Good. Maybe I can sell more than usual today.
Outside, snow drifts lazily over Main Street. Briar Cove looks painfully charming this morning. White lights still hang from the storefronts after the Winter Festival, and the frozen lake glitters beyond the downtown buildings like a postcard somebody aggressively filtered for Instagram.
Apparently, my life is now content.
Wonderful.
My phone buzzes again. Another notification. Another article. Another headline.
HOCKEY HEARTTHROB CONFIRMS ROMANCE WITH SMALL-TOWN BAKER
I still cannot believe this is real.
Worse: I agreed to it. Technically. Reluctantly. Under emotional duress.
Because the paparazzi made Jillie cry.
Still counts.
“Mommy,” Jillie says carefully, “does fake dating mean fake kissing?”
Mrs. Bellamy chokes on her coffee. I nearly drop a tray of cinnamon rolls.
“No,” I say too fast.
Jillie squints suspiciously. “You answered weird.”
“Because you ask horrifying questions before breakfast.”
“That’s fair.”
The bell above the door jingles again.
This time, the entire bakery goes silent. I look up. And there he is.
Colby Reid somehow manages to fill the doorway with nothing but a dark winter coat and a tired expression. Snow dusts his shoulders. His knit beanie is pulled low, and somehow, he still looks unfairly attractive for a man who probably caused national emotional damage by carrying my child through a festival.
Every woman in the bakery freezes.
Even Mrs. Bellamy.
Traitor.
Jillie gasps dramatically. “You came back!”
Colby’s mouth twitches. “That sounded vaguely threatening.”
Looking directly at me, my daughter informs me: “You said maybe famous people disappear.”
“I did not.”
“You implied it emotionally.”
I stare at my daughter. Colby stares at my daughter. Then he looks at me.
And for one dangerous second, the entire bakery feels too warm.
“Morning,” he says. Why does his voice always sound like that?
