“Got it,” I said, handing her half the croissant.
Across the street, the bakery lights were already on. Through the glass I saw Eric with his cap backward, sleeves to his elbows, moving trays. He didn’t look our way. I didn’t look long.
The bell chimed. A young girl needed flowers for her grandmother. I gave her ranunculus and rosemary. A guy in work boots wanted an apology bouquet that “actually works” because he watched a hockey game and forgot about the date he planned with his wife. Sandy asked two clear questions and solved it.
By ten I checked the back latch like a bad habit. It clicked clean. My phone buzzed with a number I didn’t know. I let it ring out. It buzzed again.
Old Mill Road. Ten.
I blocked it and slid the phone face down under the counter.
“Anything I need to handle?” Sandy asked without looking up.
“Not today.” I just hoped my brother would stop texting me because we had nothing to say to each other.
“Then I’ll keep my mouth shut and do stems,” she said, light on purpose.
A courier dropped a manila envelope withFESTIVAL MAPSprinted on it. Inside: the public route I’d already seen and a copy with our block circled in pencil. I filed it in the vendor folder and wrote the date. Life was simple these days, as long as I ignored my brother and Nico.
By late morning the street had woken up. I ran a bouquet two doors down and, on the way back, reached for the bakery handle the same second the door swung open. Eric and I did that quick side-step dance. It felt so awkward that we treated each other as mere acquaintances when, in another time, we were so much more. The distance made my heart ache.
“Sorry,” I apologized.
“You’re fine,” he said, holding the door. “Headed back?”
“Yeah.” I should’ve kept moving. I didn’t. “Do you have a minute?”
He glanced at the line, then at Maya. “Two.”
We moved one step off the door. People went by and pretended not to listen. I kept my eyes on the curb.
“I should’ve said goodbye,” I confessed bluntly. “When I left, I told myself clean was kind. It wasn’t. It was me dodging the hard thing.”
He let it sit. “You don’t owe me anything.” I watched his dark eyes grow even darker, like a shield had come over them.
“That isn’t the same as not mattering,” I said quietly.
His jaw worked once. “You did what you had to do,” he replied. “I don’t have to like it.”
“It was wrong, but. . .” I wanted to tell him that I was trying to protect him. That me leaving would anger my family and I didn’t want him to get hurt because of it but he cut me off.
“It’s fine, Harmony,” he assured, but his tone told me it was far from fine. I wasn’t going to push the matter now. Clearly, this conversation was done, so I switched it up to something lighter because a part of me still wanted him to stay and speak to me, even if it was selfish.
“Thank you for the trays at the center,” I added. “The kids called you Bakery Guy.” Some of the girls called him Hot Bakery Guy, which was true too. With his dark eyes and strong arms covered in tattoos, he was hot. Add to it that flop of brown hairand the way his baseball cap sat on his head, and most girls in town were melting from him.
He almost smiled. “Sending food is the one thing I can do without blowing up my entire schedule.”
“They loved your cinnamon knots. I tried one too. They were just right.” He gave me a meaningful look.
“I learned from the best. Before we… anyway, you taught me a lot,” he muttered, reminding me how we spent time in the kitchen and I showed him Mom’s recipes.
“I’m happy to see her recipes came to good use,” I replied.
“You should be using them too,” he noted, his words stung deeply in my chest. I had wanted that so bad. My plan had been to open my own bakery shop in Montreal but it never felt right, and I didn’t have enough money anyway.
I swallowed hard. “Maybe someday.”
He nodded and glanced at the line in the shop. “I should?—”
