I look at her hand on mine, then up at her face. Something in my expression cracks open, just for a second.
"Yeah," I say. "We are."
But I hear what I don't say: for now.
Lunch wraps up shortly after that. I pay for everyone despite Piper's protests, and Rosie hugs her on the way out like she's been coming here for years.
"You come back anytime, sweetheart," she says. "With or without this one." She jerks her thumb at me.
"I'll be back," Piper promises.
As we walk back toward the bakery, Maddie skips ahead with Evan, and Piper falls into step beside me.
"Thank you for lunch," she says.
"Thank you for coming. I know it was probably overwhelming; the town can be a lot."
"I liked it," she says honestly. "Everyone's warm and very welcoming."
"They're nosy," I correct, but there's affection in my voice.
"That too."
We walk in comfortable silence for a moment. The festival banners flutter overhead, and the mountains rise in the distance, still capped with snow. The air smells like pine and possibility.
"Dylan," she says carefully, "that thing with the fire alert. If you ever want to talk about it..."
"I don't," I say quickly. Then, softer, "But I appreciate the offer."
She nods. I can tell she understands boundaries; she understands the importance of not reopening old wounds in the middle of Main Street.
But I also understand, with sudden clarity, that this woman has just seen something in me I try very hard to hide. And for reasons I can't quite explain, I don't mind that she saw it.
Chapter 2
Piper
I spendthe afternoon after lunch filming B-roll around Valentine, giving Dylan space to work without a camera in his face.
The town is smaller than I expected, but bigger than it should be; it’s full of personality packed into six blocks of Main Street. I capture footage of the festival banners, the way light filters through the trees in the town square, and the hand-painted signs outside local businesses, which appear to have been made by the same artist.
By the time I return to Spice Spice Baby for the evening shift, the golden hour light is pouring through those massive windows, and the bakery looks like something out of a magazine spread I didn't have to stage.
Dylan is exactly where I left him, at the decorating station, except now he's working on a different cake. The precision is mesmerizing, and I can’t help but watch the way his hands move, the flex of his forearms, and the small furrow between his brows when he concentrates.
I'm definitely not supposed to find frosting application this attractive, but here we are.
I pull out my camera and adjust the settings for the warm light. Dylan glances up when he hears the shutter click, and for just a second, something passes across his face. It’s not annoyance, maybe a bit of curiosity, but there’s definitely awareness.
"Don't mind me," I say lightly. "Just getting some atmospheric shots."
"You're very good at blending into the background," he says dryly.
I grin. "I try."
He returns his attention to the cake, but I notice the faint flush creeping up his neck. The man is affected by me, and he's trying very hard not to show it.
I like that more than I should. I move around the space, capturing details. The way flour dust catches the light. The neat rows of piping bags hanging on hooks. The vintage mixer appears to have been here since the bakery opened. Everything in here tells a story.
