At one point, she pulls a tray from the oven, the smell of cinnamon flooding the café. She blows on one of the pies and sets it in front of me.
“Go on,” she teases.
I bite in, the crust flaky, the filling sweet and spiced, and I can’t help the groan that slips out. “Sweetheart, you’re going to win this thing.”
She bites her lip, but I catch the flicker of pride in her eyes.
“Don’t get cocky,” she says, brushing flour on my cheek.
“Too late.”
We work until her hair slips loose, wisps framing her face, and she looks so beautiful I can hardly stand it. I catch myself staring too long, forgetting there are customers, forgetting anything outside this little world we’ve built behind the counter.
At some point, Pancake stretches, yawns, and hops into my lap like he’s claimed me. She laughs at the sight.
“Guess he approves of you.”
“Guess he’s smart.”
Her laugh is soft, but her gaze lingers. There’s something in the way she looks at me then—like she knows exactly how far I’ve fallen, and she’s not sure whether to catch me or let me drop.
Either way, I’m already gone.
By the time the afternoon rush dies down, the kitchen is full of cooling racks and the scent of sugar. She leans against the counter, wiping sweat from her temple, and I pull off the apron.
“Not bad for a firefighter,” she says.
“Not bad for a café owner,” I shoot back.
Her smile lingers.
And then, because I can’t stop myself, I reach for her hand. “You’re really doing this. The festival. The café. All of it.”
“I have to,” she says softly. “It’s the only way forward.”
“You’re not alone, Wren,” I remind her.
Her throat bobs, her fingers squeezing mine. “I know.”
I realize two things in quick succession. I am definitely in love with this girl. And I’d do anything to make sure she never doubts it again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Wren
By the thirdday of pie crusts, my hands ache. My wrists are sore, there’s flour in my hair, and the kitchen smells like butter and apples, no matter how much I crack the windows.
I’ve tried lattice tops, double crusts, and even hand pies. None of them feels good enough.
Tomorrow is the Harvest Festival, and every time I blink, I see rows of ribbons and judges’ faces. So, when Norah bangs open the café door and calls my name, I almost drop the rolling pin.
“We don’t have time for this,” I protest, brushing flour off my apron as she marches toward me. “I need to perfect the crust. I can’t get the flakiness consistent. If the judges bite into a tough edge, it’s over.”
Norah rolls her eyes, seizing my hand like she’s rescuing me from a burning building. “It’s one pie contest, not the end of the world. Come on.”
“I can’t.” My voice edges on frantic as she drags me toward the door. “I need every second. The event starts tomorrow. If I don’t get this right?—”
“Wren.” She tightens her grip and pulls me outside. “You’re coming with me. No arguments.”
