And my heart pounds painfully hard.
Then Colby says very quietly: “I don’t want to leave.”
I freeze. Because the raw honesty in his voice doesn’t sound temporary at all. It sounds terrified. And suddenly something shifts visibly inside him too. It’s like he finally understands the truth in real time, not just that he cares about us, that he loves us.
The realization hits across his face slowly and completely.
I watch it happen. And somehow that’s even more frightening than the trade itself.
Neither of us speaks for several seconds. Then finally Colby steps back slowly. He’s not leaving emotionally, just giving me room to breathe.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.
Not: If you want.
Not: Maybe.
Just certainty. The dangerous kind.
After he leaves, I stand alone in the bakery staring at the locked door while my entire chest aches.
Because I wanted distance. Instead, everything somehow became even more real.
The next morning arrives cold and silver over Briar Cove.
Jillie sits on her usual counter stool while Colby helps unpack flour deliveries near the kitchen.
The tension between us still lingers quietly beneath everything. Careful. Fragile.
I step into the back storage room for more coffee filters.
When I return, Jillie’s small voice drifts softly from the kitchen doorway, quiet enough she thinks I can’t hear.
“If you leave…”
My entire body stills.
“…will you still miss us?”
Silence follows.
And suddenly I realize all over again just how deeply this little girl has already given him her heart.
Chapter fifteen
Colby
The Choice
“If you leave… will you still miss us?”
The question lands harder than any hit I’ve taken in professional hockey.
Harder than playoff losses. Harder than headlines. Harder than hearing sports analysts debate my career like I’m a failing stock option instead of a person.
Because Jillie asks it quietly. Softly. Like she already expects people to leave eventually.
The kitchen goes completely still around me. Snow taps softly against the bakery windows while morning light glows pale gold across the counters. I’m holding a twenty-five-pound flour bag under each arm, and somehow that little question knocks the air clean out of me.
