She also remembered thinking that anyone who played hockey with that much focus probably needed therapy.
"Anyway," Rei said, draining her espresso. "I have to get to the rink. Morning skate. But seriously, Luce—think about taking a real day off. Maybe two. You're going to burn out."
"I'm fine."
"You say that a lot. Doesn't make it true."
The door chimed as Rei left, and Mae came in from the back room at the same moment, tying her apron and yawning.
"Morning, boss."
"Morning. Coffee's fresh."
Mae poured herself a cup and started checking the day's prep list. She was a good employee, Lucy reminded herself. Reliable. Cheerful. Only occasionally showed up with hangovers fromcollege parties. If she wanted to date a hockey player, that was her business.
Lucy went back to the kitchen to check on the pork buns.
The morning rush started at 7 AM sharp. That was when the Timber Falls early risers descended: Mr. Peterson, who'd been ordering the same bran muffin and black coffee for longer than Lucy had been alive. The Knitting Circle—four women in their late sixties who commandeered the corner table every morning and discussed everyone's business while pretending not to. Tom and Jerry (not their real names, but that's what Grandmother had called them, and it stuck), the married couple who owned the hardware store next door and ordered matching everything.
By 8 AM, Lucy's feet were already hurting and she had flour on her cheek again. She'd lost track of how many times she'd refilled the pastry case or pulled fresh loaves from the oven. Mae was handling the register with her usual sunny competence, chatting with customers like she'd known them all her life.
This was good. This was Lucy's life: routine, rhythm, the comfort of knowing what came next.
It was enough.
It had to be enough.
At 8:17—Lucy glanced at the clock behind the counter—the door chimed and Jake Morrison walked in.
He looked exactly like he always did: dark hair slightly too long, five o'clock shadow that was definitely pushing toward seven o'clock, wearing a Wolves hoodie and jeans that had seen better days. But today, instead of heading straight to the counter like he usually did, he paused just inside the door and looked around the bakery like he was seeing it for the first time.
Lucy's stomach did that weird thing again. She ignored it.
"Hey," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Wednesday pork buns?"
Jake blinked, refocusing on her. "Yeah. Please."
"Give me two minutes. They just came out."
She turned back to the kitchen, acutely aware that he was still standing there, still looking at her. Or maybe not. Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe Rei's comment had gotten into her head and now she was being weird about a perfectly normal customer interaction.
Lucy packed six pork buns into a container, added a black coffee, and brought them back to the register.
"$12.50," Mae said cheerfully.
Jake handed over a twenty and told Mae to keep the change. Then he did something unprecedented: he made eye contact with Lucy.
"These are really good," he said.
Lucy's brain short-circuited for a second. "Oh. Thanks. My grandmother's recipe."
"Yeah. I can tell." He shifted his weight, like he wanted to say something else but didn't know how. "Anyway. Thanks."
"You're welcome."
He left.
Mae turned to Lucy with wide eyes. "Did Jake Morrison just try to have a conversation with you?"
