Chapter 3
Chapter three
Sadie
The Rules
Fake dating sounds significantly less ridiculous in theory.
In theory, it’s strategic.
Temporary.
Controlled.
In reality, I’m standing inside my bakery at seven-thirty the next morning while my six-year-old proudly tells Mrs. Bellamy that Colby Reid might come over for spaghetti someday.
Jillie only spends mornings at the bakery during school breaks and teacher workdays.
Most weekdays she catches the elementary school bus from the corner by eight o'clock, but today her classroom is closed for a district training day, which means she's currently acting like Sweet Seasons' smallest and loudest employee.
I close my eyes briefly. “We are not planning dinners,” I say.
Jillie blinks at me from her stool behind the counter. “Why?”
“Because we are pretending.”
Mrs. Bellamy gasps softly like I just informed the town I plan to outlaw Christmas.
“Sadie Bennett,” she whispers. “You are fake dating a hockey superstar. At least let the child dream.”
“I would actually prefer that the child remain emotionally stable.”
Jillie stuffs a powdered donut hole into her mouth. “I’m stable.”
“You’re covered in sugar.”
“That’s different.”
The bell over the bakery door jingles again, followed immediately by excited whispers.
I don’t even have to look anymore. The whole town is treating Sweet Seasons Bakery like a celebrity safari.
Three different college girls stand near the window pretending to study muffins while very obviously trying to photograph the front counter. I glare. They immediately become fascinated by blueberry scones.
Good. Maybe I can sell more than usual today.
Outside, snow drifts lazily over Main Street. Briar Cove looks painfully charming this morning. White lights still hang from the storefronts after the Winter Festival, and the frozen lake glitters beyond the downtown buildings like a postcard somebody aggressively filtered for Instagram.
Apparently, my life is now content.
Wonderful.
My phone buzzes again. Another notification. Another article. Another headline.
HOCKEY HEARTTHROB CONFIRMS ROMANCE WITH SMALL-TOWN BAKER
I still cannot believe this is real.
Worse: I agreed to it. Technically. Reluctantly. Under emotional duress.
Because the paparazzi made Jillie cry.
Still counts.
“Mommy,” Jillie says carefully, “does fake dating mean fake kissing?”
Mrs. Bellamy chokes on her coffee. I nearly drop a tray of cinnamon rolls.
“No,” I say too fast.
Jillie squints suspiciously. “You answered weird.”
“Because you ask horrifying questions before breakfast.”
“That’s fair.”
The bell above the door jingles again.
This time, the entire bakery goes silent. I look up. And there he is.
Colby Reid somehow manages to fill the doorway with nothing but a dark winter coat and a tired expression.
Snow dusts his shoulders. His knit beanie is pulled low, and somehow, he still looks unfairly attractive for a man who probably caused national emotional damage by carrying my child through a festival.
Every woman in the bakery freezes.
Even Mrs. Bellamy.
Traitor.
Jillie gasps dramatically. “You came back!”
Colby’s mouth twitches. “That sounded vaguely threatening.”
Looking directly at me, my daughter informs me: “You said maybe famous people disappear.”
“I did not.”
“You implied it emotionally.”
I stare at my daughter. Colby stares at my daughter. Then he looks at me.
And for one dangerous second, the entire bakery feels too warm.
“Morning,” he says. Why does his voice always sound like that?
Calm.
Steady.
It’s like he genuinely means whatever he says. “Morning,” I manage.
Several customers openly eavesdrop now.
Mrs. Bellamy literally pretends to reorganize sugar packets three feet away.
Colby notices.
“I brought coffee,” he says.
He holds up a cardboard carrier from Harbor House Café.
The bakery collectively melts. Fantastic.
“That’s how they get you,” Mrs. Bellamy whispers to me.
I ignore her. Mostly because she’s not entirely wrong.
Colby sets the drinks carefully on the counter. “One vanilla latte. One hot chocolate with too many marshmallows.” Jillie gasps again like the child has never experienced beverage service before.
“You remembered.” He shrugs slightly. “You seem emotionally committed to marshmallows.”
“I am.”
“I respect that.”
Jillie immediately climbs off the stool to inspect the hot chocolate like she’s evaluating a business merger.
Meanwhile I try not to stare at the fact that Colby remembered my coffee order after hearing it once yesterday.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
“Can we talk?” I ask quietly.
His eyes lift to mine immediately. “Yeah.”
Mrs. Bellamy straightens eagerly.
“No,” I tell her, pointing her back to the counter.
She sighs heavily. Mrs. Bellamy works for me part time while her husband mans their gift shop.
It’s a triple win she says, because: 1. I get her help and Jillie gets a grandmother figure, 2.
she earns some pocket money of her own, and 3.
most important to her she says is that she and Mr. B get some time away from each other.
She assures me their marriage is fine after 43 years, but alone time improves that fact by double digits. Okay, that’s actually four things.
***
I lead Colby toward the back kitchen while Jillie happily drinks melted sugar in a cup.
The moment the swinging door closes behind us, the noise from the bakery softens slightly.
Warm air surrounds us.
Bread rising.
Vanilla.
Cinnamon.
Colby glances around the kitchen slowly.
“This place always smells illegal.”
“That’s because butter is involved.”
He smiles. Small. Real. I immediately distrust the effect it has on my nervous system.
“We need rules,” I say before I lose common sense entirely.
His expression shifts back to attentive seriousness instantly.
That should not be attractive. Unfortunately, it is.
“Okay.”
“No sleeping together.”
One dark eyebrow lifts slightly.
“I wasn’t planning to ambush you in the bread aisle.”
Heat rushes into my face. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
His mouth twitches again.
I narrow my eyes. “This is serious.”
His expression sobers immediately. “I know it is.”
That calms me more than it should. I fold my arms tightly anyway. “No emotional attachment.”
This time he pauses slightly before nodding.
“Public appearances only,” I continue. “No fake promises. No pretending this is permanent. And absolutely no confusing Jillie.”
At the mention of her name, something in his expression softens again. Dangerous.
“She’s already been through enough,” I say more quietly now.
Colby doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t rush, just listens. And somehow that makes it harder.
“Jillie’s biological father left when she was little,” I explain, “too little to really remember him. Then Darren stayed long enough to make her trust him before he left too.”
Colby goes very still.
“She spent months asking when Darren was coming back,” I admit. “Months.”
The memory still hurts. Tiny shoes by the door waiting for someone who never showed up. Jillie checking windows. Asking if maybe traffic was bad.
I swallow hard. “I won’t let her go through that again.”
Silence settles briefly between us.
Not awkward. Heavy. Careful.
Then Colby says quietly, “You think I’d hurt her.”
“No.” The answer comes too fast. “I think people leave, and in this case that’s already planned.”
Something flickers across his face. Not offense. Something sadder. “I’m not making promises I can’t keep,” he says finally. “But I would never intentionally hurt your daughter.”
And there it is again, that awful sincerity. I would honestly prefer arrogance at this point. Arrogant men are easier to survive.
Unfortunately, Colby seems determined to behave like an emotionally stable adult.
Which is significantly worse.
“Good,” I say weakly.
He studies me for another second. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” I straighten. “No spontaneous heroics.”
“That feels vague.”
“No carrying her around like she’s yours.”
His jaw tightens slightly at that.
Interesting.
“No showing up unexpectedly all the time.”
Another pause.
“You think I’m going to show up all the time?”
“I think famous men get bored quickly.”
Something unreadable moves through his eyes.
Then: “You really don’t think much of hockey players.”
“I think very realistic things about men with endorsement deals.”
That actually makes him laugh.
Low.
Warm.
Brief.
My stomach immediately betrays me. This is going horribly.
The kitchen door swings open before I can recover.
Jillie bursts inside holding her hot chocolate. “Mommy, Mrs. Bellamy told everyone you’re discussing romance logistics.”
I close my eyes.
“Yep, she really did.”
Colby coughs into his fist like he’s hiding laughter.
Traitor.
Jillie looks between us curiously. “Are you fighting?”
“No,” we both say immediately.
She narrows her eyes. “That sounded fake.”
Sometimes I would like to legally return my child. Instead, I take her cup before she spills marshmallows directly into the mixer.
“We were discussing boundaries.”
“Oh.” Jillie nods seriously. “Like hockey.”
Colby leans against the counter slightly. “Exactly like hockey.”
“You can’t slam people into walls.”
“Generally frowned upon.”
She points at me. “Mommy gets grumpy if people touch her stuff too.”
“That is also accurate.”
Jillie beams proudly like she solved international diplomacy. Then she slips her tiny hand into Colby’s without hesitation.
My entire body stills. Because he doesn’t even think about it. He just naturally curls his fingers around hers.
Easy.
Protective.
Careful.
Like he’s done it a thousand times before.
Panic flickers hard through my chest, not because anything inappropriate happened.
Because it feels natural. Too natural.
Colby glances at Jillie. “You still owe me official festival inspection results.”
“Oh!” She gasps. “The giant snowflake got a nine.”
“Only a nine?”
“The hot chocolate line was too long.”
“Valid criticism.”
She nods solemnly. “I’m very fair.”