I grab the tool from his bag, and when our fingers brush during the exchange, heat spirals up my arm. His gaze flicks to mine, holds for a breath too long, then returns to the oven.
Three hours later, the oven hums to life.
"You're a miracle worker," I breathe, running my hand along the now-cool exterior. "Seriously, I don't know how to thank you."
"It wasn't that complicated. Just some worn wiring and a blown heating element." He wipes his hands on a rag, and I notice the late afternoon has surrendered to evening. The bakery's front windows glow softly in the dimming light.
"Let me at least make you coffee," I offer. "It's the least I can do."
He glances toward the door, and for a moment I think he'll decline. Then that smile appears, the one that makes those eye-crinkles deepen. "I'd like that."
I brew a fresh pot while he washes his hands at the industrial sink. The bakery feels different with just the two of us here after hours, intimate in a way that makes my pulse quicken. I pour two mugs and lead him to my favorite table by the window.
We talk. About everything and nothing. About the way small towns have their own rhythm, slower and more deliberate than city life. About favorite books and terrible movies and whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn't, we both agree, and the alignment feels significant somehow).
He tells me about his work, hands wrapped around his coffee mug, and I'm struck by how he makes even the mundane sound fascinating. There's a weight to him, something ancient and knowing, but also a lightness that makes me feel like I could float.
"You make me feel safe," I blurt out, then immediately want to take it back.
But Nick doesn't laugh or deflect. He just looks at me with those storm-colored eyes and says, "Good. You should feel safe."
I start to gather our mugs, needing to move, to do something with my hands. That's when I feel his gaze shift, sharpening.
"Samantha." His voice has changed, gone lower. Careful. "Your wrist."
I glance down. My sleeve has ridden up during the movement, exposing the scar tissue on the inside of my left wrist. It's faded now, three years old, but still visible. Still there.
I try to tug the sleeve down, but Nick's hand catches mine. His touch is feather-light, asking permission, and I find myself frozen as he gently turns my wrist to examine the scar more closely.
"What happened?" he asks.
"It's nothing. Ancient history."
"That's not nothing." His thumb brushes just below the scarred skin, and the tenderness of the gesture makes my throat tight. When I don't answer, he looks up at me, and something fierce flashes in his expression. "Who did this to you?"
The question steals my breath. Not "how did you get this" or "what happened. He knows. Somehow, he knows.
I should pull away. I should shut down this conversation, usher him out, and pretend we didn't just cross some invisible line.
Instead, I hear myself whisper, "My ex."
I hate even referring to him as "my ex" out loud. It reminds me of every nightmare I left behind when I came to Caraway Cove with nothing but a duffel bag and a desperate hope for something better.
"He's gone," I add quickly, needing Nick to understand. "He's the reason I came here. Started over. Built this life." I gesture around the bakery, this place I've made mine through sheer force of will. "Only Ella knows. I don't usually tell people."
Nick's hand still cradles my wrist, protective and impossibly gentle. "Thank you for telling me."
And here's the strange thing: I don't feel exposed or vulnerable or any of the things I should feel. I feel lighter. Seen.Safe in a way that defies logic, given that I met this man a few weeks ago and know next to nothing about him.
I sink back into my chair across from him. "Your turn."
He raises an eyebrow. "My turn?"
"To tell me something. You drifted into town, fixed half the appliances in Caraway Cove, and have every woman within a ten-mile radius sighing whenever you walk by." I wrap my hands around my now-cool mug. "But you don't talk about where you came from or why you're here. So tell me, what's your story, Nick?"
For a moment, I think he'll deflect. But then he leans back, that slight smile playing at his mouth. "I work up north. Way up north. Winters are brutal. Long hours, heavy obligations, lots of people depending on me." He pauses, his gaze distant. "I needed a break. Somewhere sunnier. Somewhere I could remember why I do what I do."
"Did you find it?"
