I can feel him surfacing, the way a soufflé rises in the oven—slow and steady.
He scrubs a hand over his jaw. Stubble rasps. “I might have to head back soon. Take care of some things. But”—his voice tries to soften the blow with a promise—“I should be back before Christmas.”
I stop breathing.
I expected this. I told myself all last night that he and I were temporary. That men like Jack don’t detour into small-town bakeries and decide to stay because the croissants are good and the sex is better. Men like Jack have lives with capital letters: Deals. Clients. Deadlines. Cities that eat you alive and call it love.
And yet my sweater suddenly feels too tight. The room tilts in microscopic degrees before righting itself. I fumble into my jeans, buttoning them with fingers that don’t want to work. “Don’t rush.” I find my voice in the same place I keep my inventory lists—practical, unsentimental. Steadying my hands, I reach for the rest of my clothes. “Don’t come back on my account.”
Silence again, but not sleepy now. Awake. Alert. The kind of quiet that notices details, that puts things together. I don’t look at him, but I feel his frown like a hand pressed between my shoulder blades.
“Audrey.” My name, careful, whereas he usually says it like he’s tasting it.
How did I not realize that until now?
I grab an elastic off my nightstand and smooth my unbrushed hair into a ponytail that would make my mother complain about proper presentation. “I have prep.”
My Crocs peek out from under Jack’s shirt strewn over the chair by the door, and I slide my feet in, the familiar homecoming sending a wave of bone-deep familiarity through me so strong I wobble. Cranberry red. Blue cupcake charms. Ridiculous, and mine.
Stepping into the doorway, I plant myself there like a stop sign. “Batter to mix. Cakes to cool. Frosting to whip. People will be lined up when I flip the sign.”
He sits, the mattress protesting. “I can?—”
“Take the morning. Sleep. Then… the library.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t care when the sudden sting behind my eyes says I care too much. “Or whatever.”
He is fully awake now, I can feel it, the heat of his gaze on the back of my neck like the oven when I open the door too early. “Amanda doesn’t need?—”
“Go.” The word comes too hard, too fast, the truth slipping out before I can dress it. “It’s your life. Your work. The thing that brought you here.” I half turn, too much of a coward to fully face him. “That’s not a bad thing, Jack. It just… isn’t mine.”
He swings his legs over the side of the bed. His feet hitthe floor, the sheet dragging across his thighs. I force my eyes to my Crocs, but the picture is there in my mind anyway: long lines, warm skin, the low V of muscle disappearing under the soft white cotton of my bedding.
My palms go damp.
From the corner of my eye I watch him scrub both hands through his hair and leave it standing in defiance.
Good. Be ridiculous with me for one second longer.
“What happened between last night and now?” His voice is soft, not accusing, which makes it worse. “Because six hours ago, you?—”
“Weren’t thinking,” I cut in, because if I let him finish that sentence I’ll be back in that bed and the bakery will open late and the gossip mill will spin into a cotton-candy tornado. “Which is rare for me, and probably overdue, and”—a laugh scrapes its way out of my chest—“spectacular. No regrets. But I have a business to run. And a town with very loud opinions and very short attention spans.”
He stands. The room gets smaller without moving. “I don’t care about the town’s?—”
“I do.” I give him my back, my one hand squeezing the door trim like a support beam to my sense of reason. “Just… just don’t come to the bakery today.”
A hard breath. That’s the only sound he makes.
I exhale everything I have left and stalk down the hallway, my hand grazing across the wall as I go to keep me steady.
Ignoring the Christmas tree—dark and dead-looking with the lights off and oddly mirroring my mood—I pass the photo of my mother and me at the Ritz. Younger me is smiling at her, not the camera. The early morning sun creststhrough the window, catching the glass and flashing it white. I don’t know what to do with the sudden sting behind my eyes.
I blink hard until the room behaves. And then I get to work.
Jack
Storytimeat the Hideaway Harbor Library looks like the holidays exploded in miniature—children’s coats piled like drifts, little boots in a ring on the carpet, cocoa mustaches giving everyone the same sticky grin.
Amanda perches on a beanbag throne with a hardcover splayed like a fan, doing voices that make even the parents lean in. I’m the page-turner, the bell-ringer, the guy who says “and then?” with exactly the right amount of awe.
