Chapter 4 #2
Nutmeg kept floating directly into my line of sight to cast me exaggeratedly knowing glances that tempted me to confine her inside the cookie jar until our guest departed.
“You’re imagining things,” I whispered pointedly beneath my breath. “And if you continue looking at me like that, I’ll replace your cloves with peppercorns.”
Nutmeg gave an affronted little spark and withdrew slightly to pout, though she positioned herself with a good view of both of us.
Though I’d kept my voice low, the exchange still drew Gabe’s curious gaze. He didn’t pry or interrupt, but I could feel him quietly observing me while I hastened through the final preparations…which somehow only worsened my nervousness.
With a long, steadying breath, I carried the tray towards the table where he waited. He sat just as stiffly as when he’d first taken his seat, shoulders tense, as if time alone wasn’t enough for him to relax.
Yet despite his unease, he had still returned.
He could have avoided the long walk through the storm and remained in the village, yet somehow he had found his way back to the lonely bakery hidden deep within the forest…
to me. The thought made a foreign sensation flutter unexpectedly through my chest before I hastily pushed it aside.
Gabe’s attention shifted to my hands as the dishes rattled faintly against the tray. His brow furrowed. “Should I…leave? I hate to be a bother.”
The concern in his voice startled me more than the question itself, almost as though my nervousness troubled him.I forced my lips upward into what I hoped resembled reassurance. “I’m the one who extended the invitation. I would never send a customer back into the rain after such a journey.”
While I occasionally allowed customers to take shelter inside the bakery during storms, this was the first time I’d deviated from my usual practice of politely ignoring them while they browsed the shelves before eventually departing with baked muffins warm from the oven once the skies cleared.
But the bakery now resided deep within the forest far from the village; no casual window shoppers stopped in to stay dry.
Gabe must have deliberately sought me out…
unless he’d somehow gotten lost again. Yet despite the practicality of that explanation, another quieter thought slipped unbidden through my mind: perhaps he had simply wanted to see me.
The notion felt dangerously close to a daydream, one I had no business entertaining.
I quickly distracted myself by setting a steaming cup of citrus tea before him, alongside a lemon scone dusted with powdered sugar and drizzled with fresh citrus glaze.
I expected him to warm himself with the tea first. Instead, he immediately reached for the scone.
He tore off a small piece and sampled it cautiously, nibbling with the wariness of someone half-convinced he might accidentally consume magic despite repeated reassurances.
Then his expression softened, just enough for the guarded tension in his features to briefly disappear beneath quiet pleasure.
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly as he tore off another piece.
Warmth flickered unexpectedly through me at the sight—satisfaction perhaps, or something frighteningly similar.
Then he noticed me watching him. Color immediately rushed from the tips of his ears to engulf his cheeks. Startled, he dropped the scone back onto the plate as though caught doing something embarrassing and hastily grabbed his tea instead, gulping far too quickly. He winced sharply.
“Did you burn yourself? I have healing toffees—” I started to rise, but he motioned quickly for me to stay seated.
“Thank you for your concern, but I’m alright.”
Concern? The word lingered strangely in my thoughts while he lifted the cup again and blew carefully across the surface, his breath sending gentle ripples across the amber liquid before he took a much more cautious sip.
His shoulders relaxed slightly. “It’s delicious,” he murmured. “What flavor is it?”
“I like experimenting with unique ingredient combinations,” I explained. “This blend contains mountain mint, lemon balm, chamomile, dried orange peel, and a touch of lavender.”
Normally I guarded my recipes carefully, especially around strangers. Yet something about his quiet attentiveness kept drawing words from me that I usually preferred leaving unspoken.
Gabe nodded thoughtfully and took another slow sip.
Silence once more settled around us, broken only by our quiet sips of tea. This one felt softer than the awkward pauses that had plagued our earlier interactions. Rain whispered steadily against the windows while firelight flickered warmly across the kitchen walls.
Yet despite the calm atmosphere, I noticed Gabe’s gaze repeatedly drifting towards the scone resting untouched on his plate.
I nibbled at my lip, suddenly seized by the uncomfortable worry that perhaps he simply hadn’t liked it after all. My mind raced through the ingredients and my preparation, wondering if I’d made any mistakes.
The sensation of concern felt strange and unfamiliar, like stumbling across an old object long forgotten in the back of a cupboard.
It tightened quietly inside my chest, awkward and uncertain, and for a fleeting moment I found myself wondering where on earth it had come from.
I had sacrificed so many emotions over the years in exchange for magic.
Surely this particular one had long ago been baked into some forgotten confection.
Yet despite that certainty, the feeling lingered stubbornly.
It took me several more minutes of watching Gabe carefully avoid the untouched scone—and several increasingly accusatory glances cast in its direction—before I finally recognized the sensation for what it was—not sadness or even hurt, but a small, hot knot of restless indignation curling tighter and tighter the longer the pastry sat neglected upon his plate.
Like a kettle left too long upon the fire, steadily building pressure beneath the surface.
Gabe suddenly paused mid-sip, teacup hovering halfway lifted to his lips. “Are you…glaring at my scone?”
I immediately yanked my gaze away. “Of course not.”
He narrowed his eyes with a slight frown. “You definitely are. I’ve never seen anyone look so personally offended by a baked good before.” He lowered his cup onto its saucer, head tilted as he studied me with growing suspicion. “You keep staring at it like you want to steal it, but it’s mine.”
To emphasize the point, he scooted the plate several inches closer to himself and subtly shielded it with his arm.
“I merely noticed you aren’t eating it,” I said stiffly. Is it not to your taste?”
It seemed the only logical explanation. Why else would he continue taking such tiny bites as though he couldn’t bear more than a mouthful at a time?
“It’s not that.” His gaze lowered. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t upset me.” The very notion was absurd.
Why would I possibly care whether some quiet stranger enjoyed one of my best recipes?
True, I had spent weeks painstakingly perfecting the balance of citrus and butter while standing ankle-deep in flour.
And perhaps I had gone somewhat out of my way to invite him in from the storm and prepare tea and scones.
But that hardly justified this strange turmoil knotting inside my chest merely because he wasn’t eating quickly enough.
I paused. Was I…upset? Could I even still experience such an emotion? Nutmeg peeked around the teacup at me with a look of unbearable smugness that I did my best to ignore.
“I like it very much,” Gabe assured me hastily, evidently noticing my continued scrutiny.
“The lemon is bright without overpowering the butter, and the glaze softens the tartness perfectly. Most bakers make citrus desserts too sweet, but this…” He glanced down at the scone again almost reverently. “It tastes warm, like sunlight.”
The strange tightness around my chest loosened instantly. How fascinating that such simple words could so thoroughly soothe whatever uncomfortable sensation had been troubling me moments earlier.
“There’s no need to ration it,” I informed him, striving for professionalism despite the warmth still lingering in my chest. “You may have as many as you want.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly—”
But I had already nudged the plate even closer to him. He hesitated only briefly before surrendering and taking a much larger bite this time. His eyes fluttered closed with a small, contented sigh that somehow felt dangerously intimate within the cozy quiet of the kitchen.
A few crumbs dribbled down his chin, clinging briefly to the corner of his mouth, and I momentarily experienced the sudden impulse to reach across the table and brush them away.
Gabe lifted a large crumb that had fallen onto his plate and extended it towards me. I blinked uncertainly before realizing he was looking just beyond me. An almost blinding shower of pink sparks swirled around me as Nutmeg darted forward to accept the treat.
“Wait!” I exclaimed, reaching out to intercept it and forcing myself not to be distracted as I brushed against his fingers with mine. “She’s allergic to sugar.”
Gabe shot me a horrified look and snatched his hand back, draping a napkin over his plate to keep Nutmeg from any danger. “Allergic? I thought she loved sweets.”
I sighed. “She does, but she shouldn’t have them.”
“I’m sorry,” Gabe said to the tiny sprite that was currently directing her most disdainful gaze towards me. She gave him a grumpy glance.
Reaching into a pocket of his cloak, he pulled out a cluster of tiny red berries that glowed like jewels. Nutmeg fixed her eyes on the fruit.
“Bunchberries,” Gabe explained to me. “They grow in the shade of the forest and they’re safe to eat…at least for humans.”