By nine-thirty, the line to order was gone, with just a few people waiting for their orders.
That was when he walked in.
I didn’t hear the bell this time.I felt him.
The air shifted, and I glanced up from the register, ready with my practiced greeting, and forgot every word I knew.
He was tall.That was the first thing my brain managed.Tall and broad and filled the doorway like he belonged there despite clearly not belonging at all.
Leather jacket.Dark jeans.Heavy boots dusted with snow.His hair was dark, a little long, and shoved back like he hadn’t bothered with a mirror.Full beard, giving him that perpetually dangerous look that romance novels loved to glorify and my mother would’ve warned me against.
And his eyes were steady.Calm.The kind of eyes that didn’t rush, flinch, or miss anything.
Including me.
I swallowed.
“Hi,” I squeaked.“Welcome to Cookie Haven.”
His mouth twitched, like he was amused by something he wasn’t going to share.“Smells good in here.”
“Thank you,” I said, because that was safe.Neutral.Professional.
He stepped forward and leaned one forearm on the counter like he’d done it a hundred times before.His gaze flicked briefly to the gingerbread display, then back to me.
“I’m looking for a gingerbread house,” he said.“A good one.”
I snorted before I could stop myself.“You’ve come to the right place.”
His smile widened just a fraction.“I figured.”
I reached for my clipboard.“Custom or pre-made?”
“Custom,” he said immediately.“It’s for my mom.”
Something about the way he said it, plain and unguarded, softened the edges of him in my mind.
“What style?”I asked.“Traditional?Modern?Whimsical?”
He glanced back at the display village, thoughtful.“She likes classic.Snow on the roof.Lights in the windows.”
“I can do that,” I said.“Any specific theme?”
He shrugged.“She’s big on Christmas.More than I am.”
That earned him a smile.“Opposites,” I said lightly, then immediately wondered why I’d said that.
His eyes darkened just a touch, and heat curled low in my stomach.“Yeah,” he murmured.“You can say that.”
I cleared my throat and focused on the clipboard.“Pickup would be… Friday afternoon.Unless you need it sooner, but I would have to charge a rush fee.”
“Friday works.”
My pen hovered over the paper.“Name?”
“Saint,” he said.
I blinked.“Saint?”
