I was still taking it in when the door to the back room opened.
She had auburn hair swept into a loose braid, a dusting of flour on her cheek, and the kind of expression that made me forget, briefly, what I’d come to say. There was strength in the way she carried herself–not haughty, but steady. Her eyes found mine, wary and unflinching.
“Mr Grant, I presume?” she said, her voice even, quiet.
I cleared my throat. “That’s right. And you must be Miss Hart.”
“I am.”
The air between us seemed to tighten slightly, not hostile, just uncertain. The hum of the radio filled the silence, a slow carol threading through the moment.
She folded her arms. “I suppose you’re here to tell me how this is all going to work.”
“Not quite,” I said carefully. “I was hoping we could discuss it.”
Her lips curved–not a smile, exactly. “Discussing it won’t change much, will it?”
For the first time since landing in Scotland, I had no clever answer.
The hum of the ovens deepened, the scent of orange peel growing sweeter. Somewhere behind me, the bell over the door jingled again, a sound too soft to distract from the realisation settling slowly in my chest:
This was going to be much harder than I thought.
Chapter Three
Aweek passed since the letter, and I still couldn’t sleep.
No matter how many cups of chamomile tea I drank, how long I stayed up baking, or how many times I told myselfit will work out, the worry refused to leave. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the letter, those blunt, indifferent words stamped across crisp cream paper.Property transition under new ownership.
I’d emailed the solicitors three times. I’d called twice. Left polite messages, then slightly less polite ones. The phone was never answered. The emails never returned.
So I waited.
My flat above the bakery felt smaller by the day. I’d lived there since I came back from London. A simple, cosy one bedroom with low ceilings and a window that looked out onto the market square. From there I could see almost the whole of Pine Hollow: the snow-dusted rooftops, the crooked lampposts strung with twinkling lights. It should have felt magical this time of year. It always had. But since that letter, it felt like standing on the edge of something I couldn’t hold onto.
If the bakery was sold, I’d lose everything. My family's memories, my income, my home. All of it.
The village had rallied in their usual way–kind, nosy, relentless. Ivy had told practically everyone by the end of the first day, and since then I’d been met with constant sympathy, the sort that was meant kindly but still stung.Poor Bri, losing the Hearth right before Christmas.
I didn’t want their pity. I wanted a solution.
I hadn’t heard anything since the letter arrived, and part of me almost wished it would stay that way. Whoever “Mr Oliver Grant” was, I wanted him to remain a name on paper, not a real person standing in my doorway with the power to undo everything I’d built.
More snow fell overnight, coating the square in white. The decorations had gone up in earnest now, garlands over doorframes, wreaths in every window, fairy lights flickering like stars. Pine Hollow was officially ready for Christmas. But, I wasn’t.
Awake early once again and baking to keep my hands busy and my mind quiet. The ovens warmed the shop, the scent of cinnamon and orange peel filling the air. I was kneading the dough for the afternoon’s pastries when the bell above the front door jingled.
“I’ll get it!” Ivy’s voice called from the counter, bright and chipper as ever. She was immune to exhaustion, somehow, her energy infinite, her mood unbreakable.
I smiled faintly to myself, continuing to work the dough. The rhythm calmed me: push, fold, turn, repeat. It was the only thing that still made sense. But a moment later, I felt the air shift, the subtle hush that comes when something changes and then a man’s voice, low and composed:
“I’m not here for pastries.”
I froze, my hands still buried in flour.
“Oliver Grant. I believe I’m here regarding this property.”
My heart sank as Ivy appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. “He’s here.”
