Page 14

Emily shifted, backing more firmly against him before settling deeper into his hold.

Cole stopped breathing.

He wasn’t sure why. They’d slept like this for the better part of five hours. But now he was awake and painfully aware of everything—the slow rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of her breath, the soft sigh she made as she relaxed against him.

This wasn’t the fiery Emily Whitaker he knew.

And, frankly, he liked this softer version of her. The one who wasn’t smart-mouthing him, arguing with everything he said, or preparing a counterargument before he’d finished speaking.

Would it kill her to listen to him for once?

His mind immediately supplied the memory of her glaring at him after he’d stopped kissing her.

Did I tell you to stop?

And everything that happened after.

The first strips of sunlight were beginning to edge over the horizon, bringing morning with them.

And, hopefully, their escape.

Cole slowly loosened his arm from around Emily and pushed himself upright, tucking his side of the turnout coat around her before standing.

Nutmeg glanced up at him, decided he wasn’t worth the effort, and settled back against Emily’s stomach.

Cole walked through the bakery as the growing light crept across the room. The kitchen took shape around him with the butcher-block counter that ran down the center, the double rack ovens against the far wall, the deep farmhouse sink beneath the window they’d lost to the snowdrift. The black-and-white checkerboard floor was dusted with flour near the mixer, and pieces of gingerbread and icing sat abandoned on the cooling rack, evidence of whatever Emily had been doing before the storm hit.

He instinctively rubbed his hands together, generating warmth in the kitchen that was easily below forty degrees.

He hadn’t been in the space since they were kids. Not since the fight. After all, this was the alleged scene of the crime from all those years ago.

His gaze moved over the heavy stand mixer and the shelving unit stacked with twenty-pound bags of flour and sugar. Something dark and bulky sat behind it, barely visible in the shadows.

Cast iron.

That was when he remembered something Emily had mentioned a couple of months ago. There was an old wood-burning stove in the kitchen.

She and Robyn had found it while searching for a long-lost pumpkin pie recipe—or something like that. Cole had never been entirely clear on the details, and Emily had never been particularly forthcoming.

He pulled out his phone and switched on the flashlight, despite the lecture he’d given her the night before. It was the only light he had, and if there was even a chance he could get the old stove working, he was going to take it.

The shelving unit creaked as he pulled it away from the wall, revealing the old stove tucked into an alcove behind it. It was smaller than he’d expected. The heavy piece was black with age and had probably been here since the building went up. The brickwork behind it was soot-darkened and original, and the flue pipe ran straight up into the wall where it must have connected to the chimney he’d noticed on the roof.

Behind him, the pantry door opened.

Cole glanced over his shoulder as Emily stepped into the kitchen, squinting in the growing light. His turnout coat was wrapped around her shoulders, swallowing her small frame, and her hair was still twisted into a messy knot. Her face was soft and puffy with sleep, but her eyes sharpened the second they landed on him.

“What are you doing?”

There wasn’t an ounce of kindness in her voice.

Cole turned back to the door. “Well, good morning, princess. Glad you decided to join us.”

“Boilers don’t work when the power’s out.”

“Boilers don’t.” He glanced back at her then. “But what about that old wood-fired stove of yours?”

Emily cocked her head, the movement setting off another shiver beneath his coat. “The wood-fired stove that you told me was a fire hazard? The one that would probably burn the bakery down if we so much as looked at it? That one?”