Chapter One
The problemwith coming home for Thanksgiving was that Mapleford, Maine, population 1,458 at the last count, never stopped smelling like nostalgia and yeast.
Eli Winters pushed open the bakery door, and a solid wall of warm air and cinnamon hit him, the kind of aroma that made him feel as though he was eight years old again, full of hope and yearning for Christmas to finally arrive. The bell over the door gave its tired jingle. Inside,The Merry Crumbwas humming. There were townies in heavy coats, and a seven-year-old in a puffer jacket, making a solemn decision between ginger snaps and snickerdoodles, as if the fate of the world hinged on nutmeg. The chalkboard menu was smudged with flour handprints.
Nothing changes around here.
“Eli Winters,” someone called from the far end of the counter. “The city boy returns.” His face was kinda familiar, but Eli didn’t have the spoons to chase through his memory for it.
He lifted a hand. “Just for the weekend,” he said, his automatic smile sliding into place. Thanksgiving? Sure. Two nights, maybe three. Then back to Boston Monday, to a very adult apartment with a very teenage bank account and an inboxfull ofCan we revisit this conversation in Q1?He grabbed a bag of bagels because they looked too delicious to ignore.
Thatcity boyremark rankled.I was born and raised here, right?
Yeah, but then you escaped.Maybe spending thirteen years in Boston meant he had to give up hissmall town boycard.
Aileen emerged from behind the espresso machine, her hair pinned up with a pencil, and a smear of powdered sugar across her cheek like war paint. She was older than him by two years, infinitely bossier, and the only person who could make him feel both twelve and safe in under a second.
“You look thin. Are you eating enough?”
“Hello to you too,” he retorted.
“I’m glad you’re here.” She came over to stand beside him, her tone more gentle.
He bumped her hip. “I’m literally holding a bag of bagels. You can’t insult meandexpect tips.”
“Oh, I expect nothing from you but manual labor.” She slid a bag of rolls across to an elderly customer. Then she shot Eli the look, the one he recognized instantly.
The one that saidwe need to talk.
Aileen finished taking payment before casting him a glance. “Why don’t you grab a table, have some coffee, and I’ll get back to you when it calms down a bit?”
The words filtered through his stomach like cold air. He’d heard them from professors, ex-bosses, and boyfriends, and usually they preceded a very polite disaster.
So what am I going to do? Turn around and leave?
He couldn’t do that. Instead, he nodded and drifted to a corner table, where he could pretend to respond to emails and watch his sister run an empire built on butter, sugar, and sheer audacity. Aileen paused long enough to bring him coffee before heading back behind the counter.
A floor heater clicked on. Outside, November in Maine tried to gnaw its way through the windows. Inside, Aileen and one other member of staff performed a well-rehearsed ballet of tray passes and register beeps.
Why are there so few people working in here?If every day was like this, she’d end up in an early grave, and she was only thirty-four.
He answered three emails, deleted six (We’re excited to explore AI options for our brand story…), and stared at a spreadsheet until the numbers blurred. By the time the lunch rush thinned, his shoulders were tight.
Aileen untied her apron and gestured with her chin toward the back. “I just need ten minutes.”
He followed her through swinging doors into the kitchen with its stainless-steel counters, the thrum of mixers, and trays of cooling pumpkin rolls exhaling cinnamon steam. He pressed his palms to the metal and let the chill soak in.
“So,” he said, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere near resigned, “is this the part where you ask for a kidney, ask me to taste-test something experimental, or question my life choices?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” she said, then made a face. “Okay, be alittledramatic. Two of my people are gone. Laurie moved to Florida—traitor—and Ben came down with pneumonia. Christmas orders are already bananas, and I have no one except Sam out there to cover mornings. I’m drowning here.”
He watched the mixer paddle turn frosting into silk. He pictured his inbox again, the slow bleed of clients posting,We tried Midjourney and it’s, like, close enough. The last time he’d told someone his rate, they’d said, “Wow, you’re proud of your time,” as though he should feel bad for eating.
Eli saw where she was going in a heartbeat.
“I’m supposed to head back Monday,” he said, his tone level and quiet.
“I know.” She braced her hands on the counter. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another option. I just want to borrow you for a bit.”
