The timer on the counter beeps shrilly, making us both jump. Savannah laughs, a small, startled sound that breaks some of the remaining tension.
"That's the cranberry walnut bread," she explains, reluctantly stepping away to check the oven. "I need to get back out front soon. Marco can only handle the register for so long before hestarts giving away free coffee to everyone who compliments his hair."
I smile, leaning against the counter as she quickly transfers golden loaves from the oven to cooling racks.
There's something captivating about watching her work, the sure movements of her hands, the quiet competence, the way she hums slightly under her breath.
"What time do you finish today?" I ask.
She glances at me, a strand of hair falling across her face. "Around one. Why?"
"I want to walk you home."
Her eyebrows lift slightly. "You do?"
"I do," I nod. "And maybe take you on an actual date sometime. One that doesn't involve fake dating or emergencies or rushing off to fight fires."
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, small but genuine. "I'd like that."
The swinging door pushes open, and Marco pokes his head in, his elaborately styled hair immediately identifying him as the coffee-giveaway risk Savannah mentioned.
"Savannah, Mrs. Holloway is asking about her special order, and I have no idea what she's talking about," he says, eyes darting between us with poorly concealed curiosity.
"I'll be right there," Savannah tells him. Marco nods, shooting me a speculative look before disappearing back through the door.
"I should go," she says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Duty calls."
"I'll see you at lunchtime," I tell her, not making it a question.
She nods, a hint of shyness creeping back into her expression. "I'll be here."
I want to kiss her badly, but the moment doesn't feel right, not with her rushing back to work, not with the morning's uncertainty still lingering at the edges. Instead, I reach out and squeeze her hand briefly, feeling her fingers curl around mine for just a moment before letting go.
Her smile widens slightly. "Don't be late."
…
I'm ten minutes early, waiting outside The Enchanted Bean. The day has remained clear but cold, the kind of crisp winter weather that burns your lungs a little with each inhale.
When she emerges from the shop at exactly one, something loosens in my chest. Her work clothes replaced by jeans and a soft-looking sweater in deep burgundy, her hair loose around her shoulders. She smiles when she sees me waiting, a real smile that reaches her eyes.
"You're here," she says, locking the door behind her.
"Eager," I correct, earning a soft laugh that sends warmth spreading through me.
The walk to her house is unhurried, our path taking us through the quieter residential streets of Whitetail Falls. Savannah lives in a small craftsman-style house about fifteen minutes away, she tells me, with a kitchen she renovated specifically for recipe testing.
We talk easily as we walk, the awkwardness of the morning fading with each step. Her hand brushes against mine once, twice, before I capture it in mine, threading our fingers together. She glances up at me, a hint of color in her cheeks, but doesn't pull away.
"Tell me something I don't know about you," I say as we turn onto Cypress Lane, a tree-lined street of modest homes.
Savannah considers this, her thumb absently tracing circles on the back of my hand. "I collect vintage cookie cutters. I have over a hundred of them."
"A hundred?" I laugh. "That's dedication."
"They're displayed all over my kitchen walls," she admits, looking slightly embarrassed. "It's a little overwhelming for first-time visitors."
"I'd like to see them sometime," I tell her, and mean it.
