He slowly turns, his face shadowed in the darkness. Hestillwon’t look directly at me, even now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” I say, taking a step toward him.
He tenses. “Really,” he repeats, strained.
I blow out a breath of frustration. “What did I do to make you so mad at me?”
His eyes are hooded when they finally meet mine. “You think I’mmadat you?”
I clutch my mug so he can’t see my fingers trembling. “Well, what else am I supposed to think?”
“I’m not mad at you, Olivia.” His voice is low, with a raspy edge that makes me aware of the fact that he’s standing in the doorway of his room, with his bed visible behind him. I don’t even know when he moved it in there. As far as I knew, he was sleeping on an air mattress last week. But this is no air mattress. It’s a king-size bed with large, dark-wood posts, and his bedding is a clean, navy blue. There’s something about knowing those small, intimate details of his room—paired with the way he’s looking at me—that sends warmth rushing through me.
“Then what is going on?” I plead.
Hunter takes a step into the hallway so there’s only a foot between our bodies. Close enough to breathe in citrusy soap and woodsy deodorant and something else, deeper, perhaps the scent of his skin. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. My breath catches in my lungs.
Until he confesses, soft and hoarse, “I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” The familiar hurt that swoops in is crushing, even though I should have known it was coming. I should have been prepared. Seeing me in the hospital was the fatal blow—it made him realize I reallyama time bomb. He’s already been through unfathomable grief and pain, and he doesn’t want to risk adding to it by being my friend. Even though I completely understand, the truth is still knife sharp, cutting through me.
“Notbecause of your heart, Olivia,” he murmurs, apparently addingmind readerto his list of skills.
“It’s ... it’s not because of ... ?” I gesture to the scar visible above the tank top I sleep in.
His eyes drop at my invitation to look. A muscle in his jaw tightens. “No.”
When he drags his gaze back up to mine, the look on his face sends a rush of heat across my skin. “Then ... what?” I barely manage to ask.
Hunter’s eyes roam over my face before settling on my mouth. The hunger in his expression makes me strangely lightheaded and yet somehow aware of the heaviness of my body all at once. The silence draws out until the very air between us thrums with an electric need that is more powerful than anything I’ve felt in my life—and he’s not even touching me.
His phone chimes inside his room with an incoming text, and he stiffens. Practiced detachment veils the need on his face, and he takes two hasty steps away, the spell shattered.
My heart pitches like the floor shifted, throwing me off-balance. A sudden chill cascades through me, like water through cracks.
“Good night, Olivia,” Hunter rasps, and then he spins and shuts the door.
I’m left standing there feeling like I’ve had the air punched out of me, holding my cold cup of tea in shaking hands.
17.
The bakery door chimes when I walk in the next morning, the horizon limned with shadowed mountains, dark and hulking in the lingering night. Sunrise is still an hour away. I inhale the familiar scents of cinnamon, cardamom, and butter deeply. The peace of this place washes over me, settling in my bones, grounding me.
I lock the door behind me and switch on the lights. The counters are clean, the register closed, the shelves almost barren. It’s at once familiar and foreign. Mom opened it yesterday while I kept a vigil at Farmor’s side, but we sold out of nearly everything she’d been able to bake.
Every time I enter the kitchen, I have to stop and close my eyes for a minute to gather myself. This place is my home away from home—where Farmor’s tutelage and love helped me find my footing in a world rocked by death. She painstakingly taught me recipe after recipe, working with me until I could make all the Swedish cookies, rolls, and sweetsalmostas well as she can. And as we worked hour after hour, day after day, she told me stories of growing up in Sweden, falling in love with her Anders, and leaving everything they knew to move to Arizona to start this bakery with his uncle and makeit a success with the inheritance his uncle left them—her dream made into reality because Anders loved her so much. And my dad ... She told me story after story about my dad, helping me feel close to him even though he is so far beyond my reach. The legacy of love that weaves together the very fabric of our family gently cocoons me in this bakery, spun into a soft place for me to fall by Farmor’s stories.
I can’t bear the thought of her never walking in here again.
But there is little time to stand around, fearing the future. I have to get baking as quickly and as much as possible.
Hours later, the knot in my back is worse, but the time has flown by as I sink into the reassuring rhythm of baking. The satisfaction of getting the doughjustright and timing itexactlyso the confections are perfectly golden yet soft on the inside stills my mind like few things can. The joy of putting the final touches on thekanelbullaror piping the flowers onto aprinsesstårtaand the gratification of my skill in Konditori’s kitchen brings a calm into my soul that I desperately need.
Around eight forty-five I hear a knock at the front doors. I quickly finish packaging the last of thesemlorbuns, tying a yellow-and-blue bow around the box. I exhale and brush back a piece of hair that has fallen loose from my messy bun with the top of my wrist and push out of the kitchen to see Rebecca standing at the door, waving at me.
I hurry over to unlock it and let her in. “Thank you so much for coming,” I say as she quickly embraces me.
“Of course! I’m glad it worked out. I don’t have any classes until my lab this afternoon, so I’m good to be here until two.”
