Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Sarah
T he bell above the door chimes, and my head snaps up from the dough I'm kneading, heart skipping with anticipation. But it's just Mrs. Peterson coming in for her usual morning coffee and scone.
Not Connor.
"Morning, dear," she says, unwinding her scarf despite the warmth of the summer day. "Those cinnamon rolls smell divine."
"Thanks," I say, forcing a smile. "They'll be ready in about twenty minutes if you'd like to wait."
"I'll stick with my usual today. These old bones are meeting the church committee at nine."
I nod, wiping flour from my hands before moving to pour her coffee. The clock on the wall reads 7:15. Connor usually comes by around 6:30, sometimes earlier. Not that I'm keeping track.
"You alright, Sarah?" Mrs. Peterson asks, her eyes sharp behind her bifocals. "You seem distracted this morning."
"Tired," I lie. "Busy weekend with the market."
She doesn't look convinced but accepts her coffee and scone with a nod. "Don't work too hard, dear. The world won't end if you take a day off once in a while."
After she leaves, I return to my dough, kneading with more force than necessary. It's fine that Connor isn't here. Normal, even. Until recently, he only came on Tuesdays. One kiss doesn't change a routine.
Except it wasn't just a kiss. It was the way he looked at me afterward, like he'd discovered something precious and unexpected. The way his hands felt on my face, gentle despite their strength. The way he tasted of sunshine and possibility.
And now, silence.
"You're overthinking this," I mutter to the dough.
"Talking to the bread again?" Maya asks, coming through the back door with fresh eggs from her father's farm.
"Giving it some encouragement," I reply, shaping the dough with quick, practiced movements. "How were the chickens?"
"Judgmental, as always." She sets the egg cartons on the counter, then pauses, studying me. "You okay? You're massacring that poor dough."
I ease up on my kneading, embarrassed to be so transparent. "I'm fine."
"Uh-huh." She removes her jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door. "This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain mountain man who's mysteriously absent this morning, would it?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." She ties her apron with a knowing look. "And I didn't see you two making heart eyes at each other all day yesterday at the market."
"We were not making—" I stop, catching myself. "It doesn't matter. Connor's busy. He has an actual job that doesn't revolve around my bakery."
Maya holds up her hands in surrender. "Whatever you say, boss."
The morning rush keeps us both busy after that, a steady stream of customers that doesn't leave much time for thinking about Connor Callahan or his absence. It's almost a relief, losing myself in the familiar rhythm of the bakery.
But as the crowd thins and noon approaches, I find myself glancing at the door with increasing frequency. Maybe he's just running late. Maybe there was an emergency at the lodge. Maybe he's taking a group of hikers up to Lookout Point.
Maybe he regrets kissing me.
The thought lands like a stone in my stomach, heavy and cold.
By closing time, I've convinced myself that yesterday was a mistake. The walk, the conversation, the kiss—a momentary lapse in judgment that he's now trying to politely forget. Why else would he disappear after weeks of consistent visits?
"You want me to lock up?" Maya asks, already wiping down the last table.
"I've got it," I say. "Go on home."
She hesitates. "You sure you're okay?"
"Absolutely," I say. "Just tired."
* * *
"You need to get out of that bakery before you murder another batch of innocent dough," Maya had insisted after we closed up shop two days later. "Come to the Coffee Loft with me. Kathryn's testing new summer drink recipes and needs guinea pigs."
Which is how I find myself sitting at a corner table in The Coffee Loft at seven in the evening, nursing a lavender honey iced latte that's admittedly delicious. The coffee shop is quiet for a Monday night—just a few students from the community college huddled over laptops, and a couple in the far corner sharing a slice of pie.
"What do you think?" Kathryn asks, sliding into the chair across from me. "Too floral? Not sweet enough?"
"It's perfect," I say, taking another sip. "You could bottle this and sell it by the gallon."
"High praise from Elk Ridge's premiere baker." She smiles, but her eyes are assessing me carefully. "Maya says you've been in a mood."
I shoot a glare toward the counter where Maya is helping Nolan restock pastries—my pastries, ironically enough. "Maya talks too much."
"She's worried about you. We both are." Kathryn leans forward, lowering her voice. "Does this have something to do with Connor?"
The sound of his name sends an unwelcome jolt through me. "Why would it?"
"Because Nolan mentioned he's been holed up at the lodge for two days straight, barely talking to anyone. And you're here stress-drinking my experimental lattes instead of at home baking, which is your usual coping mechanism."
"I'm not coping with anything," I insist. "And Connor's personal schedule is none of my business."
Kathryn gives me a look that says she isn't buying it for a second. "Sarah?—"
The bell above the door chimes, interrupting whatever she was about to say. And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, Connor Callahan walks in.
My heart performs a complicated gymnastic routine in my chest, equal parts hope and dread. He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, his hair messier than usual as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. His gaze sweeps the shop, and for a moment, I think about ducking behind Kathryn or making a break for the restroom.
But then his eyes find mine, and it's too late.
I straighten in my chair, bracing myself. For what, I'm not exactly sure. An explanation? An apology? A casual greeting that pretends nothing happened between us?
What I don't expect is the hesitation.
He stops just inside the doorway, a flash of surprise crossing his face, before his expression shutters. And then, as if forcing himself, he takes a step toward me, and another, his movements stiff in a way Connor Callahan never is.
It's the hesitation that does it. That brief moment where I can see him calculating, deciding whether to approach or retreat.
If I meant anything to him—anything at all—there wouldn't be that pause, that momentary weighing of options. He wouldn't look at me like I'm a problem to solve rather than a person he wanted to kiss just two days ago.
Before he can reach our table, I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my drink.
"I should go," I say to Kathryn, grabbing my bag. "Early morning tomorrow."
"Sarah—" She starts, glancing between me and Connor with dawning understanding.
"Thanks for the latte. It's really good." I force a smile that feels brittle on my face. "Put it on my tab."
I turn away, deliberately taking the long way around the café to avoid having to pass by Connor. It's childish, maybe, but I can't bear the thought of a stilted conversation, of pretending that my heart isn't cracking in my chest.
"Sarah." His voice stops me just as I reach the door. He's moved to intercept me, standing close enough that I can smell the familiar pine scent of him, can see the stubble on his jaw that wasn't there when he kissed me.
"Connor." I keep my voice neutral, my eyes fixed somewhere around his shoulder rather than meeting his gaze. "Nice to see you."
"I—" He hesitates again, running a hand through his hair in that frustrated gesture I've seen a hundred times. "About Saturday?—"
"Don't worry about it." The words come out sharper than I intended. I soften my tone, aiming for casual indifference. "It was just a kiss, right? No big deal."
Something flashes in his eyes, but I'm already pushing past him, reaching for the door.
"That's not what I—" he begins, but I cut him off.
"I have to go." I pull the door open, the evening air hitting my face like a reprieve. "I'm sure you're busy with lodge stuff. Don't let me keep you."
I'm outside before he can respond, walking quickly down the sidewalk toward home. Each step feels like running from a fire, adrenaline pushing me forward even as my chest burns.
I will not cry. Not here, not over this. Not over a man who has to think twice about whether he wants to speak to me.
I've spent years watching Connor Callahan walk into my bakery, take what he needs, and leave without a backward glance. One kiss, one moment of connection, doesn't erase that pattern. All it did was make me fool enough to hope for something different.
Well, I'm done hoping. Done waiting. Done being the woman who pines after a man who sees her as an obligation, a responsibility. Another person to rescue and then walk away from.
I won't be his rescue project. Not again.
By the time I reach my house, my eyes are dry and my resolve is set. I jam the key into the lock with more force than necessary, the familiarity of my small home wrapping around me as I step inside.
Tomorrow, I'll be fine. I'll bake and smile and serve customers and forget the way Connor's lips felt against mine. I'll forget the softness in his eyes on that porch, the gentle way his hands cradled my face.
Tomorrow, I'll be the Sarah Miller I was before the storm. Before Connor Callahan ever looked at me as something more than the baker who makes his Tuesday morning coffee.
But tonight, alone in my kitchen with no one to see, I allow myself one moment of pure, unguarded feeling. I place both hands flat on the counter, hang my head, and breathe through the pain.
"That's what I get," I whisper to the empty room.