Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MAYA
I’m elbow-deep in lemon glaze when I hear the front bell jingle.
Again.
“Sorry, we’re just about closed,” I call out automatically, wiping my hands on a tea towel and pushing a stray curl from my face with the back of my wrist.
“I’ll be quick,” comes a voice I know far too well by now.
Low. Rumbly. Warm enough to melt my insides.
Owen.
I glance up and yep, there he is, standing just inside the bakery kitchen like he’s always belonged there. Dressed in Raptors joggers and a clean tee stretched over wide shoulders, a sheen of sweat still clinging to his hair like he’s just come from the gym.
Which he has, probably. Of course he has. Because that’s the kind of man he is. Disciplined. Constant. Stubborn as a bulldog but always showing up. Even when I’m not sure I deserve it.
He grins when I don’t say anything.
“You look like you’re deciding whether to offer me cake or arrest me.”
“Depends what you’re here for,” I say, grabbing the bowl of glaze again. “If it’s sugar, we’re out. If it’s sass, you’re late.”
“I brought my own,” he shoots back, nodding at me. “You’re covered in it.”
I snort, and try not to notice the way his eyes linger on the smear of icing across my cheek. Or the way he leans his hip against the counter, far too comfortable in this space I’ve tried to keep protected.
“Busy day?” he asks, like it’s normal, like he belongs here.
“Long. But good. The kids made shortbread and only three of them tried to sword fight with rolling pins, so I’m counting it as a win.”
He chuckles, deep and quiet, and for a second the warmth in his eyes steals my breath.
“You okay?” I ask. “After last night?”
He shrugs. “Shoulder’s still attached. I’ll take it.”
“I meant the rest.”
His smile slips a little, but not in a bad way. Just thoughtful.
“I missed this,” he says softly. “The game. The boys. The noise.”
I nod, and I understand. It’s how I feel when the kitchen’s full of life. When I’m wrist-deep in dough and the oven’s humming and there’s purpose in the air.
“But,” he adds, eyes flicking toward me. “Was weird not having anyone there. Not properly. You know?”
I don’t answer, not right away. Because I do know. I know exactly what it’s like to be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.
Then he clears his throat and gestures toward the prep table. “So, I was thinking…”
“Dangerous,” I tease, arching a brow.
He grins again, slow and crooked. “Reckless, even. But hear me out.”
I pause, spatula hovering mid-air. “Go on.”
“There’s another home game this weekend. Saturday afternoon, it’s a show game, a friendly. I was wondering…” He scratches the back of his neck like it’s a habit. “If you might want to come. Bring Lila. If you’re up for it.”
I blink.
That’s not what I was expecting. I thought maybe he’d offer to fix a shelf or drop off more brownies or come around with a cheesy grin and a pun-laden story about practice.
Not this.
He sees the hesitation on my face and steps back slightly. Not away, not withdrawn, just giving me space. Like he always does.
“It’s totally fine if not,” he says quickly. “No pressure. I just thought she might like it.”
“Might?” comes a voice behind me.
We both turn to see Lila standing in the kitchen doorway, backpack sliding off one shoulder, face lighting up like she’s just heard the word ‘unicorn.’
“You said a game?” she asks, eyes bouncing between me and Owen.
He gives me a look like oops, and then kneels slightly to be eye-level with her.
“Yeah, little miss. Big noisy game at the rink. I’ll be on the ice. Wearing pads and looking even more ridiculous than usual.”
Lila gasps like she’s just won the toddler lottery. “Can I come?”
“Lila,” I say gently, but it’s too late. She’s vibrating with excitement.
“Can I, Mummy? Please? I want to see Mr Bear skate!”
Owen winces a little at the nickname, he always does, but he doesn’t correct her. Just smiles that soft smile I’ve come to associate with trouble.
The good kind.
I sigh. “It’ll be loud. And chaotic. You hate loud.”
“I’ll wear my big-girl earmuffs!” she says brightly, like this is a bulletproof plan.
“And it’s cold.”
“I’ll wear two jumpers!”
“And if he gets in a fight,”
“Fights?” Lila gasps, now positively vibrating. “Like dragons?”
Owen chokes on a laugh. “Definitely not dragons. But there might be a few angry penguins.”
She looks at me with wide, pleading eyes.
Oh God. I’m so screwed.
I glance at Owen. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Bait the child, wear me down.”
He holds his hands up, mock-innocent. “I’d never. I’m far too sweet.”
“You’re not sweet. You’re enormous and infuriating and far too charming for your own good.”
“Charming?” He cocks an eyebrow. “That’s new. You sure you’re not coming down with something?”
I toss a tea towel at his chest. “Shut up.”
He catches it mid-air, easily, then walks it over to the sink and sets it down like he lives here. Like it’s just something he does.
And something in me softens a little.
He doesn’t ask again. Doesn’t push. Just leans back against the counter and watches me work like he’s got all the time in the world.
And that’s the problem.
Because he’s not pushing. He’s just being Owen. And I’m not used to people who don’t want something from me the second I let them in.
“Maya,” he says, voice lower now. “It’s just a game. You and Lila come, eat hotdogs, shout at the ref. You leave whenever you want. No strings.”
“Except the ones wrapped around my heart,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
He steps forward, just a little. Just enough that I feel his warmth.
“You don’t have to decide now,” he says gently. “Just think about it.”
I nod, eyes dropping to the bowl of glaze again. “Okay.”
Lila squeals and hugs his leg like it’s a tree trunk. “I’m gonna see Mr Bear play hockey!”
He ruffles her curls. “You better. I’m saving all my best skating for you.”
She beams up at him, and something twists in my chest.
Because this? This is dangerous.
This man, standing in my kitchen, laughing with my daughter, making her feel like she matters?
It’s not just sweet. It’s real.
And real is harder than anything else.
“You should go,” I say finally, keeping my voice light. “You probably smell like a locker room and someone’s definitely waiting to make you lift something heavy.”
“Jealous?”
“Deeply.”
He grins, tilts his head, and says, “You’ll come?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll take that.”
“You’ll take that as a maybe, Owen.”
He laughs. “Fair.”
Then he grabs his bag, offers Lila a high five, which she completely misses and turns into a full-body tackle, and heads for the door.
But just before he walks out, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.
“I’ll leave two seats open. Just in case.”
And then he’s gone.
Leaving behind the smell of lemon glaze, the echo of his smile, and the fluttering in my chest that’s getting harder and harder to ignore.