Or worse, I keep visiting, keep pretending we can have something normal, until eventually she ages and I don't, until the inevitable end that comes for all mortals while I continue on, carrying the weight of her absence for eternity?
"Damn it," I breathe, pulling my hand back.
I'm in love with a woman I can never have.
The thought sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and immovable. I turn away from the mirror, leaving it covered, and drop into the armchair by the fireplace.
Somewhere in the mortal world, Samantha is going about her day. Baking bread, serving customers, living her life completely unaware that on another plane of existence, the immortal embodiment of Christmas generosity is sitting alone in the dark, wishing for something he can never allow himself to take.
Outside, the aurora pulses in shades of green and gold. Beautiful. Timeless. Utterly meaningless.
I close my eyes and see her face again, the way she looked at me in the moonlight.
And despite everything, despite all the logical reasons to stay away, I feel it. A pull. Something calling me back to the bakery that smells like cinnamon and home, to the woman who made me want something for myself for the first time in my long, long existence.
I should ignore it.
I won't.
But I won't give in yet. Not today.
Maybe tomorrow.
Chapter Five
Samantha
August in the bakery means sweating through my shirt before sunrise, the kitchen so hot it feels like I’m not just near the oven, but living inside it. I swipe at my forehead with the back of my hand, smearing flour across my skin, something I’ll only notice later, probably when I’m trying to look presentable in the bathroom mirror. The baby gives a little kick, like she’s reminding me she’s along for the ride, and lately, she’s been making her presence known pretty much all the time.
"I know, I know," I say, resting one hand on the swell of my stomach. "Your mom's a glutton for punishment, working in a hot kitchen when she's five months pregnant."
Five months along, and it still sneaks up on me sometimes. Hiding it isn’t really an option anymore, not that I’ve put in much effort. Loose dresses and a well-placed apron can only do so much when you’re hauling around what feels like a regulation-size basketball under your ribs.
The baby does what I can only assume is a somersault, or maybe she’s just practicing for the Olympic gymnastics team. Hard to say.
"You're restless today, aren't you?" I say softly, pulling a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven. "Join the club, kiddo."
The weirdest part is how natural it’s become to talk to the baby. I fill her in on the weather, the customers, the fact that her Auntie Ella dropped off a mountain of parenting books yesterday. Books I’m valiantly pretending aren’t giving me hives. I tell her about the bakery, the recipes I’m still trying to get just right. And sometimes, when it’s late and I can’t sleep, I tell her about Nick.
I tell her about silver hair and hands that always seemed to know what they were doing. About a voice that made me feel safe for the first time in years. About how I wish she could meet him, and he could meet her, and how I wish things were just a little less complicated than they are.
Mostly, though, I tell her we’ll be alright. That two is enough. That love doesn’t come with a minimum headcount.
The bell above the door chimes, and I straighten, pasting on my customer service smile as I head out front.
Mrs. Bamber waves from the counter. "Morning, dear! You're positively glowing."
I laugh. "That's one word for it. What can I get for you?"
But before she even opens her mouth, I know exactly what she wants. The thought just lands in my head, as clear as if she’d said it out loud.
"The blueberry scones," I hear myself say. "Two of them. And a large coffee with extra cream, no sugar. You're taking them to your daughter's house. She just had her wisdom teeth out."
Mrs. Bamber's eyes go wide. "How in the world did you know that? I didn't even tell anyone she was having the procedure."
I blink, the world snapping back into focus with that now-familiar jolt of weirdness. "Lucky guess?"
It’s been happening more and more since that first time with the older woman and her husband. At first, I chalked it up to intuition. The sort you pick up after years of slinging pastries and coffee. But intuition doesn’t hand you the specifics: the sickhusband, the dental surgery, the precise way someone takes their coffee. This is something else entirely.
