Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Aweek passed since the letter, and I still couldn’t sleep.
No matter how many cups of chamomile tea I drank, how long I stayed up baking, or how many times I told myself it will work out, the worry refused to leave.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the letter, those blunt, indifferent words stamped across crisp cream paper.
Property transition under new ownership.
I’d emailed the solicitors three times. I’d called twice. Left polite messages, then slightly less polite ones. The phone was never answered. The emails never returned.
So I waited.
My flat above the bakery felt smaller by the day.
I’d lived there since I came back from London.
A simple, cosy one bedroom with low ceilings and a window that looked out onto the market square.
From there I could see almost the whole of Pine Hollow: the snow-dusted rooftops, the crooked lampposts strung with twinkling lights.
It should have felt magical this time of year.
It always had. But since that letter, it felt like standing on the edge of something I couldn’t hold onto.
If the bakery was sold, I’d lose everything. My family's memories, my income, my home. All of it.
The village had rallied in their usual way–kind, nosy, relentless. Ivy had told practically everyone by the end of the first day, and since then I’d been met with constant sympathy, the sort that was meant kindly but still stung. Poor Bri, losing the Hearth right before Christmas.
I didn’t want their pity. I wanted a solution.
I hadn’t heard anything since the letter arrived, and part of me almost wished it would stay that way. Whoever “Mr Oliver Grant” was, I wanted him to remain a name on paper, not a real person standing in my doorway with the power to undo everything I’d built.
More snow fell overnight, coating the square in white. The decorations had gone up in earnest now, garlands over doorframes, wreaths in every window, fairy lights flickering like stars. Pine Hollow was officially ready for Christmas. But, I wasn’t.
Awake early once again and baking to keep my hands busy and my mind quiet. The ovens warmed the shop, the scent of cinnamon and orange peel filling the air. I was kneading the dough for the afternoon’s pastries when the bell above the front door jingled.
“I’ll get it!” Ivy’s voice called from the counter, bright and chipper as ever. She was immune to exhaustion, somehow, her energy infinite, her mood unbreakable.
I smiled faintly to myself, continuing to work the dough. The rhythm calmed me: push, fold, turn, repeat. It was the only thing that still made sense. But a moment later, I felt the air shift, the subtle hush that comes when something changes and then a man’s voice, low and composed:
“I’m not here for pastries.”
I froze, my hands still buried in flour.
“Oliver Grant. I believe I’m here regarding this property.”
My heart sank as Ivy appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. “He’s here.”
The words landed like a stone in my stomach.
I wiped my palms on my apron. “Right.”
“Do you want me to tell him you’re elbow-deep in dough and can’t possibly—”
“No,” I said quietly. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” she muttered under her breath. “He sounds like the kind of man who irons his socks.”
That startled a laugh out of me, brief, shaky, but real. “I’ll handle it, Ivy.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “But if he upsets you, I’ll accidentally drop a tray of shortbread on his shoes.”
I took a steady breath and stepped into the shop.
The warmth from the ovens met the chill seeping through the door, and for a moment everything smelled of sugar and snow.
The man standing near the counter was tall, wrapped in a dark wool coat still dusted with flakes.
His dark hair was damp, swept back in a way that looked effortless and far too tidy for this place.
He looked around the bakery, at the jars, the shelves, the chalkboard reading Today’s Treats with faint curiosity and an expression that might have been equal parts appreciation and discomfort. He didn’t belong here, that much was obvious.
When his gaze finally landed on me, something flickered across his face. Then professionalism slid neatly back into place.
“Mr Grant, I presume?” I said, trying my best to keep my voice steady.
He seemed to be doing the same as he cleared his throat confirming who he was and once we got that out of the way, I still felt a slight bit of rage as I looked him over.
He stepped forward slightly, offering a polite nod. “I–believe we’ve been in correspondence.”
“‘Correspondence’ is a generous word for one letter informing me I’m about to lose everything, and then my emails and phone calls go unanswered.” I said before I could stop myself.
He hesitated, his composure faltering for the briefest moment. “I imagine it came as a shock.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
The bell above the door jingled again as a gust of wind swept through, sending snow scattering across the floor. He glanced back at it, visibly restraining a sigh, and for a strange, fleeting moment, I tried not to pity him. He looked exhausted, the kind of weary that went bone-deep.
When Ivy disappeared into the back to fetch tea, silence fell. He looked around once more, then back at me. “I’m not here to make things more difficult, Miss Hart,” he said finally, his tone softer this time. “I just want to understand the situation properly.”
“You already do,” I said quietly. “You’re selling the building.”
He studied me for a moment. His eyes were sharp, but not unkind. “Perhaps we could sit down? I’d rather not have this conversation standing in your doorway.”
I hesitated. I wanted to tell him to leave, to take his polished shoes, his briefcase, and his perfect manners back to London. But there was something in his voice that wasn’t cruel, just… tired.
“Fine,” I said at last, turning toward the back room. “It’s warmer through here.”
Ivy reappeared with a tray of tea, glaring at him over the mugs as if she were daring him to step out of line.
“Thank you,” he said politely, and Ivy made a sound that was somewhere between a sniff and a growl.
I led him through the door, my heart thudding in my chest, and tried to remember to breathe.
Whatever came next, I needed to keep my head, and my home.
The back room of the bakery wasn’t meant for company.
It was small and cluttered mostly. A single round table squeezed between sacks of flour and boxes of tins, a window half-fogged with condensation, and the faint hum of the ovens through the wall.
The air was warm, faintly sweet, laced with vanilla.
I’d always loved that smell; it felt safe. Today, it only made my stomach tighten.
I motioned for Oliver to sit, and he did, neatly, precisely, the way people do when they’ve been taught to occupy space politely. He rested his leather briefcase on his knee; his gloves folded carefully on top.
I poured two mugs of tea, more out of habit than hospitality, and slid one across the table. He murmured a quiet “thank you,” but didn’t touch it.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft patter of snow against the window.
“So,” I said finally, folding my arms. “You’re here about the sale.”
He nodded once. “That’s right. I understand this is difficult news, Miss Hart, but I assure you, I’m not here to make things harder. My role is simply to oversee the transition and ensure everything is handled properly.”
That word again. Properly.
I leaned back slightly, the edge of the table pressing against my palms. “Properly,” I repeated. “Is that the same as being fair? Or kind? Because I can’t say any of this feels particularly lovely.”
A faint crease appeared between his brows. “I didn’t mean to sound clinical. The sale was arranged by my late grandfather’s estate trustees before I took over. The properties in Pine Hollow are part of his holdings–yours included.”
“Then change it,” I said simply.
He blinked, as if he hadn’t expected me to say it so plainly.
“I can’t,” he said after a pause. “It isn’t that straightforward.”
“It never is, is it?” I let out a slow breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “You see a list of properties. I see my home. My grandmother's and mum’s legacy. Every late night, every loaf, every part of my life. So, forgive me if I don’t find comfort in the word transition.”
Something flickered in his expression then, guilt, maybe, or empathy he was trying not to show. He looked down at his untouched tea, tracing the rim with his thumb.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Truly. I know that doesn’t fix anything, but I am.”
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard.
It wasn’t rehearsed or distant; it sounded like he actually meant it.
I glanced at him properly for the first time.
Not the suit, or the coat, or the polished city veneer, but the man hiding underneath.
There were faint shadows under his eyes, a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t eased since he’d walked in.
He looked tired, worn down in a way that went deeper than the long journey.
“Why are you even here?” I asked before I could stop myself. “You could’ve handled this all from London.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Because I made a promise to my grandfather to see his affairs through properly, personally. He loved this town. I didn’t realise how much until I came here.”
That surprised me. “He lived here?”
“For a few years, yes. After retiring. He bought several properties and said the Highlands were good for the soul.”
“And you don’t agree?”
His mouth quivered faintly, though not quite into a smile. “My soul prefers central heating.”
Despite myself, a small laugh escaped me. The sound startled both of us.
The corner of his mouth lifted properly then, just for a moment, and I saw a glimpse of something almost boyish beneath all that London polish. It unsettled me, how human he seemed.
“I’ll speak with the solicitors,” he said after a pause. “See what flexibility there might be. I can’t promise anything yet, but… I’ll try.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. No one from his world ever said I’ll try.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
He stood then, picking up his gloves. “I should find the hotel. The roads are getting worse, and I’ve already proven I’m entirely unsuited to driving on ice.”
I smiled faintly. “You might want to trade those shoes for something with grip.”
He glanced down at his sleek leather brogues, then back up at me, and for the first time since he’d entered, his expression eased into genuine warmth.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The bell over the front door jingled faintly as he left, the cold spilling into the bakery for a heartbeat before the door swung shut again. I stood there, motionless, listening to the snow against the window.
Part of me still wanted to dislike him, he might take everything from me. But another, smaller part… I wasn't sure I could.