Chapter 1
Willa
The bellabove the door chimes as I push into Spice Spice Baby Bakery, and the rush of cinnamon-scented warmth hits me like a hug I didn’t know I needed. February in Valentine, Montana, doesn’t mess around— it’s barely seven in the morning and my car thermometer read negative twelve when I left my cottage. That’s quite nippily out…andnippy out. I pull my coat closer to me.
I’ve been coming here every morning for three months. Same time. Same order.
Same gorgeous baker.
I shake that thought away like snow from my coat sleeves. I’m not here for...that. I’m here for caffeine and something that resembles breakfast before my first patient at eight.
“Morning, Doc!” Mark Thomas, the head baker, calls from behind the counter. He’s got flour in his dark hair and a grin that says he’s been up since four A.M. and somehow loves it.
“Morning, Mark.” I manage a small smile as I unwind my scarf. The bakery is already bustling— a handful of early risers scattered at the small tables, and the display case is overflowing with fresh pastries that make my stomach growl traitorously.
But it’s not Mark I’m looking at.
It’s him.
Henry Hunter stands at the far end of the counter, plating one of his famous cinnamon rolls. His flannel sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with flour and corded with muscle from years of kneading dough. His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it, and when he glances up, his eyes, so warm and brown and so kind, so impossibly kind, meet mine for just a second too long.
My breath catches.
His lips curve into the smallest smile, like he’s been waiting for me.
Stop it, Willa.
I drop my gaze to the floor, my cheeks heating despite the cold still clinging to my skin. This is pathetic. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman with a medical degree and I’m blushing because a baker smiled at me.
Correction. Becausethisbaker smiled at me.
“Large coffee, black, and a blueberry muffin?” Henry’s voice is low and warm, like honey drizzled over gravel, and it does something to my insides that I refuse to name.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. Three months and I still can’t form coherent sentences around him before caffeine.
He moves with practiced efficiency, filling a to-go cup with coffee from the carafe. Ee keeps one brewing dark and strong just the way I like it, though I’ve never asked him to.
He just... noticed.
Wally never noticed anything about me except when I did something wrong.
Don’t think about him. Not here. Not now.
I force myself to take a breath, to unclench my jaw. The bakery smells like cinnamon and vanilla and fresh bread, and I focus on that instead of the tightness in my chest that appears whenever I think about Seattle.
About my ex.
About the woman I was when I was with him.
Small. Scared. Nothing.
“Here you go.” Henry’s voice pulls me back, and I look up to find him holding out my coffee. Our fingers brush as I take it —just for a heartbeat, just the barest touch of skin on skin— and electricity shoots up my arm like I’ve been shocked.
His eye brows rise slightly, and I know he felt it too.
“Thanks,” I manage, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.
“Blueberry muffin coming right up.” He turns away, and I notice the way his t-shirt pulls across his shoulders, the strength in his movements as he reaches for the muffin case.
