Eventually, he spoke. “I grew up not far from here. Left after high school and haven’t really been back since. Weird, right, how different it all feels when you come home?”
I nodded. “Pinecrest’s mostly the same. More vape shops, maybe.”
He grinned. “Less cowboys, too, seems like.”
“Oh, there are still cowboys,” I said. “They just hide better. Less Stetsons and more ball caps.”
He laughed, then tapped his cup, looking thoughtful. “Sorry if this is weird, but… where’d you say your family was from?”
I tensed. I didn’t like people snooping into my past. But then I remembered this was a small town where everyone traced everyone else’s family like itwas a game. “Originally? My family roots are from Ireland.”
“But you’re a local,” he said, with that smile again. “It counts.”
He paused, then made eye contact in a way that was half-invitation, half-dare. “And you always wanted to run a bakery?”
“Oh, this isn’t mine. Frank, the owner, will be in around 9:00 if you want to talk to him. I don’t really need to work, but this keeps me here, keeps me anchored.”
He laughed, this time for real. “Anchored. I get that.” His gaze dropped to his hands. “Guess we all end up where we’re most needed.”
I should’ve left it there. Instead, I said, “Not all of us. Some people run because it’s easier than being needed.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just turned his coffee in both hands and looked at the swirling, oily film on top. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”
On that note, he stood, left a $20 tip, which was way more than his order, and shot me a parting look that lingered even after the jangle of the bell.
At 10:30, Frank came in, apologizing for being so late, but I brushed him off. “It was fine, slow morning. So slow that I managed to get the cakes and cupcakes baked for the orders,” I said, taking off my apron. “I’m just going to take a bit of a breakbefore I tackle decorating them.”
“Absolutely, take an hour off,” he replied, then took the man’s order that was standing on the other side of the counter.
I left the bakery for my break with a headache already brewing behind my eyes. What I wanted, more than anything, was a couple of Advil, a heated blanket, and about a year’s worth of sleep, all delivered to my couch by a sexy, broody male. Instead, I got Main Street in full daylight, the snow glare so sharp it made the world vibrate. I blinked rapidly as I hustled across the slushy road and beelined for the only place in town open until midnight, MacPherson’s Drug.
The bell rang as I entered, and I saw that old Mrs. MacPherson was at the front, reading a tabloid with her glasses perched halfway down her nose. She nodded at me and made a little grunting sound, which I think was her version of “hello.”
Mr. MacPherson stood at the pharmacy counter, filling prescriptions, and I nodded at him as I made my way down to the pain relief aisle. I found the Advil and a three-for-one on Gatorade, deodorant, and a box of hand warmers for Nora. I was juggling the items, cursing myself for not grabbing a shopping cart, when my body reminded me, via a sudden twist in my uterus, that my period was on its way and I had no feminine hygiene products at home. The panic was swift and childish, as if I werefifteen again and buying contraband. I grabbed the cheapest box of pads, stashed it under my arm, and added a box of tampons on top of the pile in my arms, hoping I didn’t run into someone I knew.
I should have known better. I rounded the endcap and nearly collided with Jake.
He was standing in front of the NyQuil display, trying to decide between “Extra Strength” and “Ultra Maximum Nighttime.” He looked at me, at the small mountain of stuff in my arms, and then back at the shelves.
I was mortified—the pads under one arm, and the box of tampons perched on top of a six-pack of Gatorade.
Jake’s eyes flickered to my face, then down, then up again. He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.
“Hey,” he said, finally.
I considered turning tail and running, but instead I went with a nonchalant approach. “Hey, yourself.”
He cleared his throat, the flush creeping up his neck. “Long morning?”
“Yes,” I said, too loudly. “Lots of, uh, stuff to do at the bakery. Got some cakes to finish.”
“Nice.” He nodded, as if this were a typical conversation between us and not a train wreck of personal hygiene and existential embarrassment.
Then, softly, he said, “Gatorade’s a good call.”
I could have died right then. Instead, I forced a smile, then gestured at his hand. “You get sick?”
He held up the two boxes and waggled them in the air. “Weighing my options.” His voice was tight, maybe from the cold, maybe from something else. “Don’t suppose you know which of these will sedate a grown man for a decade?”
