“Perfect,” she said softly, stepping back.
Christopher felt the loss of her warmth immediately and had to resist the urge to pull her back.
The lesson continued, with Isabella demonstrating how to fold the dough and create the layers that would puff and separate in the oven. Christopher focused on following her instructions, using the same attention to detail that had kept him alive through three deployments. His hands were steady and careful, more careful than they’d been with anything in a long time.
“You’re a natural,” Isabella told him as he completed his third fold.
“I have a good teacher.” He looked at her, meaning it. The smile she gave him made something shift in his chest.
They worked in comfortable silence for a while. Christopher found the rhythm soothing: the whisper of flour on the counter, the distant rumble of the washing machine, the quiet presence of Isabella beside him. It felt domestic in a way he’d never experienced. He’d spent his entire adult life avoiding exactly this kind of moment, the intimacy ofshared tasks, the comfort of easy companionship. He never stayed anywhere long enough for domestic.
When it came time to shape the croissants, Isabella showed him how to cut the triangles and roll them into the classic crescent shape. Their fingers brushed, and Christopher felt the spark of contact like static electricity.
“Mine looks like a mutant,” he said, holding up his first attempt. It was lopsided, one end significantly fatter than the other.
Isabella laughed again, and Christopher decided he could get addicted to that sound.
“It has character. Besides, they all taste the same once they’re baked,” Isabella assured him.
“That’s what you tell all the bakery students who can’t roll a straight croissant?” Christopher eyed his pastry.
“It’s the truth,” Isabella shrugged. “Besides, you’ve done really well for your first time. It takes years to perfect them.”
They finished shaping the croissants, Christopher acutely aware of every accidental touch, every time their hands brushed or their shoulders bumped. When the tray was full, Isabella slid it into the oven with practiced ease, setting the timer.
“Twenty minutes,” she announced. “Just enough time to move your laundry to the dryer.”
“Right.” He’d forgotten about it entirely. “Thanks for reminding me.”
They walked to the laundry room together, and Isabella helped him with the dryer settings, their heads close together as she explained the different options. Christopher could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks in the dim light.
“You know a lot about laundry for a chef,” he observed.
“I’m a single mom,” Isabella said, matter-of-factly. “You learn to be an expert at everything. Or at least pretend to be.”
Something in her tone made Christopher want to ask more questions.Where was Maddy’s father? What had happened?But it was too soon, too personal. Instead, he just nodded.
When they returned to the kitchen, Isabella moved to the coffee station. “Want some? It’s my own special blend, freshly ground.”
“Absolutely.” Christopher watched her work the professional espresso machine with the same focus and precision she’d brought to the croissants. She moved with confidence here, completely in her element.
“You really do everything around here, don’t you?” Christopher asked.
“Not everything. Jane manages the inn, Julie handles the books, and Logan does maintenance.” She handed him a cup, their fingers brushing again. That spark. “I just cook.”
Christopher took a sip, and his eyes widened. The coffee was extraordinary. Rich and complex with notes he couldn’t quite identify, but that somehow worked perfectlytogether. “Okay, this is incredible. Like, seriously incredible. What did you do to it?”
“Secret blend.” Isabella looked pleased by his reaction. “My grandmother’s recipe from Italy, with a few modifications.”
“Your grandmother must have been a genius.” Christopher took another appreciative sip. “This might be the best coffee I’ve ever had, and trust me, I’ve had coffee all over the world.”
Her smile widened, genuine and unguarded, and Christopher felt that shift in his chest again. Like something that had been locked away was trying to break free.
Isabella leaned against the counter, cradling her own cup, and for a moment they just stood there in comfortable silence. The pre-dawn kitchen felt like its own world, separate from everything else. Flour still dusted the counters, the smell of baking croissants beginning to fill the air, and this beautiful woman was smiling at him over excellent coffee.
Dangerous. This is so dangerous.Christopher knew he needed to turn, run, get out of here, and not just the kitchen but the inn. Maybe he could say that his aunt asked him for Christmas… no, that wouldn’t work. The Bennetts knew he didn’t have any other family. He took another sip of the insanely good coffee, his mind reeling and his fight or flight instincts flapping about like a wounded gull.
“Thank you,” Isabella said quietly.
