But her mind wasn’t on the television. It kept drifting back to hazel eyes and a dimpled smile, to the easy way Christopher had joked with Trinity, the gentle strength in how he’d helped Gabe with his injured leg. She remembered the way he’d looked at her across the dining room table when he thought no one was watching, something warm and interested in his expression that made her stomach flutter in a way it hadn’t in years.
This was ridiculous. She was thirty-three years old, a single mother with responsibilities and a business to help run. She didn’t have time for butterflies and schoolgirl crushes on handsome Marines who’d probably be gone in a week.
Still, as she clicked off the television and settled into the pillows, Isabella couldn’t stop the small smile that played at her lips. The room was quiet except for the distant sound of the ocean through the cracked window, the Christmas lights casting a soft glow across the ceiling. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt safe, welcomed, part of something larger than her own struggles.
Her eyes grew heavy, and her last conscious thought was of strong shoulders in Marine dress blues and a laugh that made her want to laugh too. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, but tonight, in this beautiful room in this magical inn, Isabella let herself drift into peaceful sleep.
The phone’s beep cut through Isabella’s dreams like a blade, yanking her from sleep with the violence of an alarm she hadn’t set. Isabella’s eyes flew open in the darkness, her heart already racing before her mind caught up to what had woken her. The bedside clock glowed 4:45 AM in stern red numbers. Who would text her at this hour? Immediately, her mind flew to Maddy!
She reached for her phone with sleep-clumsy fingers, squinting against the screen’s brightness. The message notification showed an unknown number, but something cold settled in her stomach even before she opened it. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment, some primal instinct warning her that once she read this, something would change.
Hey, beautiful babe, it’sbeen a long time.
The words hit her like ice water. Her body went rigid against the soft sheets, every muscle tensing as if preparing for a physical blow.Beautiful babe.Only one person had ever called her that, said it with that particular inflection that made endearment sound like ownership. Her hands started to tremble, the phone shaking slightly in her grip.
No. It couldn’t be.After all these years, after everything she’d built, everything she’d survived without him.
Her fingers moved across the screen without conscious thought, typing out the response she knew was pointless:Who is this?
The reply came so fast he must have been waiting for it, sitting somewhere in the darkness with his phone in hand, knowing she’d be awake, knowing she’d respond.
Oh, come on, love, we both know you know who this is.
Love.The word made bile rise in her throat.
Her hands shook harder now, making it difficult to type.
If this is who I think it is, I have nothing to say to you. Leave me alone.
She moved to block the number, her finger hovering over the option, but another message appeared before she could tap it.
I’m back in Florida. I want to meet up.
The words seemed to pulse on the screen. Back in Florida. He was here, in the same state, possibly even close by. The safe distance of an ocean that had protected her for years was gone.Isabella’s chest tightened, her breathing becoming shallow and rapid.
Get lost!She typed the words inadequate for the fury and fear churning inside her. This time, she didn’t hesitate, blocking the number with a vicious tap that she wished could somehow transmit through the phone and strike him wherever he was.
But the damage was done. She was wide awake now, adrenaline coursing through her system like poison. Her sanctuary of a room suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable. What if he knew where she was? What if he’d been watching? The rational part of her mind tried to argue that he couldn’t possibly know about the inn, about her life here, but panic didn’t listen to reason.
Isabella threw back the covers and padded to the bathroom, turning on the light and staring at herself in the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and frightened. She looked like a victim, and that made her angry. She wasn’t that naive twenty-year-old who’d believed his lies anymore. She was a mother, a chef, a survivor. She’d rebuilt her life from nothing once; she wouldn’t let him tear it down again.
The shower was hot enough to sting, but she needed it, needed to wash away the feeling of contamination his messages had left. She scrubbed her skin harder than necessary, as if she could scour away the memory of his voice calling her beautiful babe, of his hands that had once touched her with fake tenderness while he plotted to destroy everything she’d worked for.
By the time she stepped out of the shower, her skin was pink and raw, but her hands had stopped shaking. She dressed quickly in her spare clothes—jeans and a simple white T-shirt that was slightly stained. Her movements were mechanical, automatic, finding comfort in the routine of pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail, of sliding her feet into the comfortable kitchen sneakers.
The inn was tomb-quiet as she made her way downstairs. Her footsteps seemed too loud on the old wooden floors, despite her careful tread. The Christmas lights were still on, casting everything in that soft, dreamlike glow that made the decorated spaces look like something from a movie. But Isabella barely noticed the beauty around her. Her mind was already reaching ahead to the kitchen, to the familiar ritual of measuring and mixing, of creating something from nothing.
The kitchen was dark when she entered, but she knew it well enough to navigate without full lights. She flipped on just the under-cabinet lighting, creating pools of warm illumination over the workspace while leaving the rest of the room in comfortable shadow. The industrial refrigerator hummed its familiar tune, and the scent of yesterday’s baking still lingered in the air.
She moved to the pantry, gathering ingredients without conscious thought. Flour, butter, yeast, salt. Simple things that would become something beautiful under her hands. Croissants, she decided. They required focus, precision, and patience. The perfect antidote to the chaos in her mind. The folding of butter into dough, the careful rolling and shaping,would give her hands something to do besides shake and her mind something to focus on besides the words that kept echoing:I’m back in Florida.
As she began measuring flour into a large bowl, Isabella forced herself to take deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The familiar motions of baking began to work their magic, her heart rate slowly returning to normal. Whatever he wanted, whatever game he was playing, she wouldn’t let him win. Not this time. She had too much to lose now, too much to protect.
The kitchen embraced her with its warmth and familiarity, and Isabella let herself sink into the comfort of creation, pushing thoughts of the past back into the darkness where they belonged.
The butter had finally reached the perfect temperature, pliable but not soft, and Isabella lost herself in the meditative rhythm of folding it into the dough. Roll, fold, turn. Roll, fold, turn. Each motion was precise and deliberate, creating the dozens of paper-thin layers that would puff and separate in the oven’s heat. She’d been at it for nearly an hour, the repetitive motion finally succeeding in quieting the anxious chatter in her mind.
Flour dusted everything within a three-foot radius of her workspace, including, though she didn’t know it, a streak across her left cheek where she’d brushed back a stray hair. The kitchen had warmed from the preheating oven, and she’d pushed up her sleeves, revealing forearms marked with old burns and cuts that told the story of years spent perfectingher craft.
