He drops his chin. “Orsmall-town teenagers have heard that a local heartthrob by the name of Brody King will be in attendance and want a shot at an autograph and picture.” He tilts his head as if looking behind me. “Did Amanda volunteer as tribute to this event as well?” Eli’s truck ticks as it cools, smelling like old leather and pine and looking like a Hallmark Christmas special.
I’m suddenly very conscious of how much I paid for my suit. “Not this one.”
Looking over the roof of his truck toward Main Street, I catch the edge of Audrey’s chalkboard sign set up on the sidewalk advertising all the new flavors I’ve seen her spend hours creating.
Dropping my gaze, I catch Eli squinting at me like I’m a puzzle with three pieces missing.
He scratches his jaw, the universal sign for I-left-something-on-your-desk-you-didn’t-mean-to-show-me. “I’ve been going through the relocation listings you sent—clinic space looks promising. Also, uh…” He lifts his chin, as if assessing me as I did him. “Found a couple of house listings mixed in. Fenced yards. Bonus rooms labeled ‘kids’ playroom’ in the realtor photos.” He drapes one arm on the steering wheel, deceptively casual. “You not billing enough hours? Trying to branch into residential real estate?”
Heat blooms under my coat. “Those were mine.” I clearmy throat. “Must’ve mixed those in with your file by mistake.”
He lets the words sit there between us, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Huh.”
I shove my hands deeper in my pockets. “Don’t make it a thing.”
His smile is full-blown now, not letting me off the hook. “It feels like a thing.” He follows my gaze across the corner of town square toward the bakery then back. “You thinking about making Hideaway more permanent?”
I open my mouth to say something clever and land on nothing. The truth is a spinning coin, and I can’t tell which side is up. “I don’t know.”
His phone chirps. “That’ll be my niece.” Looking at the screen, he winces. “Apparently I’m late, and her whole world will end if I don’t get her there before Missy Whitehall, her high school nemesis.” He rolls his eyes, but they stay kind. “Let’s talk later.” With a clunk, he releases the parking brake. “About the clinic.” A wink. “And houses with fenced-in yards.”
“Go.” I wave him off. “Save yourself.”And me.
He rolls the window up, drops the truck into gear, and pulls away with a honk that echoes off the brick like a warning.
I stand there for a beat too long in the gentle snow, watching the taillights disappear toward family obligation, toward domestic life, toward pick-up times and someone in the back seat complaining about the playlist.
I wanted to walk to Audrey’s door and say the thing that terrifies me. I wanted to knock and hand her all the messy parts and ask if she’ll take them anyway.
Instead, watching the kind of man I’m not drive his truck around the corner toward things that Audrey gave up to move here for, I pivot.
Sliding my BMW SUV rental key out of my pocket, I head toward the library parking lot.
I catch my reflection in the driver’s side window— polished and tailored, not a plaid or flannel in sight. Ten minutes out of town, I turn onto The Haven Resort drive, tossing the keys at a bell boy like the well-practiced Hollywood cliché I am.
Tomorrow, I tell myself when I reach my room and shrug out of my suit coat. Tomorrow I’ll find Audrey, clear the air, and make things right.
Powering up my laptop, I pretend not to hear how much that sounds like a lie.
CUT!
Audrey
Monday is for maintenance.
No more tree cutting, Winter Market, or other distractions no matter how handsome or festive they might be.
The CLOSED sign sits in the window while I’m in the back—calibrating, testing, perfecting. Sheet pans dry in formation. The mixer bowl gleams because I made it gleam. “Day off” means margins and measurements.
I like it this way.
Parchment slides. A bench scraper whispers. The oven ticks a satisfied cooldown.
A shadow crosses the front glass.
Knuckles, three measured taps. Not tentative. As if sure that the owner is just on the other sidedespite the sign.
I should ignore it. I don’t. Habit has me wiping my hands as I walk past the counter toward the door.
