The kitchen suddenly felt too quiet, too empty. She could hear him moving around in the laundry room, the washing machine starting up with a familiar rumble. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. She turned back to her croissants, but the dough didn’t hold her attention the way it had before.
3
CHRISTOPHER
Christopher reappeared in the kitchen doorway five minutes later, pushing up the sleeves of his long t-shirt after dealing with the laundry. The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the inn, and he could see Isabella working at the counter, completely absorbed in whatever she was doing.
He’d spent most of his adult life moving from place to place, never staying anywhere long enough to form attachments. It was easier that way, cleaner. No complications, no expectations, no one left behind when orders came through.
But something about Isabella had caught his attention from the moment he and Gabe had walked into the inn last night, and her eyes had lit up as she’d been expecting them. Maybe it was the way she’d welcomed them so warmly despite being complete strangers, speaking of Holly, Trinity, and Charlie as if she’d known them for years instead of days. Her genuine warmth had felt curiously like coming home, and Christopherhad felt something he’d never experienced before: the desire for someone to come home to. Someone like Isabella. The thought caught him off guard, unsettling in its intensity. Or maybe it was simpler than that: she was beautiful, and he wasn’t as dead inside as he thought he was.
“So what exactly are you making that requires being up before the sun?” Christopher moved closer to her workspace, genuinely curious as he examined the rectangle of dough she’d been working on.
“Croissants,” Isabella replied, using her forearm to brush back a stray hair that had escaped her ponytail. “Fresh ones for breakfast. The guests seem to really love them.”
Christopher’s eyebrows rose. “You make croissants from scratch? Like actual, real croissants?”
“As opposed to fake ones?” She smiled, and the expression transformed her face.
“I always just thought those flaky delicacies were made by bakery elves.” He kept his expression completely serious, but let humor dance in his eyes. “You know, they sneak in at night, wave their little magic whisks, and poof! Croissants appear in the morning.”
Her laugh burst out bright and genuine, and Christopher felt something warm unfurl in his chest. That laugh—he wanted to hear it again.
“Sorry to shatter your illusions,” Isabella said when she couldspeak again. “No elves. Just an insomniac chef with a lot of butter.”
He leaned against the counter, watching her work with the same focused attention he’d learned in the Marines. Observation was key to understanding people, and something told him Isabella Turner was someone worth understanding.
“It looks complicated.”
“Since you gave me that self-defense lesson, why don’t I return the favor and teach you how to make croissants?” Isabella seemed surprised by her offer, which actually sounded more like a challenge, and Christopher was never one to back down from a challenge. Even if he couldn’t cook to save his or anyone else’s life. There was a first time for everything.
Christopher found himself grinning. He glanced at his abandoned laundry bag and the two washing machines that were still on their first load and pushed away from the counter. “Okay.”
“Really?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. Did she think he was going to walk away?
“Yeah, I love learning new things.” He eyed the dough with raised eyebrows before turning to grin at her warningly. “Though I should warn you, my cooking skills pretty much end at MREs and instant coffee.”
“Then this will be an adventure.” Isabella moved to the sink, and Christopher followed. “First rule of baking:clean hands.”
They stood side by side at the sink, and Christopher was acutely aware of how small she was next to him. His shoulder brushed hers as they washed their hands, and he felt her slight intake of breath. The kitchen suddenly felt warmer, or maybe that was just him.
This is dangerous territory, Christopher.But his warning thoughts faded as she smiled up at him.
“Okay,” Isabella said, her voice slightly breathless. “The key to croissants is the lamination. That’s the process of folding butter into dough to create all those flaky layers.”
She showed him how to roll the dough, keeping it even and not too thin. Christopher’s first attempt was crooked, one side notably thicker than the other. His hands were made for weapons and tactical gear, not delicate pastry work.
“Like this?” He looked at her uncertainly.
“Almost. Here.” Isabella moved closer to him without warning, her hands covering his on the rolling pin. Christopher tensed instinctively, but then forced himself to relax. Her body was close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her and smell the flour and vanilla that clung to her skin.
“You need even pressure. Feel that?” Isabella’s voice was soft near his ear.
“Yeah, I think so.” Christophers’s voice came out rougher than intended.
They moved together, rolling the dough in smooth strokes. Christopher became intensely aware of every point of contact:her hands on his, smaller and softer but surprisingly strong. Her body was close enough that if he shifted slightly, they’d be pressed together. The way her breath seemed to catch when she adjusted his grip...
Easy, Christopher. This is a baking lesson. You’re leaving in three weeks. Don’t start something you can’t finish.
