The driver doesn’t even look up. “I try not to watch hockey.”
I snort. The driver’s grumble earns a dramatic gasp from Cam. “Blasphemy,” he says, clutching his chest like the man just spat on the flag. “You live in New York and don’t watch hockey? Shame.”
The driver shrugs. “Too many men slamming into each other on ice. Just looks like men fighting with sticks on frozen water.”
Cam turns to me, dejected. “He’s not wrong.”
I smirk but don’t answer. My mind’s already blocks ahead, walking through that familiar bakery door. Emilia in her flour–dusted apron, hair piled in that messy twist she hates and I secretly worship.
—
I wonder if she finally took my advice and hired help – not likely. She‘ s stubborn enough to run the entire place herself until she collapses. Has she eaten today? Will she kill me for not texting first?
It’s not too late to shove Cam out of the car and stop for flowers.
—
Just as I start seriously considering it — maybe lilies, or those weird purple ones she pretends not to like the cab takes the last turn.
We slow. Pull up.
The bakery.
―
The windows are fogged at the corners from the heat inside, that soft golden glow spilling through the glass like honey. I can already smell vanilla and cinnamon – maybe nutmeg too. The little chalkboard out front reads:
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“Fresh out of the oven: peach crumble + cinnamon rolls. Come ruin your diet.”
Cam lets out a low whistle. “God, I missed this place.”
I glance at him. “Stay in the car.”
“Nope.” He’s already halfway out. “I need emotional healing. And food.”
I sigh. No point arguing. I follow him out.
We head straight to the back door, and thank God, it’s open. I notice the lock’s been replaced – good. Small thing, but it makes my chest ease up a little. She’s safer now.
I step inside quietly, already half–smiling like a lovesick idiot.
Emilia is crouched in front of the oven for some reason, focused, her brows furrowed in that way that means she’s in the zone. Judging by the stillness of the place, we’re early – no customers yet ― just the hum of the oven and the scent of sugar and heat in the air.
Or maybe that’s just her.
–
Her hair’s twisted up, exposing the soft curve of her neck. A few loose curls cling to the damp skin there, beads of sweat trailing down her nape like something out of a dream I’ve had too many times. She moves with a kind of quiet rhythm, digging around for something in the oven before turning back to her mixing bowl. The sleeves of her shirt are shoved up, batter streaked across her forearm. I’d marry her for the way she whisks batter alone.
—
She’s probably testing one of the new recipes she mentioned while we were on call – something Halloween–themed. I don’t care. I’d eat poison if it came from her hands.
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I lean against the doorframe, just watching. Drinking her in like a man who’s been thirsty his whole damn life. Every inch of me is screaming to go over, wrap my arms around her waist, press my mouth to the skin behind her ear and stay there. Just stay.
–
Then Cam – fucking Cam — ruins the moment by craning his neck like some oversized toddler trying to peek through a fence.
I shift, square my shoulders, and block his view entirely. He’s seen enough.
So he kicks me in the shin.
“Jesus–ow,” I hiss.
He leans in, stage–whispering like we’re in a spy movie. “You just gonna stand here breathing like a creep, or…?”
“If you didn’t want to be bored, you shouldn’t have tagged along.”
“What? And miss the grand cinematic reunion? Plus, I want some cookies, damnit. I’m here for emotional and nutritional support.”
–
I’m about to tell him exactly where he can shove his emotional support when the sound finally cuts through the room the soft clatter of a spoon against a bowl – and Emilia turns.
–
She startles, of course. Eyes wide, shoulders stiff. She’s always like this when she’s baking- so focused, so lost in her own little world it takes a second for reality to catch up to her. But then her gaze lands
on me.
–
Shock flashes across her face, quick and sharp – and then something else rises to the surface. Something softer. That warm, golden look that always knocks the air out of my lungs. The one that says she’s just as wrecked by me as I am by her.
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Her mouth parts. She doesn’t speak right away, like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she does.
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