“Well,” she said quietly, that gentle, uncertain smile returning, “thanks for walking me back.”
“Of course,” I replied. There was no universe where I would’ve let her walk alone tonight.
She hesitated, just a breath then added, “Goodnight, Oliver.”
“Goodnight, Brianna.” Too soft, too much. But I couldn’t help it.
She gave a small nod and slipped toward her door, boots crunching softly on the path. Snow fell around her like scattered starlight, catching in her hair, her scarf, the wool of her coat.
I stood there longer than I should have, watching until she disappeared inside and the light behind her door dimmed. Only then did I exhale, a slow breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding, watching as the light upstairs flicked on and only then turning to head back to my hotel.
Chapter Eleven
By lunchtime the next day, I’d told myself at least six times that it didn’t matter whether Oliver came in or not. By half past twelve, that lie was starting to feel a little thin.
The bakery was busy, the way it always was when the snow fell thick and everyone decided soup and bread were a better idea than braving the supermarket. Our Saturday lad, Jamie, rushed between tables with bowls of cullen skink and baskets of warm rolls, cheeks flushed, hair sticking up at odd angles.
“You aw richt, Bri?” he asked at one point, grabbing a tray from the counter. “You keep lookin’ at the door. Expectin’ someone?”
“No, of course not,” I said, a little too quickly. “I just can’t believe how busy it is today.”
The bell above the door had been jingling nonstop for the past hour. Teachers on their lunch break, fishermen with frozen fingers, families trying to warm up after the snow and the elderly folk coming in for their lunch.
But not him.
Not once.
Everyone else.
Except him.
By now, Oliver usually would’ve been sitting at his table by the window. Laptop open and coffee in hand, pretending not to be delighted when I brought over whatever new thing I’d been experimenting with. Instead, his chair sat empty, and it seemed stupid how much I noticed his absence.
I wiped the same patch of counter for the third time, replaying the night before in my head. The ice. The slip. His hands catching me, firm and sure and far too gentle. The way his voice had dropped when he said,Got you. My cheeks burned just thinking about it.
Maybe it had been nothing, just a reflex. Maybe he was being a gentleman. But the memory of his hands at my waist didn’t feel like nothing. What if it had made things weird? What if he regretted it this morning? What if he’d decided that coming into the bakery every day felt too much like something it wasn’t supposed to be?
“Bri?”
I blinked. Jamie was standing in front of me, holding an empty tray.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “What?”
“We’re out of the tomato soup,” he said, fighting a smile. “And you just put the sugar jar in the fridge.”
I glanced at the fridge door. Sure enough, a jar of sugar sat proudly on the top shelf.
“Oh,” I muttered. “Right. I’ll, uh… fix that.”
He snorted and went back out front.
By two o’clock, the rush had died down. The bakery settled into a soft, sleepy hum, the kind that came with low conversation, the radio whispering carols, and the quiet clink of cups against saucers.
The door swung open again and a blast of cold air swept in. I looked up automatically, heart doing a stupid, hopeful jump.It wasn’t him. Instead, it was Ivy, wrapped in her puffer coat and bobble hat, a shopping bag looped over one arm and a grin already forming like she’d walked in on a secret.
“You’re supposed to be off today,” I said, clearing empty mugs from the counter.
“I am off,” she replied, dropping the bag onto a chair. “I came to check on you.”
