“What… happened to her?” he asked gently. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
I kept my voice steady, even as my heart pinched. “She got sick. And she died. There’s not much more to say.”
His brow furrowed with quiet sympathy–not pity, just understanding.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“Thank you,” I replied, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “But it’s okay, it was a long time ago now. Being here helps. This town… it holds her. In its own way.”
Silence settled between us then, not heavy or awkward. Ivy passed by at the worst possible moment, moving slowly anddramatically between our table and the counter like she was watching a soap opera unfold. I flicked her another glare.
She smiled as if I didn’t know what she was doing. Oliver didn’t seem to notice any of it thankfully. He was watching me, thoughtful and strangely open, like he was trying to understand something he’d never allowed himself to consider before.
“I’m glad I came today,” he said after a moment. “It’s… good to talk. To someone who understands.”
My chest tightened in a way I wasn’t ready for, but I didn’t look away.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m glad you came too.”
And somewhere between the warmth of the bakery, the soft hum of Christmas music, and the way he looked at me like he was really seeing me. We shared a moment and I wasn’t too sure what that could mean in the long run. I let the moment sit between us a second longer before pushing gently up from my chair.
“I should get back to work,” I said, offering a soft smile. “Enjoy your lunch.”
He nodded, eyes warm. “Thank you. And… Thanks for talking.”
I dipped my head, stepping away before Ivy could materialise like a smug spectre. Returning to the kitchen felt strangely grounding. Hands busy, mind less so. I pulled trays from the oven, sliced fresh loaves, and refilled the pastry case.
Every time I popped back out to the counter, Oliver was still sitting there, eating slowly, sipping his coffee while his phone lay on the table. He wasn’t working it seemed, he was just scrolling absently, lost in thought. The scarf still draped around his neck in soft folds.
He looked… settled. Not like the man who had walked into Pine Hollow a few days ago with tension in every line ofhis shoulders and looking a little lost. For some reason, that softened something inside me.
About half an hour passed, most of the fridges were stocked up and I was almost done for the day. Ivy seemingly slipped out back to grab more takeaway bags and the moment she disappeared, the bell above the door chimed again.
Three elderly women stepped inside. Coats dusted with snow, knitted hats pulled low, handbags swinging at their elbows. The Pine Hollow Knitting Club. They moved in a tight formation, always whispering, always watching everything.
Mrs. Lennox, Mrs. McAvoy, and Mrs. Douglas.
I swallowed. Oh no. They were the town gossip’s and easily the biggest ones to spread news.
As they approached the counter, their gazes drifted–not subtly–to Oliver sitting at his table by the window. He was leaning back in his chair, thumb moving idly across his phone screen, steam curling from his mug, unknowing to him he was being stared at.
Mrs. Lennox nudged Mrs. McAvoy, Mrs. McAvoy looked at Mrs. Douglas. All three turned their heads in perfect synchronisation to stare at him.
Then slowly at me. Oh no no no. I just knew they were getting ready to let off a bomb.
Mrs. Douglas leaned in, voice lowered but absolutely loud enough to carry across the bakery. “Brianna dear, is thatyour gentlemanover there?”
My spine snapped straighter. “He isnotmy, he’s just a customer.”
“Mmh.” Mrs. McAvoy pursed her lips. “Funny. That’s not what Moira MacLeary said. She told us she saw you two at Winter Wonderland the other night. Said you looked awful cosy.”
Cosy? COSY?
“Mrs MacLeary likes to exaggerate things, we were ice skating,” I said firmly. Too firmly. “And I almost fell.”
Mrs. Lennox arched a snowy-white brow. “It looked more like you almost fellinto his arms.”
I opened my mouth, closed it, fought the urge to sink behind the counter.
