Perfectionist tendencies are both a blessing and a curse in this business.

  she replied.

  What about outside of business? Do you ever let yourself just … enjoy things without worrying about perfection?

  The question caught her off guard. When was the last time she’d done something purely for enjoyment? Her days had become a loop of routine and responsibility, each one blending into the next with the predictability of a well-tested recipe.

  “Martha?” Jenny’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “I’m going to head out a little early if that’s okay. My roommate’s having some people over, and I promised I’d bring dessert.”

  “Of course.” Martha looked up from her phone, noting the hopeful expression on her assistant’s face. “Take some of those leftover lemon bars. They’ll be a hit.”

  “You’re the best!” Jenny untied her apron and hung it on its designated hook. “Are you sure you don’t want to come? It’s just a casual thing—maybe some grilling on the deck, a few drinks …”

  The invitation was kind, but the thought of spending an evening with Jenny’s twenty-something friends made Martha feel ancient. What would she talk about with people who were closer in age to her children than to her?

  “Thanks, but I’ve got some bookkeeping to catch up on,” she lied smoothly. “You have fun.”

  After Jenny left, Martha found herself alone with the familiar hush of the empty bakery. She should close up, head upstairs to her apartment, maybe call Ethan or Maggie. Her son usually answered on weeknights, though their conversations rarely lasted more than ten minutes. Her daughter was harder to reach, always between meetings or social events that seemed infinitely more important than checking in with her mother.

  Instead, she settled onto the stool behind the counter, phone in hand.

  You asked about enjoying things without worrying about perfection. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I did that. My whole life has been about taking care of other people—my kids, my husband, my customers. Now that it’s just me, I’m not sure I remember how to just … be.

  The reply came quickly, as if he’d been waiting for her message.

  That makes me sad. A woman like you should be spoiled, not always doing the spoiling. What would you do, if you could do anything right now without worrying about anyone else’s needs?

  The question, made her throat tighten unexpectedly. What would she do? The honest answer was embarrassingly simple. She wanted someone to cook dinner for her, to ask about her day and actually listen to the answer. She wanted to feel like she mattered to someone, like her presence in the world made a difference beyond the wedding cakes and birthday cookies.

  Instead she typed:

  I’d probably take a long bath and read a book. Exciting stuff, right?

  Sounds perfect to me. Simple pleasures are underrated. What kind of books do you like?

  The conversation flowed from there, meandering through favorite authors and guilty pleasure reads. David admitted to loving mystery novels, especially ones set in small towns like hers. Martha found herself laughing out loud when he described his habit of trying to guess the killer and being wrong every time.

  I bet Weyport has its share of secrets.

  Small towns always do.

  More than you’d think. We’ve had our share of excitement over the years. Missing persons, a few serious crimes. Not as sleepy as people assume.

  Really? That’s surprising for such a picturesque place.

  I guess trouble can find you anywhere. Though things have been quieter lately, thank goodness.

  The conversation continued as Martha moved through her closing routine, wiping down counters and checking that the ovens were properly shut off. For the first time in months, she wasn’t dreading the evening ahead. David’s messages made her feel connected to something beyond the bakery’s four walls.

  I should let you get to that bath and book.

  he wrote as she locked the cash register.

  But I have to say, talking to you is the best part of my day. You’re funny and smart and incredibly talented. I hope you know that.

  Martha stared at the message, warmth spreading through her chest. When was the last time Richard had complimented her on anything beyond her baking? When was the last time anyone had called her funny or smart?

  Thank you. You always know exactly what to say.

  I just tell the truth. Sweet dreams, beautiful.

  As she climbed the stairs to her apartment, Martha felt lighter than she had in months. David saw her—really saw her—in a way that no one had in a very long time. Maybe she was being foolish, getting attached to someone she’d never met. But after twenty-seven years of feeling invisible in her own marriage, his attention felt like sunlight after a long winter.

  Her apartment greeted her with its usual quiet stillness. The space was comfortable, but it bore the marks of a woman living alone—mismatched furniture, books stacked on every available surface, and the kind of clutter that accumulated when no one else was around to judge. She kicked off her red Crocs and padded into the kitchen on bare feet.

  The refrigerator held the usual collection of leftovers and odd ingredients for ad hoc cooking. She could make herself a proper dinner, maybe open the bottle of wine that had sat unopened since Christmas. But the effort seemed overwhelming after the long day.

  Instead, she warmed a bowl of leftover soup and scrolled through her phone, reading David’s messages from the past few weeks. He’d been so patient, never pressing for more than she was comfortable sharing. He knew she was divorced but hadn’t pried for details. He knew she had grown children but didn’t ask why they rarely visited.

  Maybe that was what made talking to him so easy—he accepted what she shared without demanding explanations for what she kept to herself.

  Her phone rang, startling her from her thoughts. Ethan’s name appeared on the screen, and she felt the familiar blend of joy and anxiety that always accompanied her son’s calls.

  “Hi, honey,” she answered, settling onto her small couch with her soup.

  “Hey, Mom. How’s everything going?”

  “Good, good. Just finished a big wedding cake today. Three tiers, handmade sugar flowers. Turned out really well.”

  “That’s great.” Ethan’s voice held the distracted quality she’d come to expect—present, but not fully engaged. “I’m actually calling because I probably won’t be able to make it home for the Fourth of July barbecue next month. There’s a project at work that’s really heating up, and …”

  The excuse continued, but she stopped listening after the first few words. Another holiday alone. Another family gathering that would consist of her, the television, and maybe takeout from the Chinese restaurant that stayed open on holidays.

  “Mom? Did you hear me?”

  “Sorry, yes. Work is important. I understand.”

  “Maybe Thanksgiving,” Ethan added quickly, though they both knew he’d find an excuse for that too. Boston wasn’t far, but it might as well have been on another continent for how often he visited.

  After they hung up, Martha sat in the growing darkness of her apartment, not bothering to turn on the lights. This was her life now—quiet evenings alone, holidays spent watching other people celebrate, phone calls with her children that felt more like obligations than connections.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  Hope you’re enjoying that bath and book. Thinking of you.

  The simple message brought tears to her eyes. Someone was thinking of her. Someone cared whether she was happy or sad, whether she was taking care of herself or just going through the motions.

  Maybe it wasn’t traditional romance, this connection with a man she’d never met. Maybe it wasn’t what she’d dreamed of when she was young and believed in fairy tales. But it was something—and something was infinitely better than the nothing she’d been living with since Richard left.

  Just finished talking to my son. He can’t make it home for Fourth of July. Work stuff.

  I’m sorry. That must be disappointing.

  It’s okay. I’m used to it.

  You shouldn’t have. No one should get used to being alone during the holidays. Family should make time for the people who matter.

  The kindness in his response made her throat tight again. This was dangerous territory—letting someone she barely knew become so important to her emotional well-being. But the alternative was the crushing loneliness that had been her constant companion, shadowing her every day since her marriage ended.

  She found herself typing:

  Maybe someday I’ll have something better to look forward to during the holidays.

  I hope so. You deserve to be surrounded by people who appreciate you.

  Later, as she finally drew that long-promised bath, David’s words echoed in her mind. She did deserve better than hollow phone calls and cancelled visits. She deserved someone who saw her value, who made time for her, who believed she was worth the effort.

  Maybe that someone was David. Maybe this strange online connection was the start of something real.

  Or maybe she was setting herself up for another kind of heartbreak.

  But for tonight, sitting in her bathtub with her phone nearby in case he sent another message, Martha allowed herself to hope.

  Chapter Three

  Martha stared at her phone screen for the third time in ten minutes, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she reread David’s latest message. The morning rush had been unusually chaotic—she’d burned a batch of scones, mixed up two cake orders, and nearly forgotten to set the timer on the dinner rolls—but none of it seemed to matter when his words filled her screen.

  I’ve been thinking about you all night. About how sad you sounded yesterday when your son canceled. You deserve so much better than being an afterthought in people’s lives.

  The message had arrived at dawn, followed by another that made her heart race in ways she’d forgotten were possible.

  I know this might sound crazy, but I can’t stop thinking about meeting you. Really meeting you. I feel like I know your heart already—maybe it’s time I got to know your beautiful smile in person.

  “Martha?” Jenny’s voice cut through her daydream. “I think that frosting might be ready. You’ve been stirring it for a while now.

  Heat rushed to Martha’s cheeks as she looked down at the overwhipped buttercream. “Sorry, I was just … going over tomorrow’s schedule in my head.”

  Jenny raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying the excuse. In the three years she’d worked at Sweet Haven, she’d never seen her meticulously organized boss so distracted. Martha Porter was the kind of woman who could decorate twelve cupcakes while taking a phone order and calculating the day’s receipts—multitasking was her superpower. This scattered, dreamy version was entirely new.

  “Is everything okay?” Jenny asked gently. “You seem a little off today. I can handle the front counter for a while if you need to do something else.”

  “I’m fine,” Martha insisted, but her phone buzzed again, and she reached for it automatically.

  I found this little café about halfway between your town and mine. Quiet, overlooking the water. The kind of place where two people could talk for hours without being interrupted. What do you think? Are you ready to take that leap with me?

  Martha’s breath caught. This was it—the moment she’d been both hoping for and dreading. For three weeks, David had been patient and respectful, never pushing for more than she was ready to give. Now he was offering exactly what her lonely heart had been craving: the chance to be seen, to be chosen, to matter to someone again.

  Where is this café?

  she typed, her fingers trembling slightly.

  Saltwater Bay. About twenty minutes from Weyport. There’s a place called The Lighthouse View that serves amazing seafood. Say yes, Martha. Let me prove that you deserve to be someone’s priority.

  Saltwater Bay. She knew it—a small fishing village further up the coast, quiet and romantic. The kind of place Richard had never taken her, even in their early days when romance had seemed possible.

  “Martha?” Jenny’s voice drifted in from somewhere far away. “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Smiling at your phone like it just proposed marriage.”

  This time Martha didn’t bother denying it. “Maybe it did,” she murmured, then immediately felt foolish for the admission.

  Before she could answer David, her phone buzzed with a Facebook notification. She’d joined a few local business groups over the years, mostly to network and share photos of her cakes. This notification was from New England Small Business Women—a group she rarely checked but stayed in for the occasional catering lead.

  The post that caught her attention was from someone named Carol Winters, posted just an hour ago:

  Ladies, please be careful of smooth-talking men online who seem too good to be true. I know this sounds paranoid, but I almost fell for an elaborate romance scam. The man used fake photos, a fake job, even fake stories about his life. He targeted women our age specifically—divorced, widowed, or lonely. If someone you’ve never met starts making you feel like you’re the most special woman in the world, PLEASE be cautious. I wish someone had warned me. Don’t let them isolate you or convince you to meet in secluded places. Trust your instincts. -Carol from Thornfield

  Martha stared at the post, her stomach clenching. Several other women had commented with similar warnings, sharing their own near misses with online predators. The thread felt like a bucket of cold water thrown over her warm feelings about David.

  But as she read the comments more carefully, these women described men who had asked for money, requested intimate photos, or pushed to meet within days of first contact. David had never done any of those things. He’d been patient, respectful, never even suggesting they meet until this morning when he sensed her sadness about Ethan.

  Without thinking too much, Martha found herself typing a response:

  I appreciate the concern, but some of us are capable of using good judgment. Not every man online is a predator, and not every woman is a victim waiting to happen.

  She hit “Post” before she could second-guess herself, then immediately felt a stab of regret. The comment sounded harsher than she’d intended, almost dismissive of the other women’s experiences and warnings.

  Carol Winters replied within minutes:

  I thought the same thing. I was sure I could tell the difference between a real connection and a scam. Please, just be careful.

  Martha stared at the response, noting from the location was Thornfield—a town she'd never heard of, probably in another county entirely. Carol lived hours away and was warning about someone else. David had suggested meeting at a nearby restaurant—surely that meant he was local, not some distant predator like Carol was warning about. She was probably talking about some other scammer operating in a different region altogether.

  Carol was just a bitter woman who’d had a bad experience and now saw predators everywhere. David wasn’t like that. He was kind, patient, understanding. He’d never pressured her or made inappropriate requests.

  “Martha?” Jenny’s voice brought her back to the present. “You look upset now instead of happy.”

  Martha quickly closed Facebook and pulled up David’s messages instead. His words from that morning filled the screen, warm and reassuring: I can’t stop thinking about meeting you. Really meeting you. I feel like I know your heart already.

  “Just some drama in a business group,” she said dismissively. “Nothing important.”

  A new text from David appeared.

  Well? The Lighthouse View, tonight at seven? I can’t wait to finally see that beautiful smile in person.

  Tonight. He wanted to meet tonight. The urgency should have been a red flag, but Martha’s lonely heart interpreted it as romantic spontaneity. He was as eager to meet her as she was to meet him.

  She made her decision before she could second-guess herself.

  I want to meet you too, The Lighthouse View at seven sounds perfect.

  He replied immediately.

  You’ve just made me the happiest man alive. I promise you won’t regret this, Martha. Tonight is going to be the beginning of something beautiful.

  As the afternoon wore on, Martha wavered between excitement and terror. She was finally going to meet the man who’d brought light back into her dark world. Carol Winters’s warnings felt like distant thunder—ominous but irrelevant.

  By five o’clock, she’d made her peace with her decision. Whatever David’s true intentions, she couldn’t live paralyzed by fear or by the bad experiences of others. Carol had been burned by someone else, but that didn’t mean Martha would be.

  “Jenny,” she said suddenly, surprising even herself, “I need you to lock up tonight.”

  Jenny looked up from the cupcakes she was boxing, her eyes wide with shock. “Lock up? But you always⁠—”