Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The midday rush was always my favourite time of day.
The air smelled of sugar and spiced apples, the glass fogged with warmth, and the sound of chatter filled every corner.
For a few hours, everything felt almost normal again.
People laughed, ordered, lingered over coffee.
I could pretend I wasn’t waiting for the ground to shift beneath me.
I was behind the counter, arranging the new Christmas tarts in the display case, when the doorbell chimed and a gust of cold air swept through.
And then I saw him again.
Oliver Grant.
His coat was dusted with snow, his scarf slightly askew, and his hair looked as though he’d run a hand through it too many times. He shouldn’t have looked quite so at ease in my bakery, but somehow he did, out of place and yet perfectly at home in the same breath.
He caught my eye and offered a polite smile. “Good afternoon Miss Hart.”
“Afternoon Mr Grant,” I replied, far too stiffly.
He glanced at the crowded tables. “I thought I’d stop by for lunch. I was told this is the best place in town.”
“Was told?” I raised an eyebrow. “By who?”
“Mrs Campbell from the hotel,” he said with a faint grin. “She recommended something called Christmas pie. Said I’d regret my entire existence if I didn’t try it.”
I groaned inwardly. “Of course she did.”
He smiled, a small, amused curve of the mouth that, annoyingly, made something flutter in my stomach.
“Right then,” I said, stepping behind the counter. “If it’s regret you’re trying to avoid, one slice of Christmas pie coming up.”
He moved to a small corner table by the window, removing his gloves and looking entirely too comfortable for someone who was technically ruining my life.
I tried not to glance over as I worked and of course, I failed miserably and found him watching the snow fall outside, his expression distant, thoughtful. He looked almost peaceful, until his phone buzzed across the table.
By the time I brought the pie over, he was on the call, his tone clipped.
“No, I said I’d review it next week,” he said into the phone, his voice lower than usual, irritation threading through each word. “Yes, I’m aware of the deadline, Daniel. I’m also aware I’m six hundred miles away in a place with more sheep than signal.”
I set the plate down quietly. He looked up, offering an apologetic half-smile, and turned slightly away from me.
“Yes, I’ll call you back. No, not tonight.”
He ended the call with a quiet sigh and pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose. For the first time, I noticed how tired he looked, the kind of tired that came from months, maybe years, of never stopping.
“Everything all right?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He gave a dry laugh. “That depends. How’s your Wi-Fi?”
“Hmm, not the worst.”
“Then I’m perfect,” he said, setting the phone down.
Despite myself, I smiled. “Rough day?”
“Rough week,” he admitted. “Though I suppose I can’t complain. I chose to come here.”
“Did you?” I asked, arching a brow.
His eyes met mine across the table, and for a second, something unspoken passed between us. He didn’t answer.
I nodded toward his plate. “Eat before it gets cold.”
He picked up his fork, cutting into the slice. Steam rose, carrying the scent of cinnamon and cranberry. “This,” he said after a bite, “might actually be the best thing I’ve eaten in years.”
I fought the urge to smile, settling for a quiet, “Flattery won’t change my mind about you, Mr Grant.”
He leaned back, eyes glinting faintly with humour. “Wasn’t trying to.”
“Of course you weren’t.”
He gave a soft chuckle, the sound low and warm and for a moment, it felt like the tension between us softened. Until he spoke again.
“I should tell you,” he said carefully, “your bakery isn’t the only property I’m assessing while I’m here. There are a few more under review.”
The words hit harder than I expected. My smile vanished. “Other properties?”
He nodded. “A few shops, a cottage on the edge of the village. I’m simply reviewing the estate’s assets to determine—”
“Determine who gets to lose their livelihood next?” I cut in, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.
He looked up, startled. “That’s not—”
“Does your big corporation just want to take away people’s lives, then?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them, low and tight. “You London folk always come up here deciding to buy the land of our people and build whatever you want on it.”
The bakery had gone quieter around us, the hum of conversation dimmed. I could feel Ivy’s eyes flicking between us from behind the counter.
Oliver set down his fork, his composure cracking just slightly. “I don’t work for a corporation, Miss Hart. I’m not here to bulldoze anyone’s home. I’m a solicitor, not a developer.”
“Same difference, isn’t it?”
His jaw tightened, and for a second, I thought I’d gone too far. But then he exhaled, slow and steady, and leaned forward slightly.
“I know how this looks,” he said quietly. “And I don’t expect you to believe me yet, but I meant what I said, I’ll try to help you. I don’t want to take anything from anyone.”
I stared at him, trying to find the lie. There wasn’t one.
The worst part was, I believed him. And that scared me even more.
I straightened, forcing my voice to stay even. “Enjoy your lunch, Mr Grant.”
Before he could answer, I turned back to the counter, my heart thudding far too fast for a conversation that shouldn’t have mattered at all.
The last of the customers had gone, and the square outside was blanketed in white.
Snow still drifting in soft spirals past the window, settling on rooftops and window boxes, quieting the world.
I’d swept the floors twice, more to fill the silence than anything else.
Ivy had left half an hour ago, muttering about defrosting her toes by the fire.
Now it was just me, the hum of the ovens cooling, and the whisper of snow against the glass.
I turned off the lamps one by one, the bakery shrinking into pools of soft amber light.
It was peaceful, almost beautiful, but the peace sat heavy in my chest. Today had taken more out of me than I wanted to admit.
The argument with Oliver kept circling in my mind.
His clipped tone, my temper flaring before I could stop it.
I didn’t like how easily he got under my skin.
I locked the front door and stepped outside into the chill, pulling my scarf higher. The air was sharp and clean, the kind that made every breath sting a little. My boots left crisp prints in the snow as I headed toward the side door that led upstairs to my flat.
That’s when I saw him.
A tall figure standing by the bakery window, coat dusted with snow, head slightly bowed as though deep in thought. For a heartbeat, I thought I was imagining him. Then he turned. Oliver froze when he saw me, surprise flashing across his face before softening into something almost… sheepish.
“Miss Hart,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “I wasn’t expecting you to still be here.”
“I live here,” I said simply. “Above the shop.”
“Ah.” His breath clouded in the cold. “That explains why the lights were on.”
He hesitated, shifting his weight as if unsure whether to speak or leave. “I–wanted to apologise. For earlier.”
I raised an eyebrow. “For making me think you were here to take my home away?”
That almost earned a smile. “For upsetting you, unintentionally. You were right–I didn’t think about how my words sounded.”
His tone wasn’t defensive, though. It was quiet. Honest.
I exhaled, my breath fogging the air between us. “You don’t have to apologise, Mr Grant. You’re doing your job. I just… wish it wasn’t at my expense.”
He nodded, snow settling on the dark wool of his coat. “I understand. I didn’t come here to cause trouble, believe it or not.”
“Then why did you?”
He gave a soft huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Because I’m stubborn. And because my grandpa would’ve haunted me if I’d left his affairs unfinished.”
Something about that answer made my lips twitch. “You don’t seem the type to believe in hauntings.”
“I didn’t. Until I got here.”
The faintest smile found its way to my face. It felt strange, after the day I’d had. “Maybe Pine Hollow’s changing you already.”
“Terrifying thought,” he murmured, but his eyes warmed a little.
The square was almost silent now, the air thick with snow. The only sound was the soft chime of the church bell far down the street. He looked out toward it, then back at me, his expression softer than I’d seen before.
“I leave tomorrow,” he said. “But I’d like to think we could part on decent terms. I meant what I said earlier, I’ll see what I can do about the bakery. Even if it’s just buying you time.”
A lump formed in my throat before I could swallow it down. “You don’t owe me that.”
“Maybe not,” he said quietly. “But I want to do something.”
For a moment, I didn’t trust myself to answer. The snow kept falling, the world turning faintly golden beneath the lamplight. He looked almost unreal in it, this man from London, standing in the middle of our little Highland square, apologising under the snow.
“Thank you,” I said at last, my voice softer than I intended.
He inclined his head slightly, a gesture both formal and oddly sincere. The wind tugged a loose strand of hair from my scarf, brushing it across my face.
He hesitated, then said, “Your accent–it isn’t what I expected. Not quite Highlander.”
I blinked, surprised by the question. “That’s because it’s not,” I said lightly. “I moved to London with my dad when I was twelve and stayed after high school to study, believe it or not. In culinary school.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, genuine interest sparking there. “Really? And you traded that for a bakery in the snowy mountains?”
“Not exactly by choice.” I smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “When my mum fell ill, I came home to help her run the place. I kept thinking I’d go back–finish what I started, maybe open a restaurant one day.”
My breath clouded the air, fading quickly. “But she passed away three years ago. The bakery became… mine. Whether I was ready or not.”
Oliver’s expression softened, and for a moment, the usual professionalism slipped away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Not your fault,” I said quietly. “This town looked after me. They’ve been my family ever since.” I looked up at him then, letting my voice strengthen. “So if you plan to put up a fight over the bakery, you should know the entire town will fight back.”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer, then that familiar ghost of a smile returned, though gentler this time. “I believe you,” he said. “I don’t doubt you for a second.”
Something in his tone made my chest tighten–not pity, but respect.
The snow thickened, swirling softly between us, and for a moment neither of us moved. He finally nodded, his voice low. “Well, goodnight, Miss Hart. I will be around tomorrow before I am due to leave.”
“Goodnight, Mr Grant.”
He lingered long enough for the silence to feel almost like a question, then turned and walked away, his footsteps muffled by snow.
I watched him go until the dark swallowed him whole–that tall, composed London man who’d stepped into my world and somehow was managing to unravel it without even trying.