Oliver Grant.
His coat was dusted with snow, his scarf slightly askew, and his hair looked as though he’d run a hand through it too many times. He shouldn’t have looked quite so at ease in my bakery, but somehow he did, out of place and yet perfectly at home in the same breath.
He caught my eye and offered a polite smile. “Good afternoon Miss Hart.”
“Afternoon Mr Grant,” I replied, far too stiffly.
He glanced at the crowded tables. “I thought I’d stop by for lunch. I was told this is the best place in town.”
“Was told?” I raised an eyebrow. “By who?”
“Mrs Campbell from the hotel,” he said with a faint grin. “She recommended something calledChristmas pie. Said I’d regret my entire existence if I didn’t try it.”
I groaned inwardly. “Of course she did.”
He smiled, a small, amused curve of the mouth that, annoyingly, made something flutter in my stomach.
“Right then,” I said, stepping behind the counter. “If it’s regret you’re trying to avoid, one slice of Christmas pie coming up.”
He moved to a small corner table by the window, removing his gloves and looking entirely too comfortable for someone who was technically ruining my life.
I tried not to glance over as I worked and of course, I failed miserably and found him watching the snow fall outside, his expression distant, thoughtful. He looked almost peaceful, until his phone buzzed across the table.
By the time I brought the pie over, he was on the call, his tone clipped.
“No, I said I’d review it next week,” he said into the phone, his voice lower than usual, irritation threading through each word. “Yes, I’m aware of the deadline, Daniel. I’m also aware I’m six hundred miles away in a place with more sheep than signal.”
I set the plate down quietly. He looked up, offering an apologetic half-smile, and turned slightly away from me.
“Yes, I’ll call you back. No, not tonight.”
He ended the call with a quiet sigh and pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose. For the first time, I noticed how tired he looked, the kind of tired that came from months, maybe years, of never stopping.
“Everything all right?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He gave a dry laugh. “That depends. How’s your Wi-Fi?”
“Hmm, not the worst.”
“Then I’m perfect,” he said, setting the phone down.
Despite myself, I smiled. “Rough day?”
“Rough week,” he admitted. “Though I suppose I can’t complain. I chose to come here.”
“Did you?” I asked, arching a brow.
His eyes met mine across the table, and for a second, something unspoken passed between us. He didn’t answer.
I nodded toward his plate. “Eat before it gets cold.”
He picked up his fork, cutting into the slice. Steam rose, carrying the scent of cinnamon and cranberry. “This,” he said after a bite, “might actually be the best thing I’ve eaten in years.”
I fought the urge to smile, settling for a quiet, “Flattery won’t change my mind about you, Mr Grant.”
He leaned back, eyes glinting faintly with humour. “Wasn’t trying to.”
“Of course you weren’t.”
