Chapter 3

EMMA:

For a moment, my brain stalled completely, like someone had yanked the plug mid-thought. Because standing in the middle of my bakery, trying very hard to look like he belonged there, was Ethan Brooks.

I forced myself into motion before the silence stretched into something awkward. “Morning.”

He glanced up, almost cautiously, as if he wasn’t sure whether I was addressing him or someone behind him. There was something guarded in his expression—not confusion exactly, more like he was bracing for a reaction he’d already decided wouldn’t be pleasant.

I gave him the same easy smile I used on everyone who walked through the door and gestured toward the menu. “What can I get for you?”

His gaze flicked upward and lingered there longer than necessary, buying time. “I… don’t know.”

Up close, the exhaustion I’d noticed from across the room was harder to ignore. Not the kind that came from a late night or a long shift, but something heavier, settled into the lines of his face and the tension in his shoulders.

“If you’re stuck,” I said, keeping things light as I reached for a paper bag, “the cinnamon rolls are kind of our unofficial specialty. People get surprisingly territorial about them.”

He glanced at the display case. “They’re good?”

“I’ve had customers threaten mutiny over less.”

That earned the faintest shift in his expression, not quite a smile but close enough to count.

“Or the breakfast sandwich,” I added, already moving toward the coffee machine. “That’s what I eat when I forget to eat.”

He nodded once, decision made. “Cinnamon roll.”

“Good choice.”

“And a black coffee.”

“Coming right up.”

Behind me, Christine moved around the kitchen with her usual morning energy, trays clinking as she worked. She called out, asking where I’d put the extra paper bags, and I pointed her toward the top shelf without turning around. By the time I glanced back, Ethan hadn’t moved much, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, his attention drifting toward the front windows like he was checking something outside rather than studying the pastries.

I boxed the cinnamon roll and poured his coffee, the steady hiss of the espresso machine filling the space between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but there was a carefulness to it, like we were both aware of something unspoken and choosing not to touch it.

The bell chimed as the door opened again.

“Morning, Emma.”

“Morning, Mrs. Harris. The usual?”

“You know me too well.”

She laughed and headed straight for the sourdough without sparing Ethan a second glance. Another customer followed close behind, earbuds in, grabbed a couple of croissants, paid, and left just as quickly. No one paused. No one whispered. No one even seemed to notice who was standing at the counter.

When I set Ethan’s coffee beside the bag, I caught the subtle shift in him—the way his shoulders had eased, just slightly, as if the absence of attention had taken some pressure off.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

He reached into his pocket for his wallet, and that’s when I noticed the slight unsteadiness in his hands. Not dramatic, but enough that one of his cards slipped free and hit the floor between us.

We both moved at the same time, but I got there first, picking it up and handing it back to him before he could fully crouch.

“Here.”

“Sorry,” he said, quieter now.

“It’s fine.”

He hesitated for a second, his eyes searching my face as though he expected to find something there—recognition, judgment, anything that would confirm whatever he’d been bracing for. I didn’t give him anything beyond the same neutral professionalism I offered everyone else. Just another customer, another order.

I stepped back behind the counter and rang him up. “That’ll be twelve fifty.”

He tapped his card, the machine chirping its approval with cheerful indifference. When I held out the receipt, he shook his head.

“You can keep it.”

“Okay.”

He picked up the coffee and the bag, then paused again, glancing toward the windows.

“Is there somewhere nearby to sit?”

“There’s a park across the street,” I said, nodding toward it. “Usually pretty quiet this time of day.”

He followed my gaze, considering it for a second before nodding. “Thanks.”

“Have a good day.”

“You too.”

The bell chimed softly as he stepped outside, and despite myself, I watched him cross the street. He moved easily through the small morning crowd, sidestepping a couple with a stroller and an older man walking a golden retriever. No one stopped him. No one looked twice.

He settled onto one of the benches beneath the maple trees, setting his coffee beside him while the paper bag stayed unopened in his lap.

“Seemed nice.”

Christine’s voice pulled me back from the window as she joined me at the counter, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Hm?”

“The guy,” she said, following my line of sight. “He seemed nice.”

I glanced back toward the park. He hadn’t touched his coffee.

“Yeah,” I said, turning back to the register as another customer approached. “I think he’s having a really bad day.”

The morning picked up quickly after that, the steady rhythm of orders and refills taking over. Bread baskets needed restocking, milk needed steaming, cupcakes needed boxing. I moved through it all automatically, but every so often my attention drifted back to the bench across the street.

He stayed there.

At one point he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at his coffee like it might offer answers. Later, he sat back again, gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, not really seeing anything at all.

I told myself it wasn’t my business. People had bad days. That didn’t make them mine to fix.

Still, when there was a lull between customers, I reached for my phone and searched two words.

Ethan Brooks.

The results appeared instantly—headlines, videos, statements, photos. His face everywhere, but sharper, more polished, more certain than the version sitting across the street.

I opened the first article, and the headline alone made my stomach drop.

“Hockey Star Ethan Brooks Accused of Assault by Former Girlfriend.”

I clicked another, then another. The details shifted slightly from one to the next, but the core of the story stayed the same—a public accusation, supporting images, commentary from people who had already decided exactly what kind of man he was.

I looked up again.

He was still on that bench, coffee untouched, the bag still unopened in his lap.

The man in the articles felt distant from the one I’d just served, but that didn’t mean the articles were wrong. A woman had come forward. That mattered. I wasn’t about to dismiss that because he looked tired and quiet in my bakery.

Still, the disconnect lingered.

He didn’t look like a headline. He looked like someone who had woken up to find his life rearranged into something unrecognizable.

I slipped my phone back into my apron and turned toward the next customer stepping up to the counter.

Whatever the truth was, it wasn’t simple and for some reason, that unsettled me more than the headline itself.