Chapter 6 #2
"I'm so sorry! So, so sorry!" The dog's owner appears, face red, leash finally in hand. Biscuit, the criminal in question, is now sitting prettily, tail wagging, tongue lolling, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "He's usually so good! I don't know what happened!"
"Dogs," Hazel mutters, but she's scratching behind Biscuit's ears even as she says it. "All instinct, no impulse control."
Her eyes flick to me on those last words.
Message received, sunshine.
Dottie's still providing commentary to anyone within earshot: "—and then he just swept her up! Like Kevin Costner in that movie! The one with the wheat field! You should have seen Hazel's face—pure romance novel!"
"Mrs. James," I say, using my Captain voice, "I think the corn maze is starting their senior discount hour."
"Oh, I'm not missing this for corn," she says cheerfully. "This is better than my stories. Real-life romance right here in Oakridge! The divorced Omega and the brooding firefighter!"
"We're not—" Hazel starts.
"He's not brooding—" I say simultaneously.
"See? Already finishing each other's sentences!" Dottie claps her hands. "I'm calling it now—spring wedding. Maybe summer if they're going to be difficult about it."
Hazel makes a sound like a teakettle having an aneurysm. I'm not doing much better.
We work in loaded silence after that, rebuilding her display with what's salvageable.
The crowd disperses slowly, reluctantly, probably hoping for another show.
Parents drag disappointed kids away. Vendors return to their booths.
The fair continues around us, but there's a bubble of awareness that won't pop.
"Your arrangement was good," I tell her quietly, adjusting a surviving pie. "The height variation, the color distribution. You always did have an eye for that."
She pauses, hands full of slightly squashed cinnamon rolls. "You noticed?"
"I notice everything about—" Stop talking, you fucking idiot. "About booth displays. Fire safety. Important to notice... arrangements."
Smooth. Real smooth.
She gives me a look that says she sees right through my bullshit, but there's something softer in it too. "Right. Fire safety."
"Very important," I agree solemnly. "These cinnamon rolls could be a hazard. All that sugar. Very flammable."
"Cinnamon rolls aren't flammable, Rowan."
"You haven't seen Levi try to cook them. Nearly burned down the station last Christmas."
She actually laughs—just a small huff of air, but it counts. "How is that possible?"
"He decided they needed to be 'caramelized.' With a blowtorch."
"No."
"While they were still in the plastic container."
"Oh my god."
"Fischer still won't let him near the kitchen."
We're standing closer now, drawn together by shared amusement and muscle memory.
Her scent is calmer, that smoke undertone banking to warm embers.
This is dangerous territory—the easy conversation, the familiar rhythm.
This is how we were before everything went to shit.
Before Korrin got his claws in her properly.
Before I failed to see what was happening. Before—
"I should check on the rest of my stock," she says suddenly, stepping back. "Make sure nothing else got damaged."
"Right. Yeah."
She turns to serve a customer who's been hovering politely, and I should go back to my booth. Should stop watching her like some creeper. Should definitely not be thinking about how she felt in my arms or how her laugh makes my chest tight or how badly I want to—
My hand moves without permission, snagging one of her pumpkin cookies while she's distracted. It's still warm, perfect orange icing with little cinnamon sugar crystals that catch the light. I pocket it quick, smooth, the product of years of sneaking midnight snacks at the firehouse.
Pathetic. You're absolutely pathetic.
But I want something of hers. Something she made with those capable hands, something that has her fingerprints in the dough. Something that proves she's real and here and not just another dream where I save her in time.
I turn to head back to my booth—
She's watching me.
Just for a second, from the corner of her eye, but she saw. I know she saw because her lips twitch, fighting a smile that wants to exist despite everything between us.
"That'll be three dollars," she tells her customer, but her eyes flick to me again. "Cookies aren't free, even for heroes who save people from killer puppies."
"Bill me," I say, pulling the cookie out to take a bite.
Fuck. It's perfect. Spiced and sweet with that hint of orange that shouldn't work but does. Like everything she makes. Like everything she is.
"I will," she promises. "With interest."
"Steep price for a cookie."
"Steep price for stealing."
"Prove it was stealing. Maybe it jumped into my pocket. Baked goods are unpredictable around here."
"Is that your defense? Cookie suicide?"
"It's a theory."
Derek appears at my elbow, because of course he does. "Chief wants to know if you're planning to actually work our booth or just flirt with the baker all day."
"I'm not—"
"He's not—"
We both stop. Derek grins like Christmas came early.
"Right. Not flirting. Just aggressively discussing pastry theft. Very professional." He tips his hat to Hazel. "Ma'am. Your cinnamon rolls are legendary, by the way. Cambridge here talks about them constantly."
"I don't—"
"'Best in the state,' he says. 'Should be illegal,' he says. 'Worth driving across town at 6 AM,' he says."
I'm going to murder Derek. Slowly. With his own helmet.
Hazel's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Is that so?"
"Constantly," Derek confirms cheerfully. "It's actually kind of embarrassing. Big tough fire captain brought low by baked goods."
"Fischer, don't you have somewhere to be?" I ask through gritted teeth. "Like the bottom of a lake?"
"Nope! But I'll leave you two to your 'not flirting.'" He winks—actually winks—and saunters off.
The silence that follows is loaded with ammunition neither of us wants to fire.
"Worth driving across town?" Hazel asks finally, voice carefully neutral.
"Your bakery is literally across from the station."
"At 6 AM though?"
"I... may have noticed when you start baking. The smell carries."
"So you've been stalking my baking schedule?"
"Stalking's a strong word."
"What would you call it?"
"Strategic awareness of local food sources."
She shakes her head, but she's fighting that smile again. "You're ridiculous."
"You're dangerous," I counter, and mean it more than she knows.
A customer approaches her booth, and I finally force myself back to mine.
But I can still feel her presence like a sun burning at my back.
Can still smell vanilla and cinnamon mixing with October air.
Can still taste her cookie on my tongue—evidence of my theft, proof that for just a moment, I let myself take something I wanted.
This is going to end badly.
I know it like I know fire burns and water drowns and Hazel Holloway was always going to be my undoing.
But when I glance back and catch her watching me again, that small smile finally winning its battle to exist, I can't bring myself to care.
The fair continues around us—noise and chaos and small-town drama in technicolor. Dottie's probably already posted about us on every social media platform known to man. The whole town will be talking by dinner.
And Hazel's still here. Not running
For now, that's enough.
Liar. It'll never be enough.
But I'll take what I can get, even if it's just stolen cookies and accidental touches and the memory of how perfectly she fits in my arms when she's falling.
Even if it kills me.
Which, given the way she handles cinnamon rolls like weapons, it probably will.