Either the hot water tank is ancient or someone around here thinks plumbing is a form of character building.
Wrapped in a towel and shivering, I hop across the freezing tile floor, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind me. This old bakery might be charming, but it’s got quirks. The kind that wait for the perfect moment to strike, like when you’re half-naked and vulnerable.
I swipe a hand across the fogged-up mirror. My reflection blinks back, flushed and frazzled. Hair twisted on top of my head. Lips still pink from Sebastian Ford’skiss.
The memory hits like heat after frostbite. The steady press of his mouth. The way his hand anchored me, warm and sure. The way my whole body leaned into him like it had always known how.
I inhale sharply and blow it out slow, trying not to think too much. Or maybe not tofeeltoo much.
Instead, I wrap my towel tighter, tug on the fluffy robe that barely qualifies as a layer, and set off in search of the water heater.
There’s a narrow door in the back hallway, could be a utility closet. I pull it open.
A broom. A bent mop. No heater.
I swear under my breath and close the door with a soft thud.
That’s when I remember the little shed I spotted earlier behind the bakehouse. Squat. Weathered. Wired for power, judging by the rusted meter box hanging off the side.
If the water heater isn’t inside the building, ithasto be out there.
I hesitate at the back door. Beyond the glass, snow clings to the railing, thick and stubborn. I’ll just be a second. In, out. Hit a switch, maybe. Whatever it takes to avoid a full-body ice bath.
I open the door.
The cold hits like a slap.
I wince, step outside barefoot, towel cinched, robe flapping in the wind like a defeated flag.
The shed is maybe five steps away. Six, tops.
I hustle across the porch, down the icy steps, and shove the warped shed door open with a grunt. The water heater crouches inside like a hulking metal beast, half-frozen and not the least bit friendly. I spot a red reset switch, press it once.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
A gust of wind whooshes behind me. Then, I hear the click.
I freeze.
Turn slowly.
The porch door has swung shut.
Please, no.
I run back and grab the knob.
Twist.
Locked.
Harder.
Still locked.
