Chapter One
Samantha
The industrial oven decides to give up the ghost on a Tuesday afternoon in late March, right when I'm supposed to be baking three dozen cupcakes for the Carmichael wedding and two sheet cakes for the elementary school fundraiser. The temperature gauge spins like a possessed carnival ride, and a smell that can only be described as "electrical fire meets burnt sugar" fills my bakery.
I should probably be panicking about the oven. Instead, I'm thinking about how if anyone ever tried to hurt me again, I'd have a two-hundred-pound piece of defunct machinery to hide the body behind.
Dark humor. It's gotten me through worse.
"Sam?" Ella's voice cuts through my spiral. She's appeared in the kitchen doorway, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun, concern etched across her face. "I heard the commotion. What? Oh no. Not the oven."
"The oven," I confirm, pressing my palms against the stainless steel counter. The metal is cool and grounding. "I don't know what I'm going to do, El. I'm so strapped for cash right now. If I have to call a professional repairman?—"
"You'll figure it out. You always do." But even Ella's optimism sounds strained.
The bell above the front door chimes, and I'm about to call out that we're experiencing technical difficulties when I hear his voice.
"Everything alright back there?"
Nick.
Of course it's Nick. The universe has a sense of humor that borders on sadistic.
He appears in the kitchen doorway behind Ella, and I'm struck by how he manages to make a simple Henley and worn jeans look like they belong in a magazine spread. Silver-threaded hair, broad shoulders, and those eyes. God, those eyes. Blue-gray like the ocean before a storm, with crinkles at the corners that suggest he smiles often and means it.
Every woman in Caraway Cove has noticed Nick since he drifted into town a few weeks ago. The difference is I've been trying very hard not to notice.
"The oven died," Ella announces, and I shoot her a look that she blithely ignores. "Samantha was just lamenting her financial situation."
"Ella," I warn.
"What? I'm providing context." She turns to Nick with a smile that I know far too well. It's her matchmaking smile, and I want to sink through the floor. "You're handy, aren't you? I've heard you fixed Carol Markham's water heater last week."
Nick steps further into the kitchen, and the space suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. "I could take a look if you'd like."
"I can't afford?—"
"No charge," he says, and his voice is gentle, the kind of gentle that makes something in my chest crack open just slightly. "Consider it a neighborly favor."
I should say no. I should maintain boundaries and professional distance, and all the other things my therapist recommended after I fled to Caraway Cove three years ago. But the Carmichael wedding is in four days, and pride doesn't pay the bills.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Thank you."
Ella's grin could power the entire town. "Well, I'll just leave you two to it. I have that thing. You know, that very important thing I definitely didn't just make up."
She winks, actually winks, and disappears before I can murder her.
Nick's mouth quirks. "Your friend is subtle."
"As a freight train." I push my hair back, suddenly aware of the flour on my apron and probably on my face. "The oven's all yours. I'll just…be out front if you need anything."
But as I turn to head out, Nick steps toward the oven, blocking my path while rolling up his sleeves. "Tell me what happened before it quit on you."
So I do. And somehow, telling him about temperature fluctuations and strange grinding noises turns into a conversation about the bakery, about how I bought it with insurance money and sheer determination, about the way the morning light hits the display cases just right.
He works while I talk, his hands confident and sure as he examines the oven's innards. There's something mesmerizing about watching someone who knows exactly what they're doing, who moves with purpose and precision.
"Hand me that wrench?" he asks, and I realize I've been standing here staring.
