out more pages of her coloring book. I leaned forward and rested my chin in my hand.

“I do wish I’d been there,” I admitted. “It’s not every day London people come all the way out here.”

“Don’t worry,” Maya said with a soft smile. “They’re not going anywhere. The real meeting’s in two days. You’ll have your moment.”

Before I could respond, a sharp ding rang from the oven, and the scent of golden sugar and cinnamon filled the air.

I smiled. “Cookies are ready.”

Isla popped her head up from beneath the table. “Coo-kie!” she squealed, her baby voice turning the word into something musical.

“I know, love,” I said, lifting her gently and settling her into the little wooden chair near the counter. “Hot, though. We have to let them cool.”

She nodded solemnly like I’d just entrusted her with state secrets.

I pulled the tray out, setting it carefully on the counter, and the room instantly felt warmer. I glanced back at Maya, who was already reaching for the mug of tea I’d forgotten she had.

“You know,” she said as I began plating a few cookies for Isla and another plate for us, “you’ve built something beautiful here, Amelia. Don’t let a few big names and deadlines make you forget that.”

“I haven’t,” I said softly, handing her a cookie and sitting down beside her. “But... maybe it’s time to open the windows again. Let a little more light in.”

Maya raised her cookie in a toast.

“To foxes, little girls, and mysterious turtleneck men with too much brooding energy.”

I laughed, breaking mine in half and passing a piece to Isla, who clapped like she’d just won a prize.

“To good cookies and second chances,” I said.

We sat there together, the three of us wrapped in the scent of sugar and sea salt, the air soft with stories yet to be told.

The second cookie never stood a chance. Isla had devoured it with sticky fingers and crumbs trailing down her shirt, which made Maya grin and shake her head like a proud aunt.