The words landed like a stone in my stomach.
I wiped my palms on my apron. “Right.”
“Do you want me to tell him you’re elbow-deep in dough and can’t possibly?—”
“No,” I said quietly. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” she muttered under her breath. “He sounds like the kind of man who irons his socks.”
That startled a laugh out of me, brief, shaky, but real. “I’ll handle it, Ivy.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “But if he upsets you, I’ll accidentally drop a tray of shortbread on his shoes.”
I took a steady breath and stepped into the shop.
The warmth from the ovens met the chill seeping through the door, and for a moment everything smelled of sugar and snow. The man standing near the counter was tall, wrapped in a dark wool coat still dusted with flakes. His dark hair was damp, swept back in a way that looked effortless and far too tidy for this place.
He looked around the bakery, at the jars, the shelves, the chalkboard readingToday’s Treatswith faint curiosity and an expression that might have been equal parts appreciation and discomfort. He didn’t belong here, that much was obvious.
When his gaze finally landed on me, something flickered across his face. Then professionalism slid neatly back into place.
“Mr Grant, I presume?” I said, trying my best to keep my voice steady.
He seemed to be doing the same as he cleared his throat confirming who he was and once we got that out of the way, I still felt a slight bit of rage as I looked him over.
He stepped forward slightly, offering a polite nod. “I–believe we’ve been in correspondence.”
“‘Correspondence’ is a generous word for one letter informing me I’m about to lose everything, and then my emails and phone calls go unanswered.” I said before I could stop myself.
He hesitated, his composure faltering for the briefest moment. “I imagine it came as a shock.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
The bell above the door jingled again as a gust of wind swept through, sending snow scattering across the floor. He glanced back at it, visibly restraining a sigh, and for a strange, fleeting moment, I tried not to pity him. He looked exhausted, the kind of weary that went bone-deep.
When Ivy disappeared into the back to fetch tea, silence fell. He looked around once more, then back at me. “I’m not here to make things more difficult, Miss Hart,” he said finally, his tone softer this time. “I just want to understand the situation properly.”
“You already do,” I said quietly. “You’re selling the building.”
He studied me for a moment. His eyes were sharp, but not unkind. “Perhaps we could sit down? I’d rather not have this conversation standing in your doorway.”
I hesitated. I wanted to tell him to leave, to take his polished shoes, his briefcase, and his perfect manners back to London. But there was something in his voice that wasn’t cruel, just… tired.
“Fine,” I said at last, turning toward the back room. “It’s warmer through here.”
Ivy reappeared with a tray of tea, glaring at him over the mugs as if she were daring him to step out of line.
“Thank you,” he said politely, and Ivy made a sound that was somewhere between a sniff and a growl.
I led him through the door, my heart thudding in my chest, and tried to remember to breathe.
Whatever came next, I needed to keep my head, and my home.
The back room of the bakery wasn’t meant for company. It was small and cluttered mostly. A single round table squeezed between sacks of flour and boxes of tins, a window half-fogged with condensation, and the faint hum of the ovens through the wall. The air was warm, faintly sweet, laced with vanilla. I’d always loved that smell; it felt safe. Today, it only made my stomach tighten.
I motioned for Oliver to sit, and he did, neatly, precisely, the way people do when they’ve been taught to occupy space politely. He rested his leather briefcase on his knee; his gloves folded carefully on top.
I poured two mugs of tea, more out of habit than hospitality, and slid one across the table. He murmured a quiet “thank you,” but didn’t touch it.
