Chapter 8
Kori
I feel Kane’s hand on the small of my back as we watch Mia disappear toward the front of the bakery. His touch is casual but grounding, the way it always seems to be when the chaos of his newfound family surrounds us.
“Probably just some sugar-deprived locals,” he murmurs close to my ear, but I notice how his eyes follow Ella when she returns, how he studies her face with subtle concern.
“Mmm,” I agree, leaning slightly into his warmth. “Though I can’t blame them. This place smells incredible.”
The scent of gingerbread has permeated everything—my hair, my clothes, probably even my skin at this point. After hours of rolling, cutting, and baking, my arms ache pleasantly, and a thin film of flour covers my forearms despite multiple trips to the sink.
“Break time!” Frank announces, clapping flour-covered hands together. “Everyone, grab some lunch. We need fresh energy before we start the next phase!”
Kane tugs me toward the door. “Let’s get some air. I saw a deli across the street.”
I nod, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs. As much as I’m enjoying this unexpected family activity, the bakery has grown increasingly warm and crowded throughout the morning.
We step outside into the crisp mountain air, and I take a deep breath, letting it clear the sugar haze from my mind. Pinecrest’s main street is bustling with weekend activity—locals shopping, tourists taking photos of the Christmas decorations that seem to multiply daily.
“This place really goes all-in for the holidays,” I observe as we cross the street toward the deli. Every lamppost sports an evergreen wreath, and workers are stringing lights between buildings, creating what will soon be a canopy of twinkling stars overhead.
“Small towns,” Kane shrugs, but there’s a hint of wonder in his voice too. “Toronto’s decorations always felt... corporate. Like they were checking a box rather than creating something meaningful.”
“You sound almost sentimental,” I tease, bumping his shoulder with mine. “Careful, or people might think you’re actually enjoying this family Christmas stuff.”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he holds the deli door open for me with exaggerated chivalry. “After you, my lady.”
The deli is warm and inviting, with a menu board advertising holiday specials with names like “Santa’s Helper” and “Reindeer Reuben.” We order sandwiches and hot drinks, then find a small table by the window where we can watch the street activity.
“So,” I say, wrapping my hands around my mug of hot apple cider, “how are you really doing with all this?”
Kane raises an eyebrow. “All what? The gingerbread construction? I think my architectural skills are being sorely underutilized.”
“You know what I mean,” I press gently. “The family. The ranch. Suddenly having a sister and niece. Christmas with the MacGallans. It’s a lot.”
His expression turns thoughtful as he tears off a piece of his sandwich.
“It’s... strange. Good, strange, mostly.
A month ago, I was alone in Toronto, drinking too much and avoiding my own thoughts.
Now I have more family than I know what to do with, a ranch I have no idea how to run, and—” He pauses, his eyes meeting mine. “And you.”
My heart does a little flip that I blame on too much sugar. “And me,” I echo softly.
“Which is the least strange part, somehow,” he continues, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “Feels like I’ve known you longer than a few weeks.”
“That’s what happens when you cram a lifetime of family drama into a month,” I laugh, though I know exactly what he means. There’s an ease between us that defies our short acquaintance.
“Speaking of family drama,” Kane says, nodding toward the window, “isn’t that your sister?”
I follow his gaze and spot Lana across the street, deep in conversation with a tall man in a flannel shirt and cowboy hat. They’re standing outside the hardware store, and something about their body language suggests the exchange isn’t entirely pleasant.
“That’s definitely Lana,” I confirm, frowning slightly. “But who’s the cowboy? And why does she look like she’s about to knee him in the groin?”
Kane squints against the sunlight. “That’s Jake Brennan. He owns the ranch that borders Wolfcreek on the north side. Bit of a recluse, according to Ella.”
As we watch, Lana takes a step back, crossing her arms defensively. Jake’s posture is equally closed off, his shoulders rigid beneath his worn jacket.
“Should we intervene?” I ask, already half-rising from my seat.
Kane considers this, then shakes his head. “Let’s wait. Lana can handle herself, and small-town feuds can be... complicated.”
I settle back in my chair reluctantly, keeping my eyes on the pair. “What’s his deal anyway? Ella mentioned him once but didn’t elaborate.”
“Not sure,” Kane admits. “He helped fix some fence line last week, but wasn’t exactly chatty. Ella said he moved here a few years ago and mostly keeps to himself. There’s some story there, but she doesn’t know the details.”
Across the street, the conversation appears to be wrapping up. Lana gives a curt nod, then turns on her heel and marches toward the bakery. Jake watches her go, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat, before he climbs into a battered pickup truck and drives away.
“Well, that looked intense,” I murmur, making a mental note to ask Lana about it later. “Maybe they’re competing in the Christmas decoration contest too.”
Kane snorts. “Somehow I doubt Mr. Personality is the festive type.”
We finish our lunch and order sandwiches to bring back for the others. As we step outside, the sound of a vehicle backfiring makes me jump. Kane’s arm instantly goes around my shoulders, pulling me closer to his side.
“Just a truck,” he says, but I notice how his eyes scan the street, alert and watchful.
“You’ve been spending too much time with Ella,” I tease, though I appreciate his protectiveness. “Jumping at shadows.”
He relaxes slightly, but his arm remains around me. “Hard not to pick up on her paranoia. The way she watches every stranger, checks exits whenever we go somewhere new.” He shakes his head. “Whatever she’s running from has left deep scars.”
The observation sobers me as we cross back to the bakery. I’ve noticed it too—the way Ella tenses when the door opens unexpectedly, how she positions herself always to have a clear view of Nora. It’s the behavior of someone who’s lived too long with fear as a constant companion.
“Do you think she’ll ever tell us the whole story?” I ask as Kane reaches for the bakery door.
He pauses, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe. When she’s ready, trust takes time to build.”
“Says the man who trusted me with his family secrets after knowing me for approximately two days,” I remind him with a smile.
“That was different,” he argues, holding the door for me. “You had leverage. And very convincing eyes.”
“Convincing eyes?” I laugh. “Is that a thing?”
“It is when they’re yours,” he says with unexpected sincerity that makes my cheeks warm.
Before I can respond, we’re engulfed in the organized chaos of the bakery. The gingerbread village construction has entered a new phase—large panels of spiced cookie are being carefully attached to wooden frames with what looks like industrial-strength royal icing.
“Finally!” Kat exclaims when she spots us. “We’re starving!” Kat clamps her mouth shut and looks at Frank guiltily. "Sorry, no offence, but I need something other than baked goods."
He nods his understanding as I hand over the bag of sandwiches, which is immediately descended upon by hungry MacGallans.
“Where’s Lana?” I ask, scanning the room. “We saw her outside a few minutes ago.”
“Bathroom,” Wren answers around a mouthful of sandwich. “Said she needed to wash flour out of her eyebrows. How does someone even get flour in their eyebrows?”
“It’s a special talent,” Kat declares proudly. “One that apparently runs in the family.”
I notice Ella watching our exchange with a slight frown, her eyes darting to the front door. “Everything okay?” I ask her quietly.
She startles slightly, then offers a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Fine. Just thinking about the next steps. We need to start on the royal icing decorations while the structures set.”
I don’t believe her casual tone for a second, but before I can press further, Lana emerges from the back room. Her expression is composed, but there’s a tension around her mouth that wasn’t there before.
“Hey,” I greet her, offering a sandwich. “We saw you outside. Making friends with the locals?”
Something flickers in her eyes—annoyance, perhaps, or embarrassment. “Hardly. Just a misunderstanding about parking spots.”
It’s clearly not the whole story, but I don’t push. Lana has always kept things close to the vest, especially since the disaster with Mark. If she wants to talk, she knows I’m here.
“Alright, team!” Frank claps his hands, drawing everyone’s attention. “Phase two begins now! We need precision, patience, and artistic flair. Who’s good with a piping bag?”
I raise my hand along with Ella and, surprisingly, Kane. When I give him a questioning look, he shrugs. “My foster mother decorated cakes. I helped sometimes.”
Another glimpse into his past, casually offered. These little revelations still surprise me—the ways Kane lets down his guard bit by bit, revealing the complexities beneath his gruff exterior.
Frank assigns us to different stations. Kane and I end up at a table covered with tiny gingerbread figures—people to populate the village once it’s constructed.
“These need faces and clothing details,” Frank explains, handing us piping bags filled with different colored icings. “Think classic Christmas card, not horror movie.”
“There goes my artistic vision,” Kane deadpans, earning a laugh from Frank.
We settle into our task, heads bent close together as we carefully pipe tiny scarves, buttons, and facial features onto the gingerbread people. It’s delicate work that requires concentration, but there’s something soothing about the repetitive motion.
“We should name them,” I suggest, adding a jaunty green hat to a particularly dapper gingerbread man. “Create backstories for the whole village.”
Kane smirks, working on his own figure. “This one’s the town drunk. See his lopsided smile and questionable fashion choices?”
I lean closer, examining his work. “Hmm, I see it. Though he looks suspiciously like you when I found you buried in the sand.”
“Slander and lies,” he protests, though his eyes crinkle with amusement as he leans in for a kiss.