Chapter 2

EMMA:

I woke up late, which was the one thing I never let myself be.

I had stayed up too late the night before, telling myself I could finish one more chapter, one more concept, one more hour. By the time I woke up, the morning already felt ahead of me. It was not a disaster, just enough to knock me out of rhythm, which somehow felt worse. I liked knowing exactly where I was in my day. Today I was already catching up.

The key sticking in the lock at North and Rye did not help. I forced it until it gave, stepped inside, and shut the door behind me with my hip, already moving toward the lights and the espresso machine. The bakery still smelled like yesterday, warm sugar and butter and bread, and the familiarity steadied me as I tied my apron and got to work.

“Please cooperate today,” I muttered, tapping the espresso machine.

It sputtered, then came to life, and I let out a breath. “Thank you.”

The first hour usually belonged to me, and I was not giving it up entirely just because I had started late. I moved faster but kept everything precise. Croissants went into the oven, dough was portioned, and by the time the first batch started baking, sunlight had begun to slip through the windows.

I unlocked the door, flipped the sign to OPEN, and carried a basket of sourdough to the display just as the bell chimed.

“You’re early,” I said without looking up.

“So are you.”

I glanced over and laughed. Sophie stood in the doorway balancing a bucket of flowers, already halfway inside like she belonged there.

“You steal from your own shop every morning.”

“They’re called neighborly contributions,” she replied, replacing yesterday’s flowers with fresh daisies. She wandered around the bakery, humming before stepping back to admire her work. “They look better.”

“They looked fine.”

“They looked like they needed therapy.”

I slid another tray into the display, shaking my head. “They’re flowers, Soph.”

“They have emotional depth.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re grumpy.”

“I slept three hours.”

“That explains everything.”

Before I could say another word, she leaned over the counter, stole a croissant and took a bite, scattering crumbs.

“You know people usually pay for those.”

“I pay in beauty.”

“You’ve never billed me.”

“We have an understanding.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“You did. Spiritually.”

I laughed and let it go because arguing with Sophie before coffee was a losing battle. She had been my neighbor long enough that the line between our shops barely existed. She borrowed pastries, I borrowed flowers, and somehow it balanced out.

The morning picked up quickly. Mrs Donnelly arrived for her bran muffin, Mr Alvarez collected his rye loaves, and a little girl with a yellow backpack waved at the window. I waved back while juggling orders, settling into the rhythm that made everything manageable again.

By nine, the bakery had found its pace. The bell chimed again, and Christine hurried in, slightly out of breath, her backpack still hanging off one shoulder.

“I’m sorry, my bus was…”

“You’re early,” I said, glancing at the clock as I wiped my hands.

She blinked. “I am?”

“Two minutes.”

“Oh.” She laughed, the tension leaving her shoulders as she disappeared behind the counter to wash her hands. “I thought I was cutting it close.”

“You sound like me.”

“I learned from you.”

She tied on her apron and slipped into work, taking over the coffee machine while I checked the oven timer.

“You got the supplier invoice?”

“It’s on your desk.”

“And the cupcake order?”

“Confirmed.”

“The birthday cake?”

“Pickup at four.”

“Okay. Good.” I nodded, sliding another tray into the display. “I might survive this week.”

“High praise,” Christine said with a grin as she rang up a customer.

Sophie wandered back over, still eating the same croissant. “I would applaud, but my hands are occupied.”

Christine laughed. “You’re stealing again?”

“I prefer consistency.”

“She’s never paying,” I said.

“Absolutely not.”

The three of us drifted into easy conversation while customers came and went. Christine complained about an assignment, Sophie compared her orchids to impossible roommates, and I moved between the counter and the ovens, letting the rhythm carry the morning.

By a little after ten, the rush eased. Christine wiped down tables near the window while Sophie wandered back to her flower shop. I was replacing a tray of cinnamon rolls when the bell rang again.

“Be with you in a second,” I called, sliding the tray into place before brushing the flour from my hands. I reached for the tongs, turned toward the counter, and smiled automatically.

“Sorry about that. What can I…”

The words died in my throat.

He stood just inside the door, dressed like he did not want to be recognized. Navy hoodie. Cap pulled low. His posture angled toward the menu as though he could disappear into it. It did not work. He was too tall, too noticeable even when trying not to be.

He did not look at me right away. He studied the menu with forced focus, and up close the difference was obvious. The version of him I knew from games and magazine covers carried confidence. This version looked exhausted, like whatever held him together had worn thin.

I knew that face. Not personally, but well enough to recognize it.

Because standing in the middle of my bakery, trying to disappear in plain sight, was Ethan Brooks.