Page 69 of Enchanted to Meet You

I typed back quickly, my fingers moving fast over the keys:

Ainsley

Made it safe! Clem’s place is great, super quiet. Got my retainer in my bag.

Tell Mum to stop worrying!

See you Monday xx

I hit send, locked the screen, and slipped the phone back into the pocket of Rhys’s hoodie, shoving the lingering guilt down into the dark corners of my mind.

“Your turn,” Rhys whispered, his warm breath fanning softly against my ear as he leaned down. His fingers lightly squeezed my shoulder through the heavy fleece blanket. “Are we trading our brick to my dad or letting him starve?”

I looked up at him, meeting his dark, fond gaze, and let out a soft, effortless laugh.

“We’re letting him starve,” I said firmly.

Rhys’s deep laugh boomed through the warm, firelit room, and as I took another sip of hot chocolate, I let myself sink completely into the magic of the weekend, pretending—just for tonight—that this was entirely real.

twenty

The morning sun woke me early, filtering through the high, pine-paneled windows in pale golden geometric slabs. The air inside the bedroom had grown cold overnight, the kind of crisp chill that settled into the floorboards and made you curl deeper into your blankets.

Naturally, Rhys couldn’t let me have that.

He burst into my room about five minutes after I woke up, saying something about breakfast and how I wasn’t allowed to sleep in. Despite every one of my protests about it being cold and trying to pull my pillow over my head, I somehow ended up beside him in the massive oak kitchen ten minutes later, still in my pajamas. I had pulled on Rhys’s grey hoodie again over my tank top, the hem reaching halfway down my thighs, while Rhys had thrown on a worn black T-shirt that clung to his shoulders.

The main floor of the cottage was completely quiet, bathed in the soft light of dawn. Out through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, the lake was completely still, mist rising off the dark water like steam.

Rhys pulled a large stainless-steel mixing bowl out from the lower cabinets and slammed it onto the granite island with a loud clack while I stifled a yawn.

“It’s an official Montgomery tradition,” Rhys explained, retrieving a bag of flour, yeast, cinnamon, and dark brown sugar from the pantry. He tossed a heavy apron at my chest. “Every single Saturday morning at the cottage, we bake cinnamon buns from scratch. It’s nonnegotiable.”

I held the apron against my chest, watching him set out the measuring cups. “You know how to bake yeast dough from scratch?”

Rhys scoffed, dusting his hands with flour until his palms were chalky white. “Ainsley, please. I am a master baker. My cinnamon rolls are legendary. Now, put the apron on and start measuring three cups of flour, or I’m revoking your chef privileges.”

“If you revoke them, do I get to curl up under a blanket? Because I would be okay with that.”

He lightly shoved my head as I laughed.

For the next forty-five minutes, the kitchen became our own noisy, messy sanctuary. We worked together in a smooth dance—I measured the dry ingredients while Rhys heated the milk and butter on the stove, watching the temperature with laser-like focus. When it came time to knead the dough, Rhys stood directly behind me at the counter, his broad chest pressing lightly against my back as he wrapped his arms around mine to guide my hands through the thick, sticky flour.

“You’re rushing it,” he murmured near my ear, his warm breath sending a sharp volley of goosebumps cascading down my neck. His rough, flour-dusted hands covered mine, pushing into the soft dough with a rhythmic, powerful pressure. “You have to fold it, push it away with the heels of your hands, then turn it ninety degrees. Like this.”

My heart pounded so hard against my ribs I was terrified he’d feel it through his t-shirt. Every time his bare chest brushed my back, or his thumb stroked the side of my wrist to adjust my grip, a hot, prickling heat spread under my skin.

“Like this?” I managed to ask, my voice sounding breathlessly thin.

“Exactly like that,” he whispered, his chin resting almost on my shoulder. He lingered there for a second too long, his lips hovering near the shell of my ear, before stepping back with a low, satisfied hum. “See? You’re a natural.”

By nine-thirty, the mouthwatering scent of caramelized brown sugar, melted butter, and spiced cinnamon was wafting up into the vaulted pine ceilings of the great room, completely filling the house.

The wooden stairs began to creak as the rest of the household slowly stirred awake. Marcus was the first to wander down, wearing a pair of faded plaid pajama pants and an old University of Toronto sweatshirt, his grey-streaked hair sticking up on one side. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, taking a deep breath of the air, a wide smile spreading across his face.

“Tell me my eyes aren’t deceiving me,” Marcus said, walking over to the counter where two round ceramic baking dishes sat, crammed full of massive, golden-brown cinnamon rolls dripping in thick white cream cheese icing. “The Montgomery Saturday tradition lives on!”

“Told you, Dad,” Rhys grinned, leaning against the island with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Ainsley helped. She’s got solid kneading form.”