And even when I’m back behind the counter and customers are shouting orders at me, I can still feel the echo of his words.The heat of his knee touching mine. The possibility that maybe, just maybe…this year might end differently after all.
The bell above the door jingles for the final time as the last customer waves goodbye and disappears into the cold. What started out slow, turned into one of the busiest days so far this week. So busy that poor Evie is yawning so hard her eyes are watering.
“That’s it,” I say, stretching my aching back. “Go home. Sleep. I’ve got the rest.”
Evie tries to muster an argument, but another yawn betrays her. “Fine. But only if you lock up behind me.”
“I always lock up.”
“You alwayssayyou lock up,” she teases.
I flick a towel at her. “Get out of here.”
She grins, grabs her coat, and leans over the counter to kiss my cheek before heading for the door. “Love you. Don’t burn the place down.”
“I won’t,” I promise, flicking flour at her as she goes.
I’ll get this sugar cookie dough in the fridge, andthenI’ll lock everything up.
The café grows quiet—comfortably so. I love this time of night. When Dockside falls silent. Just the hum of the old cooler, the soft buzz of the overhead lights, and the scent of sugar and cinnamon thick in the warm air.
I’ll be here for a few more hours, but I’m looking forward to it.
I turn on the kitchen speakers, queue up my favorite Christmas playlist, and read over the next round of holiday pastry orders. The sugar cookie dough for the elementaryschool’s winter festival is chilling, gingerbread for more gingerbread house kits is cooling, and a tray of cranberry orange bars waits to be sliced. There are still six rum cakes for this week’s farmer’s market to be made, and more scones for tomorrow’s breakfast rush.
I’m elbow-deep in buttercream frosting for a gingerbread latte cake I’ve been dying to try when there’s a sharp pop, then a flicker light, and the faint smell of something overheating.
I turn just in time to see sparks spit from the old outlet near the mixer.
“Oh—no, no, no?—”
The sparks catch the edge of a towel, and flames rise up fast. Too fast.
Panic slams into me as I grab the fire extinguisher, but my hands are shaking so hard it nearly slips from my grip.
The flames lick higher. My breath goes thin.
Then the hardwired smoke alarm screams.
Within a minute, maybe less, I hear the sirens.
“Fire department!”
The back door bursts open, and Hayes is suddenlythere—silhouetted in the doorway, commanding and steady, his eyes sweeping the kitchen with laser precision.
“Emmy,” he breathes when he sees me frozen with the extinguisher.
He’s already crossing the space and swiftly moving me out of the way, passing me off to another firefighter who escorts me outside.
His crew floods in behind him, helping and assessing the situation.
“Ma’am, if you’ll come with me to get you checked out.” One of the paramedics on the scene drapes a blanket over my shoulders and guides me toward the ambulance.
“No,” I try to protest. “I can’t. That’s…I’m…” My bottom lip begins to tremble and tears well up in my eyes.
“It’s just a precaution while the firefighters do their job,” she replies in a gentle voice.
Somehow, my feet carry me to the back of the ambulance.
