“I’ve got it!” she called, already hurrying toward the front counter with practiced ease, her voice trailing behind her like sunlight. “Hi! Come in out of the cold— wait, your coat issocute, where did you get that?”
Hazel smiled faintly, watching her go. Then she exhaled and turned toward Malcolm again, who was still standing at her side, silentlysipping his drink like this was just another morning and not some kind of surreal, deeply affirming fever dream.
She rubbed her thumb against a flour smudge at the hem of her sweater and muttered, mostly to herself, “I think I need to pay her more.”
Malcolm snorted. “Oh, youdefinitelydo,“ he agreed without looking up.
Hazel huffed a quiet laugh, but the sound caught in her chest— fond and a little breathless.
Malcolm took another sip of his drink, thumb tapping lightly against the sleeve. He glanced toward the front of the shop, watching Juno joke with the newcomer, her energy bright but never overbearing, then back to Hazel.
Her gaze met his and she reached out, tapping the end of her finger against his forearm. “Did the sign-ups go live yet? For the art program?”
The question pulled a smile from him, the weight of it curving at the edges of his lips. There was a gentle gleam in his eye at the merementionof the program, and the sight of it sent a flicker of warmth through Hazel’s chest.
“Yesterday afternoon. We had three parents reach out within the hour.”
Hazel eyes flared wide, a smile breaking across her face. “Mal, that’s amazing!”
He gave a little shrug, like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but his eyes flicked down for a second, almost shy.
“No, really,” she went on, leaning over to nudge him with a shoulder. “You’ve been talking about this for months. The outreach, the curriculum, figuring out the scheduling of the space… I know how much time you’ve put into this. It’s a big deal.”
His gaze returned to Hazel’s, a thoughtful softness settling over his expression. “I just wanted to make something accessible. A lot of these families don’t have a ton of money… I don’t want that to be a barrier if a kid really wants to learn.”
“Well, you did. And it clearly matters to people already.”
He looked at her then, longer this time, and the gratitude in his expression was quiet, but present. “And what about you, huh? How did the thing at the Captain’s Rest go?”
Hazel blinked, the question catching her off guard— not because she’d forgotten about it, but because she hadn’t expected anyone else to still be thinking about it.
She leaned back against the edge of the butcher block, her fingers brushing the soft linen of the towel at her hip. Her gaze drifted to the far side of the kitchen, where the last tray of cranberry white chocolate muffins sat cooling beside a bowl of sugared cranberries she’d prepped for a new garnish.
“It was good,” she admitted, after a moment. Then, quieter, she added,“Reallygood.”
She let the words stretch a little and the memory came with them— of arriving at the Captain’s Rest just before dusk, arms full of boxes and trays and a thermos of cider still warm from the stove. Elise had been there already, her sleeves pushed up, rearranging stacks of books and fluffing one of the old velvet throws on the armchair beside the front display. The fireplace had been going, casting long shadows across the wooden floors, and the whole place smelled like old paper and pine garland.
“They were out of everything,” Hazel added, her voice softening with the memory. “Within an hour, I think. Elise looked like she might cry when the last hand pie went.”
Malcolm raised his eyebrows, visibly impressed. “Damn. That good?”
Hazel nodded, a little stunned all over again. “And I’ve already had a few more inquiries,” she continued, fingers absently worrying the edge of the towel. “Someone from the inn stopped by the next morning and asked if I could do a dessert spread for a private dinner they’re hosting next weekend. Then I got a message on the bakery’s email about a holiday cookie table for the school board’s staff party. And a woman who owns a boutique in town asked if I’d ever considered doing gift baskets.”
She shook her head once, incredulous. “I mean… I haven’t even properly figured out packaging yet. It’s just brown paper and stamps. Or printed pieces of cardstock.”
Malcolm gave a low whistle and smiled, eyes warm. “That’s what we call agoodproblem, Hazel.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes drifted again to the front where Juno had just passed the customer a foamed drink in one of the Greyfin ceramics, her hands moving with easy precision, her smile real and present.
Hazel’s chest swelled with something she wasn’t ready to name. Pride, maybe, or gratitude. Or maybe the beginning of something that lived between the two— like certainty, like purpose.
She looked back at Malcolm, her voice a little rough. “It’s starting to feel like this is… something. Like it’s not just surviving anymore. Like I’m actually building something that might last.”
Malcolm didn’t say anything at first. He just held her gaze for a long moment, then tipped his chin toward the kitchen around them. “You are,” he said. “Whether you meant to or not.”
Hazel blinked, caught in the quiet weight of it.
And then, before it could get too heavy, too serious, Malcolm lifted his drink again and added, “But seriously, give Juno a raise before someone else steals her.”
