I should look away. I should check my phone or study the chalkboard menu I’ve memorized or literally anything else.
But I just can’t.
Because watching Henry Hunter move through his bakery is like watching someone in their natural habitat. He’s comfortable here. Happy. There’s a lightness to him that I envy, a contentment that seems as foreign to me as the surface of Mars.
When did I last feel content?
Before Wally. Before I learned to make myself smaller to fit into someone else’s idea of who I should be.
“One blueberry muffin.” Henry sets the small paper bag on the counter, and this time when our hands brush, he doesn’t pull away immediately. His fingers linger, warm and rough with calluses, and his eyes search mine like he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking.
I should move. I should grab my breakfast and run before I do something stupid like believe that this… whatever this is… could be real.
But I’m frozen, caught in his gaze, in the warmth of his touch, in the way he’s looking at me like I’m not broken.
Like I’m whole.
“You okay?” he asks softly, and there’s genuine concern in his voice. Not pity. Not judgment. Just... care.
It’s been so long since someone looked at me with care that I almost don’t recognize it.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, the lie coming easily after years of practice.
Sure I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’m not falling apart inside.
Right.
His brow furrows slightly, like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he doesn’t push. He just nods and says, “You be safe out there. Roads are icy.”
“Always am.” I force a smile, grab my things, and head for the door before I can do something ridiculous like stand here all morning drinking him in like he’s oxygen and I’ve been drowning.
The cold air slaps me in the face the moment I step outside, and I suck in a breath that burns my lungs.
Get it together.
I can’t do this. I can’t develop feelings for the kind, handsome baker with the gentle eyes and the strong hands and the way he makes me feel safe just by existing in the same space.
I tried relationships. I tried love. And I learned that I can’t trust my own judgment. That the people who say they care are the ones who hurt you most.
Plainly put… I’m better off alone.
I unlock my car, a modest sedan I bought used when I moved here, and slide into the driver’s seat. The coffee warms my hands through the cup, and I take a sip, closing my eyes as the bitter heat floods my system.
Three months in Valentine and I’m still not settled. Still jumping at shadows. Still expecting Wally to appear aroundevery corner with that disappointed look that made me feel like I was never quite enough.
You’re being dramatic. No one wants to watch you fail. I’m trying to help you.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge his voice from my memory. He’s not here. He’s in Seattle, probably moved on to some other woman to control and diminish.
I turn the key in the ignition.
Nothing.
I try again.
The engine makes a sad clicking sound, like it’s mocking me.
“No. No, no, no.” I pump the gas pedal —which probably does nothing in a modern car but makes me feel better— and turn the key again.
