Click. Click. Click.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I let my head fall back against the seat, staring at the car’s ceiling like it might have answers.
Of course this is happening. Of course. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor and apparently decided that today, the day I’m already running on three hours of sleep after a nightmare about Wally showing up at my door, is the perfect day for my car to die in the parking lot of the one place where I’ve been secretly harboring a crush on the baker.
This is fine. Everything’s fine.
I grab my phone. I’ll call a tow truck. Or walk to work. It’s only two miles and I’m a doctor. I can handle a little frostbite.
A tap on my window makes me jump so hard I nearly drop my phone.
Henry is standing outside my car, his breath creating a frosty cloud in the cold air, holding a cinnamon roll wrapped in paper.
I roll down the window, and his concerned expression makes my stomach flip.
“Car trouble?” he asks, and even in the freezing morning air, his voice is warm.
“It won’t start.” I try to keep my voice steady, professional, like I’m not mortified that he’s witnessing my disaster of a morning.
“Pop the hood. Let me take a look,” he says with a motion of his head.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know I don’t have to.” He’s already moving toward the front of my car. “But I’m going to anyway.”
I pop the hood, my hands trembling slightly, and I hate that I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or from the anxiety that’s been my constant companion since I left Seattle.
He’s just being nice. This doesn’t mean anything. He’s probably just a nice guy who helps everyone.
But when I look out and see him bent over my engine with a smudge of flour on his nose, I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, he’s looking at my car the same way he looks at me.
Like I’m worth saving.
Chapter 2
Henry
The Doc’salternator is dead. I can tell before I even get a good look. The clicking sound, the way nothing powered up when she turned the key. It’s a common problem in Montana winters, but it doesn’t make it less of a pain in the ass.
Especially not when she’s standing behind me, and I can feel her eyes on my back, and all I want to do is turn around and tell her that I’d fix a thousand cars if it meant spending more time with her.
Get a grip on yourself.
I’ve been watching Willa Monroe walk into my bakery every morning for three months.
Same time.
Same order.
Same guarded expression that makes me want to know what she’s running from.
Because she’s definitely running.
I see it in the way she holds herself. Those shoulders slightly hunched like she’s trying to take up less space. In the way her eyes dart to the door whenever someone enters. In the dark circles under her eyes that speak of sleepless nights and demons that won’t let her rest.
I know about demons.
Mine have names like “abandonment” and “not enough” and “what if you’re not worth staying for.”
