The Bakery Sweetness
"Golden Crust Bakery has been the heart of the neighborhood for thirty years. When a morning regular starts asking for more than pastries, she discovers the sweetest things aren't always on the menu."
Golden Crust opens at 5 AM.
I'm Geneva—fifty-nine, baker since I was nineteen, making the same recipes my mother taught me. Every morning, I'm here before the sun.
"Morning, Miss Geneva."
The regular is always first. Marcus Williams—retired teacher, orders two croissants and a black coffee.
"Morning, Mr. Marcus."
Same exchange. Every day.
Until it isn't.
"Can I ask you something?"
It's his usual time, but his voice is different.
"Ask away."
"How do you make things so good?"
"Family recipe. Secret ingredients."
"No." He sets down his cup. "How do you make things. The care in every layer. The precision."
"That's just baking—"
"That's you." His eyes hold mine. "I've been eating your pastries for three years. They taste like love."
"Mr. Marcus—"
"Marcus. Please." He moves closer to the counter. "I've been wanting to say this for months. Your bakery is my favorite place in the world. Not because of the croissants."
"Then why?"
"Because of you." His hand reaches across. "Because watching you create is the best part of my day."
The visits change.
He stays longer, asks questions about techniques, watches me work. The morning rush ends, and he's still there.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" I ask.
"Nowhere I'd rather be." He helps me wipe down tables. "Unless that bothers you."
"It doesn't."
It really doesn't.
"Can I cook you dinner?"
It's been two months of extended visits. He's asked before; I've always declined.
"You want to cook for a baker?"
"I want to feed the woman who feeds everyone else." He touches my flour-dusted hand. "Say yes, Geneva."
His brownstone is cozy, lived-in.
He cooks soul food—the real kind, the kind my mother made. We eat at his small table while Motown plays.
"This is incredible," I admit.
"I had a good teacher." He refills my wine. "My grandmother believed in feeding people you love."
"Do you? Love them, I mean?"
"I'm trying to find out."
The kiss happens over dirty dishes.
His hands cupping my face, my back against his kitchen counter.
"I've wanted to do that since year one," he admits.
"Why did you wait?"
"Because you deserved time. Because I wanted to be sure." He pulls me closer. "I'm sure now."
His bedroom is warm, inviting.
He undresses me like I'm something precious. His hands trace my curves—the belly that's round from tasting everything I bake, the thighs that are thick from standing all day.
"Perfect," he breathes.
"Marcus—"
"Don't argue." He kisses my belly. "Just accept."
His mouth between my legs is devoted.
He takes his time—no rush, no hurry. When I come, he smiles against my thigh.
"Sweetest thing I've ever tasted."
"That's corny."
"That's true."
When he enters me, we're both home.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't stop. I need—"
"I know what you need." He moves deeper. "I've been paying attention."
Afterward, in his bed, he holds me.
"Marry me."
"We just—"
"I've been in love with you for three years." He cups my face. "Every croissant. Every smile. Every morning you made better."
"Marcus..."
"Say yes, Geneva. Let me spend mornings with you forever."
The wedding is in the bakery.
5 AM, before we open, just family and regulars. The cake is my best work.
"To the woman who sweetened my life," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who waited for the right moment," I counter.
We kiss while the oven timer goes off.
Some love stories rise quickly.
Some need time to proof.
And some bakers find that the secret ingredient is the person who shows up every morning.
Fresh.
Warm.
Ready to share.