“Fair.”
She hesitates. “And I can’t pay you.”
That lands somewhere sharp. I set the screwdriver down and meet her eyes.
“I didn’t ask.”
Her expression softens for half a second before she hides it.
“Fine. Ten minutes.”
It takes twenty-eight.
Jillie times me.
The mixer issue turns out to be a loose belt and a cracked safety guard that has probably been complaining for months. I can’t permanently fix the guard, but I can get the machine running long enough to survive the morning rush.
When the mixer finally hums back to life, Jillie screams like we won a championship.
The front of the bakery erupts in applause. I look over my shoulder, startled. Sadie stands in the kitchen doorway, one hand over her mouth. Not smiling exactly. Something more vulnerable than that.
Relief.
I look away first. Because seeing that relief feels private, and because I suddenly understand how badly I want to keep putting that expression on her face.
Which is a problem, a massive one.
***
The rest of the day speeds by in a blur of sugar, snow, and small-town chaos.
More customers arrive after the mixer story spreads, because apparently Briar Cove gossip operates faster than national media.
By noon, people are coming in “just to support Sadie.”
By twelve-thirty, three teenage hockey players from the community rink ask me to sign their sticks.
By one, a local dad asks if I’d consider making a guest appearance at youth practice.
Sadie overhears and freezes.
I don’t answer right away. Not because I don’t want to. Because I do. Too much.
“Maybe,” I say finally. “If the coach approves.”
The kids with him leave like I’ve promised them the Stanley Cup.
Sadie watches them go, then looks at me. “You’re going to cause a town-wide emotional incident.”
“I think that’s already happened.”
She shakes her head, but her mouth curves.
Small.
Tired.
Real.
