I sat 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 respond, the door swung open and the delivery man stepped inside, holding a bright pink bakery box tied neatly with a white ribbon.
“Good afternoon, Emma! This is for you!” he announced cheerfully, drawing the attention of half the room.
A few coworkers glanced over, smiling knowingly. Someone whispered, “Lucky you,” probably assuming Jake had sent me a sweet surprise.
I forced a smile as I accepted the box, though my stomach tightened with unease. Jake never sent cakes to my office. Not because he didn’t care—he simply wasn’t that kind of man. Practical. Reserved. Never spontaneous.
“Thanks,” I murmured, setting the box on my desk.
I waited until the delivery man left and the office noise settled back into its usual hum before lifting the lid.
The scent 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:
