Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Connor
S aturday morning's farmers market is already in full swing by the time I arrive, the town square transformed into a maze of colorful canopies and bustling shoppers. The scent of fresh bread and flowers mingles in the air as I make my way through the crowd, scanning the familiar layout of stalls.
I spot Miller's Bakery setup in its usual corner location. It’s a simple white tent with a hand-painted sign, display cases filled with pastries and bread. Maya is arranging cinnamon rolls while Sarah chats with an elderly customer, her smile bright despite what must have been an early morning.
Something about watching her from a distance, seeing her in her element without her knowing I'm there, reminds me of that photograph she took of me. Is this how she felt, capturing a moment that wasn't meant for her?
I weave through the crowd, making my way to her stall. Sarah looks up as I approach, surprise flickering across her face before her smile widens.
"Connor! Didn't expect to see you here today." She hands change to her customer before turning to me. "Especially after that flooding emergency last night. Shouldn't you be sleeping?"
"Probably," I admit, stifling a yawn. The three hours I managed before my internal clock woke me barely count. "Sorry again for having to rush off like that."
"No need to apologize," she says with a shrug. "Emergencies happen. Mrs. Henderson's niece is staying at the lodge. Said half the east wing had no water until nearly dawn."
"More like 4 a.m.," I correct, leaning against the edge of her table. "Took Liam and me most of the night to replace the damaged section. Turns out the original pipes were older than we thought."
Maya appears beside Sarah, eyebrows raised. "Connor Callahan, plumber extraordinaire. Is there anything you mountain men can't do?"
"Make cinnamon rolls like Sarah's," I answer promptly, eyeing the perfect rows of pastries. "Even Declan admits no one's mastered her technique."
Sarah laughs, the sound warming something in my chest despite my exhaustion. She's wearing a simple sundress today instead of her usual bakery attire, her hair pulled back in a loose braid with a few strands escaping to frame her face. There's a smudge of flour on her forearm that she must have missed—the small imperfection somehow making her more real, more tangible.
"So what brings you to the market?" she asks. "Stocking up on survival supplies?"
"Actually," I say, the idea forming as I speak, "I came to make you an offer."
"Oh?" Her head tilts slightly, curious.
"When was the last time you actually experienced the farmers market? As a customer, I mean, not working behind your stall?"
Sarah considers this, then shakes her head. "I can't remember. We've had a stall here every Saturday during market season for years."
"That's what I thought." I straighten up, sudden energy displacing my fatigue. "Maya, how would you feel about managing the stall alone for an hour or so?"
Maya's eyes dart between us, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "I think I could handle that. It's past the morning rush anyway."
"Connor, I can't just abandon—" Sarah begins.
"It's not abandoning," I counter. "It's delegating. And it's only for an hour."
Maya nods enthusiastically. "Go, Sarah. Enjoy being on the other side of the table for once. I've got this covered."
Sarah hesitates, her sense of responsibility warring with temptation. "Are you sure?"
"Positive," Maya insists, already gently nudging Sarah out from behind the table. "Consider it market research. See what the competition is up to."
"There's no competition for your cinnamon rolls," I assure her, offering my arm in a half-joking gesture. "Shall we?"
To my surprise, Sarah actually takes it, her fingers light on my forearm. "I suppose I could use a break," she concedes, though the eager look in her eyes belies her reluctant tone.
"One hour," Maya calls after us as we step away from the stall. "And don't you dare come back with any pastries from other vendors!"
The market feels different walking through it with Sarah. The place is more alive somehow, as if seeing it through her eyes enhances the colors, the sounds, the energy of it. She moves with a kind of restrained excitement, her steps quickening as we approach the first row of produce stalls.
"I've been eyeing Mrs. Wilson's strawberries for weeks," she confesses, leading me toward a table piled with ruby red berries. "They always sell out before I can get away from our stall."
"Then strawberries it is," I say, following her lead.
Mrs. Wilson's face lights up at the sight of Sarah. "Well, if it isn't the baker herself! Finally stepping out from behind your own table?"
"Connor talked me into a temporary reprieve," Sarah explains, picking up a carton of strawberries and inhaling their sweet scent.
"Good for him." Mrs. Wilson gives me an approving nod. "You work too hard, dear. Always have."
We continue through the market, Sarah stopping at nearly every stall, examining produce with expert hands, greeting vendors by name. I find myself carrying an increasingly heavy collection of purchases—herbs, tomatoes, a wedge of cheese from the dairy farm outside town. But I don't mind. There's something satisfying about watching her enjoy this simple pleasure she rarely gets to experience.
"Admit it," she says as we pause by a display of local honey. "You're using those famous survival skills right now, aren't you?"
"How so?"
"Carrying all this without complaint." She gestures to the bags looped over my arm. "Probably using some special wilderness guide technique for weight distribution."
I laugh. "Yes, it's a very advanced skill. They teach it in Mountain Man 101."
"I knew it." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Next you'll be fashioning a backpack out of market tablecloths and string."
"Only in emergencies," I deadpan.
"And what about last night? Was that your advanced plumbing course in action?"
The reminder of the water main brings back the bone-deep fatigue I'd momentarily forgotten. "That was more like hands-on learning. Liam and I figured it out as we went."
"Instead of calling a professional," she observes.
"The nearest plumber is an hour away in the city. We couldn't leave the guests without water that long."
As we move toward the next stall, I spot a familiar figure examining a display of local jams. Lauren, dressed in casual weekend clothes rather than her usual office attire, looks different outside the lodge setting—more relaxed, less like the woman whose presence has been making my brother tense for weeks.
She glances up, noticing us, and for a moment looks like she might turn and walk in the opposite direction. But then she squares her shoulders and approaches.
"Connor," she greets me with a small smile before turning to Sarah. "And you must be Sarah Miller. I've heard a lot about you."
"Lauren," I nod. "Sarah, this is Lauren Abbott. She's the lodge's new bookkeeper."
"And Liam's ex-wife," Lauren adds, an edge to her smile. "Might as well get that out in the open."
Sarah's eyebrows rise slightly, but she recovers quickly. "Nice to meet you. I've seen you at the bakery, haven't I? Thursday morning, almond croissant and black coffee?"
Lauren looks surprised. "You remember that?"
"Sarah remembers everyone's orders," I explain, feeling an odd sense of pride.
"It's part of the job," Sarah says with a modest shrug.
"Speaking of jobs," Lauren says, "your mother's quarterly budget reviews are much more detailed than I expected, Connor. I was up late last night sorting through her filing system."
"That sounds like Evie," Sarah comments with a knowing smile.
"She tests everyone she hires," I explain. "If you survive the first month of her 'systems,' you're in for life."
Lauren's expression softens a fraction. "Good to know." She glances between us, something knowing in her gaze. "I should let you two get back to your shopping. Nice to officially meet you, Sarah."
As she walks away, Sarah looks at me with undisguised curiosity. "So that's the famous Lauren Abbott? Kathryn mentioned something about Liam's ex working at the lodge now."
"Mom hired her without warning anyone. Liam nearly had a heart attack her first day."
Sarah considers this, her head tilted slightly. "She seems competent."
"She is. That's part of the problem. She's good at her job, so Liam can't even complain about that."
Sarah smiles, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Your mother is either a genius or terribly cruel."
"With Mom, it's usually both," I admit. "But we should probably focus on our market adventure instead of my family drama."
"So you just learned plumbing on the spot?" She shakes her head in amazement.
I shrug. "Dad always said a man should know how to fix what's broken."
"Your father would be proud," she says softly, her teasing tone giving way to something gentler. "The way you all stepped up after he passed, keeping the lodge running, taking care of each other and the town."
The unexpected mention of my father catches me off guard. People don't usually bring him up, especially not with such simple sincerity.
"It's what needed to be done," I say finally, the words feeling inadequate for the years of work, of responsibility, of holding everything together.
We walk in comfortable silence for a moment, weaving between stalls, the market sounds washing over us. Sarah pauses to examine a display of homemade jams, but her thoughts seem elsewhere.
"You're good at that, you know," she says suddenly, her voice thoughtful. "Taking care of things. Of people."
"Just doing what anyone would do," I reply automatically.
She laughs, but it's soft, without mockery. "That's exactly what someone who always takes care of others would say." Her laughter fades, replaced by a look of genuine curiosity. "You do take care of everyone, Connor. But who takes care of you?"
I stop walking, her words hitting me with unexpected force. The farmers market continues to bustle around us, but the sounds seem to fade as I stare at her, caught off guard by the simple question no one has ever thought to ask me before.
"I..." I start, then stop, unsure how to respond.
Sarah stands before me, her eyes clear and direct, filled with a kind of gentle understanding that makes my chest ache. There's no judgment there, no expectation, just genuine concern and something deeper, more vulnerable that I can't quite name.
"I don't need taking care of," I finally manage, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.
"Everyone does," she says simply. "Even the strongest people. Maybe especially them."
* * *
The farmers market has been closed for nearly an hour, the once-bustling town square now quiet except for a few vendors still packing up their unsold goods. Sarah's stall is already dismantled, folding tables collapsed and leftover pastries carefully boxed up for tomorrow's day-old shelf at the bakery.
"You really don't have to walk me home," Sarah says as I take the heavier of her bags. "It's just a few blocks."
"I know," I reply, falling into step beside her. After our market walk earlier—and her question that's been echoing in my mind all day—I found myself lingering as she and Maya closed down their stall, offering to help without quite knowing why. Except that's not entirely true. I do know why. "I want to."
Her smile is small but genuine. "Well, since you insisted on helping break down the stall, I suppose I can accept the escort service too."
"At your service," I say with a mock bow that makes her laugh.
"Evie raised you boys right." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The simple gesture draws my attention to the curve of her neck, the light freckles dusting her skin that I've somehow never noticed before.
The strawberries she bought are nestled in one of the bags, their sweet scent rising in the afternoon heat. I imagine her in her kitchen later, transforming them into something delicious—tarts or scones or whatever magic she works in that bakery of hers.
"What will you make with these?" I ask, lifting the bag slightly.
"Hmm." She considers for a moment. "Probably a galette. Simple, rustic. Lets the berries speak for themselves."
"I don't know what a galette is, but it sounds good."
She laughs. "It's like a free-form pie. No fuss, no fancy crimping. Just good ingredients handled with care."
"Like most worthwhile things," I say, the words coming out more serious than I intended.
Her steps slow slightly, her eyes finding mine with that perceptive look that seems to see straight through all my defenses. For a moment, I think she might revisit her earlier question, press on that tender spot she uncovered at the market. But she just nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
We reach her house, the small cottage behind her bakery with its cheerful blue door and window boxes spilling over with summer blooms. The porch is just big enough for two rocking chairs and a small table, a cozy space that somehow suits her perfectly.
"This is me," she says unnecessarily, climbing the three steps to her porch. "Thank you for the escort home. And for the market adventure."
I follow her up, setting the bags carefully on the small table. "Thanks for the company."
We stand there on her porch, the afternoon stretching golden around us. A light breeze carries the scent of her flowers—lavender and something else I can't name—mingling with the lingering sweetness of strawberries. In the distance, a wind chime sings softly from a neighbor's yard.
Neither of us moves to leave. Neither of us seems to know what to say next. The silence between us grows, not uncomfortable but charged with something I've been trying not to name.
Sarah tilts her head slightly, her eyes never leaving mine. The sunlight catches in her hair, turning the brown to amber and gold. "Are you going to overthink this," she asks, her voice soft but steady, "or are you going to kiss me?"
The world stills. For a heartbeat, I can't move, can't breathe. Her words hang in the air between us, direct and unambiguous. No room for misinterpretation, no way to retreat behind careful distance or practiced detachment.
"Sarah—" My voice is rough, foreign to my own ears.
"Because you've been looking at me like you want to," she continues, something vulnerable flickering beneath her boldness. "For days now. Maybe longer."
She's right. Of course she's right. This woman who sees everything, who captures moments others miss, who asked the one question no one's ever thought to ask me. Of course she's seen this too, the pull I've been fighting since that day on the mountain.
I exhale sharply, decision made. In two steps, I close the distance between us.
My hands find her face, cradling her cheeks with a gentleness that contradicts the thunder of my heartbeat. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips, soft in a way I've imagined but never let myself dwell on. For a moment, I just look at her—her eyes wide and clear, her lips slightly parted, the dusting of freckles across her nose that most people never get close enough to notice.
Then I lower my head and press my lips to hers.
The first touch is soft, tentative. It’s a question rather than a declaration. Her lips are warm and taste faintly of strawberries, sweet and sun-ripe. The scent of her surrounds me—vanilla and flour and something uniquely Sarah that I've caught hints of in the bakery but never this close, this undiluted.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, her hands coming up to grip the front of my shirt, and something breaks loose inside me. Years of carefully maintained distance, of not noticing, of pretending she was just the baker who made my favorite scones—all of it dissolves in the warmth of her mouth against mine.
I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through the soft hair at the base of her braid. She responds immediately, rising slightly on her toes, her body fitting against mine as if we've done this a thousand times before. As if this was always where we were meant to end up.
The world narrows to just this. The softness of her lips, the gentle pressure of her hands against my chest, the mingled taste of strawberries and possibility. For once, I'm not thinking ahead, not planning, not calculating risks. Just feeling.
When she finally pulls back, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright. Her smile spreads slowly, full of mischief and something that looks suspiciously like triumph. "Took you long enough," she murmurs, her breath warm against my lips.
The laugh that escapes me is surprised, genuine. "If I'd known what I was missing, I might have moved faster."
"Better late than never." Her fingers trace a pattern on my chest, just above my heart. "Though you've got some catching up to do."
"I'm a quick study," I promise, reluctant to release her but aware we're standing in full view of anyone who might pass by.
Sarah steps back, her smile softening into something more private. "I should get these inside," she says, gesturing to the bags of produce. "Before the strawberries go bad in this heat."
"Right." I clear my throat, hands suddenly empty and uncertain.
She picks up her bags, then pauses at her door, key in hand. "For the record," she says, looking back over her shoulder, "that was worth the wait."