What kinds of pastries I should make for a town I don’t know yet.
And, if I’m being honest, a certain man who held me like I weighed nothing at all. Like Ibelongedthere.
His arms were strong, sure. The kind of strength that doesn’t need showing off.
But it wasn’t just how easily he caught me. It was how hedidn’tlet go right away.
How steady he was.
How warm.
The way my hands curled into his chest without thinking, like they already knew the shape of him.
In the middle of the night, I crept downstairs, flipped on the kitchen lights, and made a batch of cinnamon rolls just to calm my nerves. The scent of caramelized sugar and warm dough filled the air, and by the time they came out of the oven, I felt a little more like myself again.
Later, when I stepped outside to toss some trash, a woman was walking up from the inn. Maybe in her fifties. Apron with too many pockets. Loud earrings. Hair up in curlers like she had better things to do than impress anyone, and still somehow pulled it off.
She introduced herself as Loretta and said she works at the Snowcap Inn.
Said she works forSebastian Ford.
The name of the man who caught me like he’d beenwaitingto.
Apparently, she’s worked there for years, back when his parents ran the place. And in under five minutes, she gave me Sebastian’s family history and part of my own.
Small-town gossip is undefeated. But she was kind, and her curiosity came from a good place.
I saw him again earlier, just after dawn. From my window. He was out salting the walkway, boots crunching through snow, shoulders broad beneath a dark jacket.
Later, I caught him in his own window, looking across at mine. Like he wasn’t sure why. Like he didn’t want to be seen, but couldn’t help it.
Now it’s just past eight, and I’m standing on the bakehouse porch with coffee in hand, watching the town stretch and wake. A pickup truck rolls by, the driver tipping his hat. A woman in a puffy coat walks her golden retriever, both of them leaving neat little tracks in the snow.
Across the street, the inn’s front door swings open, and Sebastian steps outside carrying a piece of equipment that looks like it weighs a hundred pounds. He hauls it into the back of his truck like it’s nothing.
He’s wearing a dark sweater under a flannel jacket, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His forearms are thick with muscle, dusted in dark hair. A pale scar runs along the side of his right hand, sharp against his skin.
I shouldnotbe staring at his hands this early in the morning.
He glances up like he can feel me watching. Our eyes meet. For a second, neither of us moves.
He’s just as intimidating in daylight.
Tall. Solid. Built like he’s carried the weight of the world and never once complained.
But there’s something behind that scowl he wears like armor. Something quieter. Maybe weariness. Maybe kindness, buried too deep to name.
“Morning,” I call, because silence feels heavier than words. My voice comes out brighter than I expect.
He nods once. “Morning.”
His voice is low and rough. Like gravel and smoke. It slides over my skin and settles somewhere low in my belly.
A pause stretches between us. Normally I’d fill it with chatter. Ask about the weather. The town. Anything.
But I don’t.
Something about him makes me want tokeepthe quiet.
