Warmth hits me like a hug. I immediately identify a fireplace crackling in the corner, surrounded by armchairs and a small sofa. The smell is intoxicating. Fresh bread. Coffee. Cinnamon and butter and sugar.
I just stand there for a second, letting the heat seep into my frozen bones, and feel my entire body start to relax.
This is exactly what I need.
The interior is even better up close. The walls are painted a soft cream, with exposed brick in places that’ve been whitewashed to a gentle gray. Wooden beams cross the ceiling.
Against one wall is the counter, a beautiful reclaimed-wood structure with a glass display case that runs its entire length. Inside are more cookies, brownies, tarts, and so many other goodies.
And against the back wall, behind the counter, is a full glass wall that looks directly into the bakery kitchen. Stainless steel work surfaces, industrial ovens, racks of cooling bread, and a woman in a white chef’s coat pulling something from the oven.
I am officially in love with this place.
There are maybe a dozen other people scattered throughout the café, but I barely see them as I home in on an empty table. A couple I walk past take in my suitcase and backpack, and I must look like I just survived an Arctic expedition.
Tourist, their eyes say.Outsider.
I reach the free table near the middle of the space, tucked beside a window with a perfect view of the street. My suitcase crashes into a chair leg, and I wince, but I manage to claim the spot, dropping my bags with a relieved sigh.
I shrug off my coat, unwrap my scarf, and pull off my beanie and gloves. My hair is probably a disaster. I’m warm and sitting down and about to consume a dangerous number of baked goods, so I’m calling this a win.
I leave my stuff at the table and head to the counter, trying not to stare too obviously at everything.
Cookies are mounted on small stands. There are chocolate chip cookies the size of my palm. Snickerdoodles dusted with cinnamon sugar. Peanut butter cookies with fork marks pressed into the tops. Oatmeal raisin. Double chocolate. Something with white chocolate and cranberries. And I’m salivating.
I’m still going through my options when someone appears behind the counter.
“Hi! Welcome to The Flour House!”
I glance up and find myself face-to-face with possibly the cutest woman I’ve ever seen.
She’s maybe my age, around twenty-five, with a round, open face and stunning blue eyes that are so bright they look almost crystalline. Her hair is blonde, pulled back from her face and plaited into two perfect fishtail braids that drape over her shoulders. A few loose strands frame her face, softening the look. She’s wearing a black button-up shirt, fitted and professional, with a pink-and-white apron tied over it. The apron hasThe Flour Houseembroidered across the chest in curling script, and in the top corner, a name tag stitched in pink thread:Nina.
She’s smiling at me like we’re already friends.
“I see you just arrived in town,” she says, glancing at my bags by the table. “Perfect timing before the mist really rolls in.”
“Yeah, I just got off the ferry.” I lean against the counter, grateful to be in a warm space with a friendly face. “That hill almost killed me.”
“Oh God, yeah, it’s brutal.” She laughs, bright and genuine. “Especially with luggage. You’re brave for attempting it.”
“Brave or stupid. The jury’s still out.”
She grins. “I’m Nina. I run the café.”
“Anita.” I don’t offer a last name. Small towns talk, and I’m supposed to be undercover. “This place is incredible, by the way. I’ve been in town for approximately five minutes, and I’m already planning to move in here permanently.”
“Right? It’s the best spot in town. My family has owned it forever.” She gestures around with obvious pride. “We get slammed in the summer with tourists, but winter is quieter. More locals.”
“I can see why it’s popular.” I glance at the display case again, trying to decide where to even start. “Everything looks amazing.”
“Are you here for work or vacation?” Nina asks, leaning her elbows on the counter.
And that’s when I remind myself again that I’m undercover. I can’t just tell people I’m a radio host investigating workplace discrimination. That’s why I have a cover story already planned out.
“Oh, yeah, I’m here where I’ll do some remote work,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “My brother is actually joining me tomorrow on the first ferry. He’s the one with the job. I’m just, you know, coming along to help him get settled.”
The lie comes easily. But it makes sense. Siblings visiting together, one with a job, one just tagging along. Totally normal.
