“Welcome to winter in the Highlands,” she said, her tone dry but not unkind.
“I should’ve known the weather would hold me accountable for my promises,” I muttered.
Her eyes sparkled. “You might be the first Londoner I’ve met who can admit that.”
She turned toward the bakery door, hesitated, then looked back at me. “You should come in for a warm drink while you ring your hotel. They might still have a room spare–though if the roads close, you might be better off sleeping in the bakery.”
I raised a brow. “That an invitation?”
“Hardly,” she said, though her smile gave her away. “But I’m not letting you freeze out here.”
The bell above the bakery door chimed softly as she pushed it open, a rush of warm air and sugar-sweet scent spilling out into the cold. I followed her inside, brushing snow from my shoulders, the warmth seeping instantly into my skin.
The shop was half-darkened, the lights low, and the air still smelled faintly of spice and orange peel. She moved behind the counter with easy familiarity, filling two mugs from a pot that steamed gently.
“I’d offer something stronger, but all I’ve got is cocoa,” she said, sliding one toward me.
“Hot chocolate is perfect,” I said, wrapping my hands around the mug. My fingers were still numb, but the heat bled into them, slow and steady.
For a while, we didn’t speak. The snow tapped softly against the window. The only sound was the faint hiss of the dishwasher and the hum of the radio.
Finally, I said, “This is… not quite how I imagined leaving.”
She glanced up at me, her expression softer now. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
I smiled faintly. “You think the universe decided I needed humbling?”
“I think Pine Hollow decided you needed hot chocolate.”
That startled a laugh out of me. And for a moment, sitting there with her in the warm glow of the bakery while the storm gathered outside, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Chapter Seven
The following two days, Oliver had somehow become a fixture in my bakery.
He’d taken to stopping by at lunchtime, always at the same table near the window, with his laptop open and his phone buzzing every ten minutes. At first, I thought it was just because we had pretty good Wi-Fi signal, which, admittedly, wasn’t saying much. But after the third day in a row, I began to suspect it had less to do with internet speed and more to do with habit.
He always ordered the same thing: a black coffee, one of Ivy’s cheese scones, and whatever I happened to be testing for the Christmas menu that day. He’d smile politely, thank me, and then proceed to look far too serious over his emails while locals passed by the window whispering,Is that the London man?
I pretended not to notice the way people lingered to look at him or the way Ivy watched me whenever I walked over to his table.
That afternoon, the snow was falling lightly again, dusting the square in white. The bakery was warm and busy, laughter and chatter spilling across the counter. I was boxingup shortbread when Ivy sidled up beside me, eyes glinting mischievously.
“You’re smilin’ again,” she said under her breath.
“I smile all the time.”
“Not like that.” She leaned closer. “That’s the kind of smile a girl gets when a certain English gentleman comes in for his daily coffee.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re imagining things and watching too many romcoms.”
“Am I? He’s been here every day, ordering food he can’t pronounce, just to sit there and talk to you about the weather.”
“It’s harmless,” I said, maybe too quickly. “He’s just being polite.”
“Mmm.” Ivy’s grin widened. “Polite looks an awful lot like flirting these days.”
I was spared from replying when Oliver’s voice drifted from the corner. “Miss Hart, I think your oven’s developed a vendetta against my laptop, it keeps fogging up the screen.”
