Chapter 7
Willa
It’s been five days since I arrived in Hope Peak. The last few days, Sebastian and I have spent almost every spare minute together. After he fixed my water heater a few days ago, he stayed. And hasn’t really stopped staying.
We’ve been stealing kisses during the day and losing ourselves in each other at night, like two people who forgot what it feels like to be touched and seen.
This morning, I throw myself into work.
The doors open at seven, and by six thirty, the counter is lined with trays of cinnamon rolls, coffee cake, and pecan sandies. The scent of sugar and spice fills the air, warm and comforting.
Customers start trickling in soon after. Loretta, of course, is first. She buys a dozen cinnamon rolls and a dozen cookies under the guise of taste testing.
Then comes a couple of flannel-clad men with beards who order coffee and scones. A group of teenagers swarms the cupcake display, giggling when I compliment their Christmas sweaters.
The morning rush settles into a rhythm. I pour coffee, slide trays into the oven, restock the pastry case, and chat with anyone who has a story to tell.
It’s midmorning when the bell above the door jingles and Sebastian steps inside. He ducks under the frame, and somehow, just by being here, makes the whole space feel smaller.
He’s wearing a dark green henley, the top button undone to reveal a glimpse of ink at his collarbone. His hair is damp, like he just stepped out of the shower. He smells like soap and cold air. A spark of heat flares low in my belly.
He holds up a paper bag. “Trade?”
I lift a brow. “What’s in it?”
“My mom’s minestrone. She heard you’re surviving on cinnamon rolls and wanted to make sure you’re getting some vegetables.”
God, I really like his parents. I’d been nervous to meet them, but they’d made it so easy.
My throat tightens. “Tell her thank you.”
He sets the bag on the counter and slides onto a stool. “How’s it going?”
“Busy,” I say, wiping my hands on my apron. “In a good way. I already sold out of muffins.”
He grins. “Not surprised. Reid told everyone at the auto shop. And Harry stopped a woman in the street to rave about your scones.”
“Speaking of raving,” I lean a little closer, lowering my voice, “I heard you moaned over another one of my cinnamon rolls yesterday.”
His ears flush. “Loretta talks too much.”
“Loretta is my new favorite person.” I slide a plate of lemon tarts toward him. “Try these.”
He takes a bite.
And groans.
A real, low, honest-to-God groan that coils hot and fast through me. My thighs clench on instinct.
He swallows, then gives me a lazy, satisfied smile. “Damn. You just keep showing off, don’t you?”
“It’s called marketing,” I tease. “If you liked that, wait until you taste my apple pie.”
His gaze snaps to mine. The air thickens.
“Is that an invitation?” he asks, voice rougher now.
My brain stutters. “Maybe.”
A throat clears behind him.
I blink, cheeks blazing, and turn to the older gentleman waiting patiently.
“What can I get you?”
By the time I hand off his croissant and coffee, Sebastian is deep in conversation with Loretta, who has magically appeared at his elbow to “sample” more muffins.
She winks at me behind his back. I stick my tongue out at her and retreat to the kitchen.
The rest of the morning blurs into sugar and laughter. When the rush dies down around noon, Sebastian stays. I wipe down the counter while he straightens the chairs. It’s easy, comfortable. There’s something about the way we move around each other, like we’ve been doing this for years.
Every time I glance up, he’s watching me. Not in a way that makes me feel self-conscious.
In a way that makes me feel wanted.
“What time do you close?” he asks as the last customer heads out.
“Three,” I say. “Earlier on Christmas Eve.”
He nods, lips curving. “Good. I’ll be back at three-oh-one.”
I laugh. “Trying to be first in line for day-old pastries?”
“I’m trying to take you to dinner,” he says. “If you’re not too tired.”
My breath catches. “Dinner?”
“Unless you’ve got plans. Then breakfast. Or lunch. Or I could just kiss you again.”
My pulse kicks. “Dinner’s good.”
“Six o’clock,” he says, and there’s something certain in his voice. Something that makes me want to melt.
All afternoon, I hum with anticipation. I know it’s ridiculous how excited I am over a date with someone I’ve only just met a few days ago, but I can’t stop thinking about him. His mouth. His hands. The way he looks at me like I matter.
At six on the dot, he knocks at the back door. I’ve changed into a burgundy sweater dress and black leggings. My hair falls in soft waves over my shoulders.
Sebastian stands on the porch, snowflakes melting in his hair, a plaid scarf loose around his neck. He’s holding a small bouquet of pine branches and red berries, tied with twine.
“These are for you,” he says gruffly. “Figured flowers wouldn’t survive the weather.”
My chest tightens. “They’re perfect.”
I grab my coat and scarf, and he walks me across the street to his truck. He opens the door for me and helps me up.
Jack never did that.
Jack barely noticed me.
Sebastian notices everything.
The truck is warm, the radio humming softly with Christmas music. Lights glow from porches as we drive. It feels like something from a snow globe, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself enjoy the moment without worrying about the next.
At the diner, he orders two plates of pot roast like it’s already decided, then looks at me for approval. I grin and ask for extra mashed potatoes. He relaxes instantly.
The waitress, with her beehive hair and Santa brooch, winks at me like we’re in on something together.
We talk.
About everything and nothing. About his grandparents and the inn. About the army. About why he came back. He’s quiet about the hardest parts, but he doesn’t avoid them. When he mentions his ex, it’s only to say she broke his trust. That he won’t let that happen again.
I tell him about growing up on the coast. About my mom working two jobs. About the first cake I ever baked. I talk about my ex and how I left him when I found out he’d been sleeping with someone from work. How he told me I was overreacting. That men have needs.
Sebastian’s jaw tightens. His hand finds mine on the table, thumb brushing over my knuckles. There’s strength in the way he holds on. Not possessive. Steady.
By the time the waitress returns with slices of pie—pecan for me, apple for him—the space between us has changed. Gone softer. Warmer. Intimate.
I lick a bit of pecan filling from my fork, and his gaze darkens.
“Can I take you home?” he asks, voice low.
My heart stutters. “Yes.”
The drive is quiet, thick with tension that pulses between us. When we arrive, he parks the truck, gets out first. Opens my door. Helps me down.
The cold hits my legs, but I barely notice it before I’m backed up against the truck and his hands are on my face. His mouth inches from mine.
“Can I come inside?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He groans and kisses me.