1
TIFFANY
The heavy thud of dough hitting the butcher block counter is the only sound in the world that makes sense to me anymore.
Thump.
Exhale.
Thump.
I push the heels of my hands into the yielding, warm mass. Fold. Turn. Push. It’s four in the morning, the hour of ghosts and bakers. The front windows of Sweet Pine Bakery act as black mirrors reflecting the interior: the chrome of the espresso machine, the glass display cases currently empty and waiting, and me—a woman trying to disappear inside an oversized flour-dusted apron.
My arms burn with the rhythm, a familiar, grounding ache. This is safety. This is control. Here, in the back of the shop on Main Street, surrounded by fifty-pound sacks of flour and the hum of the convection ovens, I am not the terrified girl who ran from Chicago in the middle of the night with nothing but a go-bag andbruised ribs. I am Tiffany Royce. I make the best bear claws in the Grizzly Peak District. I am boring. Invisible.
"Two hundred turns," I whisper, my voice strained in the quiet. "One hundred ninety-eight left."
I lean my weight into the dough, feeling the gluten strands tighten. My hair, a heavy dark curtain tied back in a messy knot, threatens to escape its clip. Sweat gathers at my temples, sliding down the curve of my neck. It’s hot back here, a sweltering, yeasty womb that keeps the mountain chill at bay.
Outside, Pine Valley sleeps. The fog will be rolling off the Grizzly Peak cliffs right now, blanketing the pines in that thick, gray soup that makes everything feel isolated.
Isolation used to scare me.
Now, I crave it. The mountains stand as a wall, a fortress of granite and timber keeping the past out.
Or so I tell myself.
The town has been buzzing since the ribbon-cutting for the new rescue center last week. I’d watched from the edge of the crowd as the Gunnars stood on that stage like kings.
They were terrifying, but it was the one standing in the back—with the dark, heavy stare—who made the air in my lungs stall. He hadn't been looking at the Mayor or the cameras; he’d been looking at me.
I’d retreated to the safety of my dough and my ovens, but I haven't been able to shake the feeling that I brought the weight of his eyes home with me.
I shake my head, forcing my focus back to the butcher block and the familiar resistance of the dough. The flour-dusted air feels suddenly charged, as if that same heavy gaze from the ceremony has followed me through the week, finally narrowing down to this very room. The fine hairs on my nape stand on end as the silence outside becomes too heavy, too intentional. I look up, my gaze snagging on the dark, empty sidewalk visible through the front window.
A shadow falls across the front glass.
My hands freeze on the dough. My heart slams against my ribs, instant adrenaline flooding my system like battery acid. I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. I just stare at the reflection in the dark window.
Nothing moves.
Just a deer, I tell myself, forcing my lungs to expand.Or a stray dog. Or the wind.
But the primal part of my brain—the lizard brain that kept me alive through two years of a marriage that was less a partnership and more a hostage situation, and the six months of looking over my shoulder since—disagrees. It screams predator.
I reach for the rolling pin. It’s heavy maple, solid enough to break a bone if I swing it hard enough. I grip it until my fingers dig into the wood, dust falling like snow.
"Try me," I hiss, my grip tightening on the maple handle. "I left Chicago for a quiet life. I'm not going back without a fight."
The shadow detaches itself from the darkness of Main Street and moves toward the door. Not a deer. A man. And he’s huge. Even through the distorted reflection and the gloom, I see thesheer breadth of his shoulders. He blots out the streetlights, a monolith of darkness. He doesn't walk. He prowls. A fluid, lethal grace to his movement separates him from normal people. Normal people walk with hesitation, with noise. He moves like smoke.
He stops at the door. The sign clearly says CLOSED.
I hold my breath, the rolling pin raised. If he tries the lock, he’s getting a face full of maple. I’m not running out the back. I’m done running.
He doesn't try the handle. He just stands there. Watching.
I can’t see his eyes, but I feel them. A physical sensation, like a rough thumb tracing the nape of my neck. The air in the bakery, thick with the scent of cinnamon and yeast, suddenly feels charged, heavy with static. The fine hairs on my arms stand up, pricking against the fabric of my long sleeves.
