Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Sarah
I round the corner to the bakery just as dawn breaks, the familiar silhouette of my storefront coming into view. The morning is quiet, Main Street still sleepy, most shops hours from opening. This is my favorite time of day. Just me, the dough, and the promise of what's to come.
Except I'm not alone this morning.
Connor sits on the bench outside my bakery, standing when he sees me approach. Something about the way he straightens, the way his eyes find mine and hold, makes my heart skip.
"Morning," he says, hands tucked into his jacket pockets against the early chill. "Thought I'd come help out today."
"Oh." I'm momentarily thrown by his presence, by the casual way he's made himself part of my morning. "Thanks."
I fumble with my keys, hyperconscious of him watching me. Last night. The photos. He saw the photo. And a dozen others, but that one—the one of him—that's the one that matters. That's the one that gives away too much.
The door swings open, and I step into the familiar darkness of my bakery. Connor follows without invitation, something he never would have done weeks ago. Something he never would have done before the storm.
"You don't have to help today," I say, flipping on lights, setting down my bag. "I'm sure you have guide stuff to do."
"Not until later." He shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack by the door as if he's done it a hundred times before. As if he belongs here. "What can I do?"
I should tell him nothing. Should maintain some distance, protect myself from the hope fluttering dangerously in my chest. But the words that come out are: "The ovens need preheating."
He nods, heading for the kitchen with familiar confidence. He's been here enough in the past week to know where things are, how I like them set up. It should feel like an intrusion, someone in my space, disrupting my routine. Instead, it feels like something sliding into place.
I follow him, watching as he adjusts the oven dials to the exact temperature I prefer, then washes his hands at the sink.
"I'll start the coffee," he says, moving toward the industrial coffee maker. "Maya should be here in about fifteen minutes, right?"
"You've got her schedule memorized?" I ask, surprised by how much he's noticed.
He shrugs, measuring coffee grounds with practiced ease. "I pay attention." He glances up, something warm in his eyes. "Just like I know she takes hers with two sugars and that vanilla creamer you keep hidden in the back of the fridge."
He does know. He knows where I keep the filters, how I organize the pastry bags and which drawer holds the extra aprons.
We work in companionable silence for a while, me kneading dough while he measures coffee grounds. The familiarity of it—the quiet rhythm of two people who know the dance—makes my chest ache with a longing I try not to name.
"I like your photos," he says suddenly, his back to me as he reaches for mugs.
My hands still in the dough. "They're just a hobby."
"They're more than that." He turns, those blue eyes too perceptive. "You have a gift, Sarah. You see things other people don't."
Like you, I think but don't say. I see you.
The bell over the door chimes, saving me from having to respond. Maya arrives in a flurry of movement, unwinding her scarf as she steps inside.
"Morning, boss!" she calls, then spots Connor. Her eyebrows rise slightly. "Morning, Connor. Didn't realize you were on the payroll now."
He laughs, pouring a cup of coffee and adding the exact amount of sugar and creamer Maya likes. "Just earning my keep."
"Well, I'm not complaining," she says, accepting the mug with a too-knowing smile. "Sarah's been much less grumpy with you around."
"Maya," I warn, my cheeks warming.
"What? It's true. You used to stomp around all morning until at least your second cup of coffee. Now you're practically singing when I arrive."
"I don't sing," I mutter, focusing intently on my dough.
"Humming, then," Maya concedes, winking at Connor before disappearing into the back to hang up her things.
When I dare to look up, Connor is watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "You hum?"
"Don't let it go to your head," I say, but there's no bite to my words. "I hum when I'm content."
Something shifts in his gaze, softens. "Good."
The morning moves quickly after that. Maya and I prepare to open, while Connor helps where he can. The man is washing dishes, carrying trays, and keeping the coffee flowing. It shouldn't work, having him here, but somehow it does.
By the time we flip the sign to "Open," the display cases are full, the air rich with the scent of fresh bread and pastries, and my cheeks ache from smiling more than usual.
Our first customer is the retired high school principal who comes in every morning for a bran muffin and coffee. His eyebrows rise when he spots Connor behind the counter.
"Well, look who's here," he says, grinning. "Didn't know you were a regular, Callahan."
In the past, Connor might have offered a polite nod, maybe a brief explanation for his presence. Instead, he reaches for a mug, filling it with black coffee.
"Getting to be," Connor says, setting the coffee on the counter. His eyes find mine across the bakery. "Sarah makes it worth stopping by."
The principal looks between us, his smile widening. "I'm sure she does."
I busy myself with arranging scones, trying to ignore the knowing look on the older man's face, the way my pulse quickens under Connor's steady gaze. This is dangerous territory. Reading too much into small kindnesses, casual compliments. Setting myself up for disappointment.
But when he leaves and Connor steps behind the counter, close enough that our shoulders brush, I can't help the flutter in my chest. It’s hope I've spent years trying to extinguish, now threatening to ignite into something uncontrollable.
"Sarah." His voice is low, just for me. "About that photo?—"
The bell chimes again as more customers enter, cutting him off. Whatever he was about to say will have to wait. But the way he looks at me before stepping back, the warmth in his eyes, the slight upturn of his lips, feels like a promise.
* * *
The evening air has that perfect early summer quality. It’s warm without being hot, the air scented with blooming flowers and the promise of longer days. Main Street is lively with Elk Ridge's Thursday evening summer concert series, the small town square filled with locals on picnic blankets and folding chairs while vendors sell ice cream and lemonade from carts along the periphery.
I'm leaving the post office, a stack of bills paid and ready for tomorrow's mail pickup, when I spot him.
Connor stands at the edge of the square, away from the gathered crowd, his attention focused on an elderly man playing violin. He's completely still, hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted. He’s listening with his whole body in that intense way he has, as if he's absorbing every note.
I pause, watching him. Most people would walk past the old violinist without a second glance. But that's Connor—noticing the things others miss, appreciating what most ignore. It's one of the first things I ever loved about him, though I'd never admit that aloud.
For a moment, I consider turning away, continuing my errands without interrupting his solitude. But something pulls me toward him, the same magnetic force that's been drawing me closer since the storm.
"I never took you for a classical music fan," I say, stepping up beside him.
Connor doesn't startle but his eyes warm when they land on me. "There's a lot you don't know about me."
"Apparently." I smile, nodding toward the violinist. "Though I have noticed you always leave extra tips for the string quartet that plays at the lodge's summer events."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "You've been watching me."
Heat rushes to my cheeks. After the photo incident, it's too close to an admission. "I notice things. Occupational hazard of being a baker. Details matter."
"Occupational hazard of being a photographer too, I'd imagine." His voice is casual, but his eyes are anything but.
The violin music swells around us, filling the silence that stretches between us. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly nervous.
"Speaking of which," Connor continues, turning to face me fully, "you mentioned your mom gave you your first camera when you were sixteen. Was that when you knew you loved photography, or did that come later?"
"It wasn't really a choice after that first camera." I watch the violinist's fingers dance across the strings, finding it easier than meeting Connor's gaze. "More like a compulsion. Some moments need to be preserved."
"Like me at the lodge?"
My eyes snap to his, heart stumbling. There it is. The direct acknowledgment of the photo I hoped we might politely avoid mentioning ever again.
"That was—" I start, then stop, not sure how to explain without revealing too much. "The light was good."
"Sarah." Just my name, but the way he says it—soft, almost coaxing—makes my defenses crumble.
"I like to capture the things people don't see," I admit finally. "The quiet moments. The real ones, not the posed smiles or the perfect angles people put on social media. Just... truth."
Connor studies me, his expression thoughtful. "And what truth were you capturing that day?"
We're venturing into dangerous territory now. My pulse quickens, and I scramble for an answer that won't expose the years of silent longing, the careful attention I've paid to his every habit, the way I've cataloged his expressions in my mind like precious artifacts.
"That you have another side," I say carefully. "Beyond the mountain guide, the Callahan brother. Something quieter. More contemplative."
He takes a step closer, close enough that I can smell the faint pine scent that always clings to him. "And why did you want to capture that?"
"Because—" I swallow hard, caught between the urge to flee and the desperate need to finally say what I've kept locked away for so long. "Because sometimes I think I'm the only one who sees it."
Connor's eyes darken, and he draws in a breath like he's about to say something important. His hand moves, fingers just brushing against mine, the contact sending sparks up my arm even though it's barely a touch.
"Sarah, I've been thinking about?—"
The shrill buzz of his phone cuts through the moment. Connor closes his eyes briefly, frustration flashing across his face before he pulls the device from his pocket. The screen illuminates his features as he checks the message.
"It's Liam,” he mutters. “Emergency at the lodge. A water main break in the east wing."
"Oh." The word comes out small, deflated.
"I have to go." His expression is apologetic, almost pained. "Sarah?—"
"It's fine," I say quickly, stepping back, rebuilding the walls that had started to crumble. "Go. The lodge needs you."
He hesitates, clearly torn, phone buzzing again in his hand. "We should finish this conversation."
"Sure." I force a smile. "Another time."
Connor takes one last look at me, something unreadable in his eyes, before he turns and jogs toward his truck parked down the street. I watch him go, the violin's melody suddenly seeming melancholy in the gathering twilight.
What just happened? What was he about to say before Liam's text?