“Miles?” I breathe.
He blinks, then gives me that crooked, slow-burn grin that once made seventeen-year-old me write truly humiliating poetry in the margins of his textbooks.
“Mason Beckett?” he says, incredulous and warm all at once.
I don’t say anything for a second. I just stare. Because wow. Time has been generous to my high school dream. Broader shoulders, a scruff-lined jaw, still those same dark blue eyes, like stormy lake water before the rain. It’s like seeing a ghost and a daydream at the same time.
And I’ve just covered him in oat milk.
He lifts the coffee-damp flannel slightly away from his chest, chuckling. “Well. I was cold, so thanks for that.”
I groan. “Oh god, please let the floor open up and take me. I am so sorry. I didn’t see you. I was gingerbread distracted.”
“I feel like that’s the most Vermont excuse ever,” Miles says, still grinning. “Seduced by seasonal baked goods?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I mutter, flustered, patting at his shirt with the single crumpled napkin I’ve tucked into my coat pocket. “This is not how I imagined running into you again.”
He raises a brow, warm and curious. “You imagined running into me?”
I freeze, eyes wide. “No?”
He laughs, full and bright, and I hate how it still makes something in my chest do a stupid little pirouette. Like my ribs remember him.
“Okay, well, now I’m definitely buying you a replacement drink,” I say, straightening and attempting to regain what little dignity I have left.
“You don’t have to.”
“Nope. I insist. Non-negotiable. You get a coffee, and I get to feel slightly less like a human disaster. Deal?”
Miles hesitates for a beat, then nods. “Deal.”
We shuffle toward the counter, and I place our order. Another latte for me, black coffee for him. Of course he drinks it black. That’s so Miles. The barista gives me a knowing little smile as she takes my card. I am absolutely not imagining the glint of interest in her eyes. Great. This will definitely be gossip by lunch.
Once we have our drinks in hand, I motion back toward my booth. “Do you want to sit? Or are you in a rush to go find dry clothes?”
Miles glances at the clock, then shrugs. “I’ve got time. I was just running errands for the B&B.”
I blink. “Wait. You’re staying at Just One Bed?”
“Sort of,” he says, following me to the booth. “I’m working there now, too. Helping out with some handyman stuff. They offered me the cabin out back.”
I nearly spit foam. “Wait, wait. Are you in the Gingerbread Palace?”
He grimaces playfully. “Is that what it’s called?”
“That’s what everyone calls it,” I laugh. “That place looks like someone weaponized a cookie decorating kit.”
He laughs too, shaking his head. “Yeah, I noticed. I keep waiting for the gumdrop buttons to sprout legs and attack me in the night.”
We sit across from each other, and for a moment, everything feels quiet. Familiar. Like, twenty-five years didn’t just slam into both of us like a snowplow of memory and doubt.
“They’ve got me doing some handyman stuff around the place,” he continues, wrapping his hands around his coffee. “Bathrooms, creaky stairs, mysterious electrical decisions made by someone’s uncle in 1984.”
I snort. “Sounds about right.”
We both grin, and for a moment it feels easy. Ridiculously easy. Like no time at all has passed. Like, we’re still those two kids sneaking coffee after the spring musical rehearsal and pretending it wasn’t flirting.
“So, what’s the going rate for fixing squeaky stairs and fighting off sentient gingerbread trim?” I ask, sipping my latte.
