And that’s when the knock came.
Hazel jumped, letting out a gentle curse beneath her breath. For a moment, she just stared at the door, the sound of the knock echoing inside her like a bell struck too close to bone.
Then, remembering, she moved, wiping her hands on her apron and tugging the sleeves of her sweater into place as she crossed the room.
She’d forgotten. Or maybe not forgotten, exactly, but underestimated how quickly the contact would reach out. Leigh had smiled like she knew something Hazel didn’t and handed over the name, the email, and whispered“I can’t wait to read the piece!”in a voice so light and sincere it made Hazel’s stomach twist.
Andnow, here he was.
Hazel opened the door to find a man in his early thirties with an olive wool coat, a button-up layered under a sweater, and a worn leather satchel slung across his body. His smile was easy and disarming, but his eyes, sharp and dark behind his tortoiseshell frames, looked like they missed nothing. She was immediately on edge, that same lingering sensation of regret tugging at the back of her throat.
Is it too late to cancel?
“Hazel Simmons?” he asked.
Hazel swallowed back her anxieties as best she could, and nodded. “That’s me.”
“I’m Eli Chang, fromMaine Monthly. Thanks for having me.”
He offered a hand, which she shook, hers embarrassingly cold from the draft by the window, his warm and dry and professional. There was something about him that reminded her of a former instructor at culinary school— neatly pressed, clipped diction, and the kind of patience that wasn’t entirely passive. The kind that gathered things. Catalogued them.
She stepped back, letting him in. “Sorry about the mess. I didn’t have much time to prep. Or maybe I just lost track of time a little.”
“No problem,” he said, gaze already roaming. “I like mess. Makes for good colour.”
Hazel swallowed.
Inside, the bakery still smelled like chai and citrus peel. The last batch of rosemary scones sat cooling by the register, and the cider pot steamed softly behind the counter. It should’ve felt comforting. It usually did.
But her nerves, which had been dormant just minutes ago, began to crackle awake. They settled inside her, a low simmer.
She moved on instinct, offering coffee, waving toward a table near the back, grabbing two mismatched mugs from the drying rack behind the counter. She turned to speak but dropped one before she got the words out. It slipped from her hand and shattered across the hardwood like a shot.
Hazel froze, eyes flaring wide. Crimson instantly rushed to her cheeks, staining her olive skin with a visible mark of her embarrassment. “Shit.”
Eli lifted one brow and pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket, flipping it open with deliberate grace.
“Please tell me you’re not puttingthatin the story,“ she said, crouching to gather the broken ceramic with a dishtowel.
He smiled and tapped his pen against the page. “We’re officially on the record, Hazel.”
Hazel groaned. “You’re brutal.”
“Only a little.”
When she looked up, he was already seated, legs crossed and pen poised. She cleaned the rest as quickly as she could, then joined him at the table, cheeks still warm. She slid his steaming cup of coffee towards him and clutched her own, a replacement for the broken one now lying in pieces at the bottom of her waste bin.
Eli glanced around once more, then met her eyes.
“So,” he began, his gaze settling on hers in that heavy, prodding way of his. “Rise. Tell me how it started.”
Hazel hesitated for a beat, sucking in a sharp breath. “It was my grandmother’s idea, I guess. I mean, technically, it wasours, back when I was a kid. But she’s the one who made it real.”
He nodded, pen moving.
“She passed away this past summer,” Hazel went on, her eyes drifting away, falling to the steam still rising up from her mug. “And I came back for the funeral. I thought I’d just settle the estate and go home. But then… the bakery was here. A half-renovated half-dream. She wanted me to have it, to make it my own.”
“And so you stayed?”
