Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
MAYA
There’s something deeply unfair about how the smell of cinnamon rolls can hit you like an emotional freight train. Especially when you’re elbow-deep in dishwater, running on three hours of sleep and half a granola bar.
I glance toward the kitchen pass, where someone’s set out a tray of fresh pastries for the youth program’s afternoon snack rush. My stomach makes a sound like an angry sea lion. I pretend I didn’t hear it.
“Maya!”
I turn just as Simone, our volunteer coordinator, breezes in with her clipboard and her terrifying levels of energy. “Two of the teens just bailed on snack duty. Any chance you can cover the counter for a bit?”
I wipe my hands on my apron. “Sure.”
It’s not like I was enjoying the meditative experience of scrubbing burnt oatmeal out of a saucepan anyway.
I swap sinks for service, stepping behind the bakery counter. The bell over the centre’s front door jingles as kids start trickling in. The regulars know the drill; grab a snack, sign in, act like they’re not completely starving even though they are.
I slide cinnamon rolls and mini muffins into paper napkins and try not to take it personally when a fourteen-year-old complains we’re out of chocolate chip anything.
“You again,” a voice says, low and warm.
I glance up. Speak of the mountain.
Jacko, Owen, technically, but no one calls him that, is standing in front of the counter as though he didn’t almost run me over yesterday. Like we didn’t end up in a coffee shop with me spilling far too much of my life in between bites of lemon muffin.
“Didn’t expect to see you again until tomorrow,” I say.
He shrugs, looking sheepish. “Thought I’d drop off some stuff. You said you were short on ingredients.”
And there it is, the box he lifts onto the counter like it weighs nothing. Flour, sugar, butter. All brand names, all unopened. There’s even a bag of chocolate chips perched on top like a peace offering.
My chest does this annoying tight-clench thing. I pretend it’s just surprise.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
His eyes meet mine, steady and sincere. No expectations. No agenda. Just a giant-sized, soft-hearted man who bakes and names his sourdough starter.
I clear my throat and nod. “Thanks. Seriously. The kids will be thrilled. We go through muffins like they’re oxygen.”
He smiles, and it’s wide and genuine. “Speaking of… mind if I hang out back for a bit? Not trying to step on toes. Just thought maybe I could mix a few things, stretch the shoulder, keep the dough moving.”
I hesitate. Then nod. “Yeah. Alright. Kitchen’s yours.”
He ducks under the counter with surprising grace for someone built like an industrial fridge and disappears into the kitchen. A minute later, I hear humming. And clattering bowls. And the low, happy murmur of someone talking to the sourdough like it’s a living creature.
Which, I guess, it kind of is.
Simone passes behind me, gives me a loaded look. “Friend of yours?”
“Volunteer,” I reply, too fast.
She raises her eyebrows. “Uh-huh. And you’re blushing because…?”
“Because it’s warm in here. Go sort the dry goods.”
She laughs as she walks off.
The afternoon passes in a blur of teens, noise, and carbs. At one point, I hear Jacko convincing a very sceptical twelve-year-old that sourdough is worth trying. By the end of it, the kid’s got flour on his nose and a mouthful of crust and is declaring it “pretty decent, actually.”
I don’t remember the last time this place felt this light.
When things wind down and the last of the kids filter out, I head into the kitchen. Jacko’s wiping down counters like he’s worked here for years.
“You bake like it’s your job,” I say.
He shrugs. “Kinda is. At least when I’m not getting my shoulder put back together.”
“How’s it feeling today?”
“Looser. Less like it might fall off in my sleep. Mia says I’m ahead of schedule, but she’s also mean, so I don’t trust her.”
I smile. “She’s Dylan’s girlfriend, right? The team captain?”
“Yep. They’re disgustingly in love. It’s awful.”
I laugh, even though part of me twinges at the thought. That used to be something I believed in. That kind of love. Solid. Safe. Something to lean into instead of away from.
He must see something shift in my face, because he quietens.
“You okay?”
I nod. “Just tired.”
“Tired’s fair.”
He stacks the last of the bowls and turns to me, rubbing his hands on his apron. “I can head out if you need to close up. Or, if you want, I could come by early tomorrow and help get the dough started?”
I hesitate. Again.
But there’s something steady about him. Something that doesn’t pull or push. He’s just there. A warm presence. No expectations.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’d be good.”
He smiles. Not the big, public grin. Just a small one. Quiet. Private.
“Cool. See you tomorrow, Maya.”
And then he’s gone.
And I’m standing in a flour-dusted kitchen, wondering how a man with biceps like tree trunks and a sourdough starter named Dave managed to make my day feel less heavy.
And why I’m suddenly looking forward to tomorrow.