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Emily left the ladies to get settled. She had bigger problems to deal with.
Cole had accepted a bowl of soup from Anita and was now standing at the end of her counter. He clearly wasn’t reading the room.
Well, he wasn’t reading her correctly anyway, because her mother just couldn’t stop chatting him up.
“Isn’t this storm something. Even the one in 2019 wasn’t this bad, was it, Emily?”
Emily replied with a noncommittal grunt, not looking up.
“But you, Cole, you’re handling it all with aplomb,” Anita added.
“Well, that’s so kind of you to say so,” Cole replied.
Emily fought the urge to mock him under her breath.
“Hey, guys,” Madison said, joining them in the kitchen. The owner of the Cinnamon Spice Inn and Emily’s best friend, she had a green wool scarf the color of her eyes wrapped around her fiery hair. She unwound it and shivered.
“Did you walk down here?” Emily asked. It wasn’t far on a normal day, but today? It was downright heroic.
“I did. I come bearing empty containers,” she said, “and I’m hoping to leave with soup. We’ve got eight guests at the inn who are starting to look at each other like they’re considering which ones they’d eat first.”
“Sit down, and I’ll fill you up,” Anita said, already reaching for the pot of minestrone.
Madison slid onto a stool at the counter and looked around the bakery, smiling softly. She took in the lights, the crowded counters, the warmth of it all. Then her gaze moved to Cole. To Emily. Back to Cole.
“How are things at the inn?” Emily asked, trying to get Madison to focus on something, anything, else.
“Cozy. Chaotic. Kit would be cooking over the family room fireplace if I let her. As it is, she and Dad are trying to fire up the old generator. The one that’s been in the shed since 1992.”
Cole set his soup bowl down.
“How old is it?” he asked.
Madison blinked. “I—um…”
“Has it been serviced recently?” Cole pressed on.
“I genuinely have no idea.”
“What model? Do you know if it’s been stored properly, fuel stabilizer added, that kind of thing?”
Madison looked at him like he had two heads. “Cole, I run a family inn. My generator knowledge is limited.”
“George is there. What’s the problem?” I said to Cole.
Madison’s dad was a volunteer firefighter; he should know the basics, or so Emily thought.
Cole didn’t look too convinced. “Can you tell George not to start it until I’ve had a look at it? Old generators that haven’t been run in years—improperly stored fuel, cracked seals, inadequate ventilation—you’re looking at carbon monoxide risk at best, fire risk at worst.”
Madison already had her phone out, texting.
Cole buttoned his coat, checked his radio, and picked up his gloves from the counter. He paused beside the soup bowl, still half full.
“Thank you,” he said to Anita, sounding like the perfect gentleman.
“Any time,” Anita said warmly, and Emily had to physically turn away.
The dream version of Cole—the one who had her fisting her sheets while he worshipped her body—was much safer than this version. The one weaving himself back into her life. Chatting with her mother. Dropping into the bakery as though he belonged there.
