“What if I already messed it up?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
“You didn’t,” Iris said with a shake of her head. “Trust me. If this guy’s worth anything, he’ll know a badly timed kiss doesn’t ruin what’s real.”
Hazel gave a watery laugh. “So… you don’t think I’ve shit the bed?”
“Oh, no, you’veabsolutelyshit the bed,“ Iris said, breaking into a grin. “But that’s why you have us. To change the sheets and bring snacks.”
Hazel laughed again, louder this time, the sound splitting her sadness wide open and letting something warm in. She looked between them, these two odd, brilliant people who had wandered into her life and refused to leave it.
“Thanks for coming,” she said, that same, familiar sting returning to the backs of her eyes.
Malcolm offered a crooked smile. “We always will.”
For the first time in a long time, she believed them. And it didn’t scare her.
12
Aweek had passed, and technically, it was her day off.
But Hazel was in the kitchen anyway, sleeves dusted with flour, the scent of gingerbread and chai thick in the air. Outside, Bar Harbor had crossed the threshold into winter. Frost clung to windowpanes, smoke curled from chimney stacks, and snow flurried in from the coast in soft spirals that stuck to the streets and caught in the bare branches overhead.
Inside Rise, the ovens had been turned off for hours, but warmth still lingered. The bakery carried a new palette of scent and colour— holiday blends and deeper spice, cranberry brie hand pies, ginger molasses cookies, chai apple loaves, and frosted gingerbread set to cool in rows. Flavours that belonged to short days and long nights, to memory and muscle and grief.
Hazel moved from station to station with practiced ease, her apron smudged, her braid loose at the crown. It was easier, sometimes, to stay busy. To keep her hands moving, her thoughts stitched to the task at hand. Anything to keep from glancing toward the front door. Anything to keep from wondering if he might walk through it.
He hadn’t, not since that night on the porch.
He’d texted her the next morning— said he was under the weather, staying in for a few days to recover. But the words had landed hollow, a little too neat, like something drafted, not felt. She’d replied that shehoped he felt better soon, added a half-hearted emoji, and left it at that.
He hadn’t written since.
And she hadn’t asked.
Not because she didn’t want to. But because she wasn’t sure what she’d do with the answer.
His distance had begun to feel like answer enough.
Hazel turned off the mixer and rinsed her hands under warm water, then dried them, letting the silence settle. She poured herself a mug of spiced cider from the stovetop and wandered out to the front of the bakery, where the light was dim and gold and the windows fogged faintly from the contrast of inside to out.
Snow was still falling, the fat, quiet flakes catching the curve of lamplight. Main Street stood hushed and empty, most of the shops already closed for the day. Hazel stood by the glass and sipped, the cider sharp with clove and citrus, sweet enough to coat the ache in her throat.
She hadn’t seen him.
And she missed him.
God,she missed him.
But what could she do with that?
She let the thought go and watched the snow instead, one hand wrapped tight around the mug, the other pressed flat to the glass— hoping, maybe, for something to thaw.
Then she turned back toward the front counter. Her phone sat there, screen dim.
She reached for it and tapped the display to life, the cider still warm in her palm. A few cookie crumbs clung to the edge of the counter from earlier in the day, when she’d tested the latest batch of gingerbreads.
Sorry again that we didn’t get the full order out. Cold snap hit hard. Next week should be better.
Hazel stared at the screen, unimpressed by Ezra’s latest attempt at explanation. The warmth of the cider turned sharp in her stomach.
