Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Sarah
T he rain finally eases as Connor's truck rumbles down Main Street. After hours trapped in that small cabin—too aware of his every movement, his every glance—the familiar storefronts of Elk Ridge are a welcome distraction. Mrs. Henderson sweeping water from the sidewalk in front of her flower shop. The post office flag whipping in the wind. Everyday sights that somehow look different now, as if the mountain has changed me in some fundamental way.
My ankle throbs beneath the careful wrapping Connor applied. The makeshift splint he fashioned from branches helps, but each bump in the road sends a fresh jolt of pain up my leg.
"Sorry," Connor mutters when we hit a pothole, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. "They really need to fix this road."
"It's fine," I say automatically.
We haven't spoken much since leaving the cabin. Once the rain lightened enough to make the trek back to his truck possible, we fell into a silent rhythm. His arm around my waist, my weight against his side, the careful navigation of muddy trails. By the time we reached his vehicle, the storm had mostly passed, leaving behind that particular stillness that follows heavy rain, the forest dripping and renewed.
A sudden thought jolts me. "My car is still at the trailhead."
Connor nods. "I know. I'll take care of it."
"How? I need it for deliveries tomorrow."
"I'll get Rowan to help me bring it down tonight," he says, so matter-of-factly that I believe him instantly. "You're not driving on that ankle anyway."
I start to protest, then stop. He's right. I can barely walk, let alone press a clutch pedal.
As we approach my small house behind the bakery, that strange tension from the cabin lingers between us, a presence as tangible as the humidity.
"You don't have to come in," I tell him as he parks beside my hatchback. "I can manage."
He gives me a look that I've seen thousands of times over the years, usually directed at inexperienced hikers. "I'm helping you inside."
Before I can protest further, he's out of the truck and coming around to my side. He opens the door, then reaches in to help me down, his hands strong and sure on my waist. I try not to lean into his touch, to maintain what little distance I can. But my traitor ankle gives way the moment it touches the ground, and I find myself clutching at his shoulders to stay upright.
"Careful," he says, his voice low, close to my ear.
His arms wrap around me, steadying me, and for a moment, we're as close as we were in that cabin—his chest against mine, his breath warming my cheek. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I wonder if he can feel it.
Then he clears his throat and shifts, keeping one arm around my waist but creating space between us. "Let's get you inside."
The short walk to my front door takes three times longer than normal. Each step is a negotiation, a lesson in patience and pain. Connor matches his pace to mine without comment, solid and dependable beside me.
My key sticks in the lock as it always does, requiring the particular jiggle I've perfected over years. Connor watches, then takes the key from my fingers.
"Left, then up," I instruct, too tired to insist on doing it myself.
He follows my directions, and the door swings open to reveal my small, cluttered living room—the oversized armchair draped with a half-finished knitting project, books stacked on nearly every surface, the collection of mismatched teacups arranged on the windowsill. It's nothing like the polished perfection of the lodge, and I feel a sudden pang of self-consciousness.
"Sorry for the mess," I say.
Connor shakes his head as he helps me to the couch. "This isn't a mess. This is..." His eyes sweep the room. "This is you."
I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an observation. Before I can decide, he's kneeling in front of me again, helping me prop my injured ankle on a cushion.
"You should ice this," he says. "Twenty minutes on, twenty off. And keep it elevated."
"I know," I say. "This isn't my first sprain."
He rises to his feet, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "This is a bad one. Don’t underestimate it."
There's something in his gaze that makes my chest tighten. Concern, yes, but also a warmth that I'm afraid to interpret. It's the same look he had in the cabin, the one that made me think, just for a moment, that maybe...
But no. This is Connor. He would do the same for anyone.
"I'll get you some ice," he says, already heading toward my kitchen.
"Second drawer from the fridge," I call after him. "There are zip-top bags in there."
I listen to him moving around my kitchen—opening drawers, the clatter of ice cubes, the running of water. It's strange having him here, in my space. In all the years I've known him, Connor has never been inside my house. Our interactions have always been at the bakery, or the lodge, or passing on the street. In public places with clear boundaries.
Now those boundaries feel blurred, like the edges of the mountains in morning mist.
He returns with an ice pack wrapped in a clean dish towel. "This should do the trick."
I accept it. "Thank you. For everything. I'm sorry you had to rescue me."
"Don't apologize." He settles into the armchair across from me, moving my knitting to the side with careful hands. "Just promise me something?"
"What?"
"Next time you want to go hiking, tell me. We'll go together."
The offer sends a flutter through my chest that I immediately try to suppress. This isn't special treatment. Connor takes people hiking for a living. It's what he does.
"I don't think I'll be hiking again anytime soon," I say with a weak smile.
"Not until that ankle's better, no." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you need anything else? Food? Water? I can grab whatever you need before I go."
His solicitousness both warms and stings. I want to believe it means something, that his care extends beyond basic human decency. But I've spent too many years watching Connor Callahan from afar, too many Tuesdays seeing him walk out of my bakery without a backward glance, to let myself fall into that trap.
"I'm fine," I say, perhaps too firmly. "Really. You've done more than enough."
I remember my car again and dig into my pocket, pulling out my keys. "For my car," I say, holding them out. "If you're sure it's not too much trouble."
He takes the keys, his fingers brushing mine. "No trouble."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods, pushing to his feet. "I'll check on you tomorrow."
"You don't have to?—"
"I know." Our eyes meet, and there's that something again, that unreadable expression that makes my pulse quicken. "I want to."
I don't trust myself to respond without revealing the hope blooming in my chest, so I simply nod.
At the door, he turns back. "Call if you need anything. Anything at all."
"I will."
And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that feels somehow final. I listen to his truck start, the sound of tires on gravel, then silence.
I close my eyes, the ice pack cold against my skin, and try to make sense of the day. Of the storm, the cabin, the way Connor looked at me. But all I can think is that his protectiveness, his care, his concern...none of it means what I want it to mean.
It's not love. It's Connor being Connor. He’s the dependable guide, the reliable rescuer, the good man who would never leave anyone stranded on a mountain in a storm.
Even if that someone is the baker who sells him coffee and scones once a week.
* * *
It takes me twice as long as usual to get ready for work the next morning. Every movement is a careful negotiation with my injured ankle. Maya offered to open the bakery alone, but I insisted on coming in. I need the normalcy, the comfort of flour on my hands and the scent of bread baking.
I hobble through the back door at five a.m., leaning heavily on the crutches Connor dropped off last night. He left them on my porch with a note that simply read "Use these." I didn't hear his truck. Didn't know he'd been back until I found them propped against my door when I reluctantly checked to see if my car had been returned. It was there, parked exactly where I always leave it, keys in the mailbox.
The bakery is dark and quiet, the ovens cold. I'm flipping on lights and setting down my bag when a knock at the front door startles me.
Through the glass, I see a familiar silhouette.
Connor.
My heart does that stupid little flutter it always does at the sight of him, but stronger now, charged with memories of yesterday. Memories of his arms around me, his hands gentle on my ankle, the way he looked at me in that cabin.
I maneuver my way to the door, trying to appear more steady on the crutches than I feel. The lock clicks open, and there he is, two to-go cups from The Coffee Loft in his hands.
"Morning," he says, as if showing up at my bakery before dawn is perfectly normal. "Thought you might need this."
He holds out one of the cups. The rich aroma of the lodge’s special dark roast reaches my nose.
"Thanks," I say, accepting it. "But isn't this against the rules? Bringing another venue's coffee into my bakery?"
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "I won't tell if you won't."
I step back, balancing awkwardly on my good leg. "Do you want to come in?"
He nods, following me inside. The familiar bell chimes as the door swings shut behind him, but everything else about this moment feels foreign. Connor Callahan in my bakery at five in the morning, not on a Tuesday, carrying coffee he brought for me.
"How's the ankle?" he asks, watching me navigate to the counter.
"Been better," I admit. "But the crutches help. Thank you for those."
He shrugs. "We have a couple at the lodge just in case. Seemed like you could use them."
I take a sip of the coffee. It’s strong and black, exactly how I like it in the morning. "And my car? Did you have any trouble getting it back?"
"No trouble." He leans against the counter, making no move to leave. His gaze sweeps over the display cases, still empty, waiting for the day's baking. "Need any help setting up?"
The offer catches me off guard. "Don't you have hikers to guide? Mountains to climb?"
"Not until ten," he says. "Lodge has a group doing the summit hike."
"Oh." I clutch my coffee cup tighter, unsure what to make of this. Connor has never lingered in my bakery before. Never offered to help. Never brought me coffee or checked on me or looked at me with this particular intensity that makes my skin warm despite the early morning chill.
"So?" he prompts. "What can I do?"
"You don't have to?—"
"I know." The same words from yesterday, spoken in the same way. "I want to."
And I don't know what to do with that. With this version of Connor who shows up before dawn bearing coffee and offers to help and looks at me like... like what? I'm not sure. All I know is it's different from before, and I'm afraid to trust it.
"The dough for the morning bread needs to be shaped," I finally say, gesturing toward the kitchen. "If you're serious about helping."
He pushes away from the counter. "Show me what to do."
I follow him into the kitchen, my heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with exertion. Is he just checking on me because he feels responsible? Or is this something more?
As he rolls up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms dusted with dark hair, I realize I'm afraid to find out.