Needing Evie. Mom.Hayes.
So no, I didn’t want to wake her up when I got home and tell her the bakery almost went up in flames. Not when I knew the look she’d give me—the one she’s giving me now. Equal parts terror and annoyance and fierce, protective sisterly energy that makes my chest ache so much that I can barely breathe.
Evie spins so fast her braid whips over her shoulder. “Too late! I have already achieved maximum worry. I am at Worry Level Ten. I am the Olympic gold medalist of worrying.” She gestures wildly around the kitchen. “Look at this place! It still smells like smoke—not Hayes’s smoke smell, butactualsmoke. There is no way we can open today. Maybe not even the rest of the week!”
I press a hand to my forehead. “Evie?—”
“No. I’m not done,” she stabs a finger at me. “You always stay late when we’ve got holiday orders,” she continues, softer now, but still wound tight. “And I get it. I do. But you should’ve called. Or texted. Or…something. I walked in and saw the scorch marks and I?—”
Her voice breaks, just a little.
Instant guilt crashes over me. “Hey,” I murmur, stepping closer. “I’m okay. Really. The fire was tiny. Hayes handled it before it even had a chance to spread.”
“Evie.”
“What? I’m allowed to notice the man’s a walking safety blanket. A very muscled, very broody, very?—”
The back door opens.
Evie freezes mid-rant.
I turn.
And there he is.
Still in his navy station jacket, hair damp from a morning shower and a look on his face that says he’s been counting down the minutes until he could get a good look at me again and make sure I’m still in one piece.
Evie whispers, “Oh. My. God.”
I whisper, “Please behave.”
But it’s already too late. Hayes lifts a paper bag filled with what smells like breakfast from the diner near the firehouse. He’s got a tray of coffee in the other hand.
He gives me the softest, most devastating half-smile. “Morning, Em,” he says, his voice filled with warmth and lingering concern. “Evie.” He nods at her.
Evie’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again like her brain is rebooting. A full system overload.
To be fair, Hayes showing up unannounced at seven a.m. with breakfast and that devastatingly handsome face would short-circuit most people's operating systems.
“Morning,” she croaks, sounding nothing like her usual polished, scolding self.
I elbow her lightly. “Behave,” I whisper again.
She doesn’t blink. “I make no promises.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how my hair is definitely in a lopsided bun and I’m wearing sweats that I typically reserve for days when I’m doing nothing but cleaning and/or baking.
Meanwhile, Hayes looks like he just stepped out of a calendar titledSalt-of-the-Earth Men Who Ruin Lives by Existing.
He sets the coffees on the stainless-steel table like he’s been doing it for years, like he belongs here, behind the scenes in what is usually our flour-covered chaos. The paper bag follows with a soft crinkle.
“I brought breakfast,” he says, glancing at me first—always at me first—before flicking his gaze to Evie. “Figured you might need something hot after… everything.”
Evie finally finds her voice. “After everything?” she parrots, eyes wide. “Oh, you mean the part where THE BAKERY CAUGHT FIRE AND MY SISTER ALMOST DIED?”
“Evie,” I hiss.
Hayes’s jaw tightens, but not with annoyance—with the kind of fear he tries to hide behind professionalism. “She wasn’t close to dying,” he says gently. “It was under control.”
