“Evie.”
She laughs, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and slides off the stool. “I guess we can stick around and help you finish up whatever’s left.”
I blink at her. “You’re… sure?”
“Absolutely. Someone’s got to supervise Gideon anyway.” She shoots him a pointed look.
Hayes smirks over the counter at me.
And just like that, chaos transforms into efficiency.
Evie sorts trays, labels dough balls, and whisks with a speed that makes me both envious and grateful. Gideon measures ingredients like he’s defusing a bomb, and somehow Hayes makes it all look effortless—moving between mixing bowls and counters, rolling dough, sprinkling chocolate chips with that same patient, careful touch that always makes me forget how close he is.
He leans in once to show Gideon how to gently fold in the butter without overmixing. Our shoulders brush. I catch a whiff of his cologne mixed with the faint scent of maple from the cookies he baked earlier. My chest tightens. I can’t look away.
Evie nudges me mid-whisk. “Don’t just stand there, Em! Chop, stir, organize…whatever! Be useful.”
I bite back a laugh, dipping into the rhythm. The four of us move like a well-oiled, slightly chaotic machine. Counters cleared, trays lined, dough balls rolled, cookies baked, cooled, and boxed. Every so often, Hayes slides a tray toward me with a look that says,taste this. Every time I do, the maple flavor hits, and memories of Pappy’s kitchen flood back, soft and warm.
Somehow, between laughter, minor flour explosions, and Gideon nearly dumping sugar all over the floor, we manage to “magically” get everything done. I lean back against the counter, exhausted but satisfied, and watch Hayes wipe his hands on a dish towel.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, like he’s checking in more for my emotional state than anything else.
I nod, smiling. “I’m… perfect.”
Evie folds her arms, grinning, clearly proud of our teamwork. “Well, I declare that a success. Dockside saved by cookies, chaos, and Hayes Thatcher.”
I glance at him, heart squeezing. “Don’t let her go to your head,” I murmur.
He just smiles, unspoken words lingering in his eyes, and leans back against the counter.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m juggling life alone. Not with my sister, not with Hayes, not with even Gideon—somehow, all four of us are exactly where we’re supposed to be. Even if little Miss Evie is in denial.
Right there in that warm, flour-dusted kitchen, I realize it’s not just the cookies that are sweet—it’s the people around me.
“I guess now is as good a time as any to let you both know that the inspector will be by tomorrow. Sometime between eight and noon.” Hayes smiles at me. “Then you two will officially be back in business.”
“You’re too good to us, Hayes.” Evie pats his cheek then brushes off her clothes one more time before pulling on her coat. “And with that, I think Gideon and I are going to get out of here. Em, I’ll go to the cafe tomorrow and wait for the inspector. You do what you need to do here. Once we’ve got the green light, I’ll head over and help you move all this stuff back to Dockside.”
“Thanks, Eve.”
“Yeah, yeah. Best sister ever. I know.” She hugs me and whispers in my ear, “We will totally be talking about all the heat in this kitchen when you get home.” Then adds, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Don’t stay out too late.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Oh, honey. It’s Mom’s wrath you should be worried about.” She laughs.
Gideon and Hayes shake hands and just like that, they leave me and Hayes alone once more.
six
. . .
Hayes
The second thedoors swing shut behind Evie and Gideon, the air in the kitchen shifts. The noise, the motion, the bustle—all of it slips out with them. The room suddenly feels smaller around the edges, not claustrophobic, but intimate. Without their voices echoing off the walls, it’s just the hum of the fridge, the faint spices from all the baking we’ve done, and the steady awareness ofussettling back into place.
I glance at Emmy. She’s wiping down the counters, her shoulders still a little tense, her movements a touch too careful. She’s tired, yes, but there’s something else—something in the way she keeps stealing quick, nervous glances at me.
