Chapter 3 #2
The man from the street. The one she’d passed weeks ago beneath the amber wash of a streetlamp and a sky full of stars.
The one who hadn’t smiled but hadn’t looked away, either.
Just a flicker of presence, then gone. She hadn’t seen him since, despite many mornings and evenings spent here in the bakery, or wandering through town, seeking inspiration or answers that never came.
Now he stood just inside the door of her bakery, one boot still angled on the mat, like he hadn’t fully committed to entering. His brown jacket looked soft and worn at the edges, the kind you pulled on without thinking.
Hazel took a breath and stepped behind the counter, smoothing her hands along the front of her apron like that might settle the flutter in her chest. She felt unprepared in a way that had nothing to do with muffins or receipts.
Up close, he was even more striking than she remembered.
Sharp-jawed and dark-eyed, the kind of face that looked like it had weathered storms, both literal and otherwise.
His features were bold but balanced: a strong brow, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked like it rarely gave anything away.
His hair was a dark, tousled mess, still damp at the ends like he’d run his fingers through it on his walk over.
And his eyes were deep-set, and unreadable, the kind you had to earn the answer to.
He looked far too awake for six in the morning.
Hazel’s pulse tripped once more and then landed in a steadier rhythm. Not calm, not quite. But perhaps a bit more grounded.
She offered a small, slightly crooked smile. The kind that felt half-lived-in, the rest of it still learning how to stretch.
“Sorry,” she murmured, her voice soft. “You startled me.”
His expression shifted, just slightly. Not a full apology, but a note of recognition. His gaze flickered back behind him, toward the door frame overhead.
“Door doesn’t have a bell,” he said. His voice was lower than she’d expected, filled with gravel and lightly hoarse, like it hadn’t quite settled into the day. Like perhaps she was the first person he’d used it on. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Hazel let out a quiet, startled laugh. “Too late. But that’s alright.”
The corner of his mouth ticked up, barely there.
“I’m Hazel Simmons,” she said, trying to find the steadiness in her tone. “I own the place.”
Obviously. She wore the apron. She smelled like cardamom and sugar and stress sweat.
She felt a bit foolish for saying it, her cheeks beginning to heat with the lingering pressure of embarrassment, but he didn’t call her on it.
He just nodded once, like he had that night when they’d first crossed paths.
She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, the rest already slipping loose from the braid she’d twisted at three-thirty that morning.
Her linen pants were wrinkled at the knees and her T-shirt clung faintly with heat.
But she stood tall, even as her pulse skipped and stuttered.
“Oliver Beckett,” he said. His voice hitched minutely around the syllables, like he wasn’t used to saying them out loud. “Beck’s fine.”
She let the name settle for a beat, then nodded.
“Well, Beck,” she said, gesturing toward the pastry case beside her. “You’ve officially become my first customer.”
He glanced around the bakery, from the curved front counter painted in muted sage, to the small chalkboard sign that read Soft Opening – Be gentle, and the mismatched ceramic mugs stacked behind her. Then his eyes returned to her.
“I guess someone’s gotta be.”
The words weren’t flippant, just factual. And Hazel smiled anyway, soft and surprised by how much it meant.
“What can I get you? Coffee’s fresh and croissants just came out. There’s sticky buns, muffins, either sweet or savoury. Or, if you’re a cookie for breakfast type, I won’t judge.”
He stepped forward, slow and measured. His gaze slid along the hand-written menu board where the names of drinks curled in chalk script beside tiny doodles she’d done up, sideways flowers and a sun with a smiling face affixed to it.
Her sad attempt at a lobster and a sailboat.
Then he looked toward the pastry case, filled with glass trays of golden-brown pastries and lined baskets cradling hand pies.
“Whatever’s best warm,” he said.
Hazel nodded and bent to scan the trays, though she already knew her answer.
“The sticky buns are still warm,” she said over her shoulder, towards him. “Salted caramel glaze, toasted pecans. Might ruin you for anything else though.”
Beck didn’t respond, but his silence had weight to it. The kind that sounded like yes.
“For here or to go?” she asked, straightening.
He hesitated.
Just for a second, but it was long enough that Hazel caught it— the flicker of a man not used to staying. Someone who took his coffee and vanished back into whatever quiet place he came from. But now, his eyes met hers again, and something in his posture shifted.
“I’ll sit,” he said. “For a little while.”
Hazel felt her smile widen without permission. “Great. Sure.”
She grabbed a mossy green plate from the stack and used the pastry tongs to ease the best bun from the tray. The glaze glistened, still warm, curling into the edges like slow amber.
“Coffee?” she asked, setting the plate down.
He nodded. “Please.”
She turned, reaching for one of her favourite mugs. Dark matte ceramic, simple and solid, with a slight thumbprint curve in the handle. She poured from the fresh pot of Harborside Brews and set it down beside the plate.
“Milk? Sugar?”
Beck shook his head. “Nah, I like it honest.”
That made her smile, brighter than before. “Me too.”
The screen on the register glowed bright in the otherwise gentle light of the bakery.
Hazel tapped the total and Beck pulled a worn card from his wallet.
He paid without small talk. But when she reached for the printer as his receipt came through, she caught sight of him slipping a few crumpled bills into the Tips (No pressure!) jar.
Her cheeks warmed and she swallowed, trying to dislodge the sudden thickness at the back of her throat.
“There’s a few spots by the window, if you want,” she said, voice softer. “Best view in the house, if you ask me. I can bring your stuff over to you in a minute.”
Beck nodded again and turned. His stride was even, but deliberately so. The adjustment in his gait was subtle, barely there, but Hazel noticed it again. She wasn’t sure what it meant, if it was new or old, painful or not.
He settled into the corner table, the one nearest the window, where pale light filtered through the mist and caught on the edge of the warm wooden table.
He sat like someone who always scanned the room first, like someone who didn’t take rest lightly.
His shoulders didn’t quite drop, but they softened.
His gaze lifted to the wall, where the black and white photo frames of her family had been hung.
She watched him longer than was polite, taking in more now than she had before.
His jaw was angular beneath a few days worth of scruff, just enough to blur the line between clean-shaven and rugged, like he could grow a beard if he wanted to but never quite let it happen.
Hazel busied her hands with the napkins, but her gaze strayed, drawn to the way the window light slid across the curve of his bare forearm, the edge of his jaw, the place where his stubble met the hollow of his throat.
It was ridiculous, how easy he was to look at.
She blinked, pulling her gaze back to the task at hand.
She gathered his items onto a small tray— coffee, bun, a folded napkin, a small brass cream pitcher, just in case.
She added one of Malcolm’s napkin holders, shaped like a cresting wave, and adjusted it without needing to.
Her cheeks had gone warm but she told herself it was just the ovens.
She wasn’t in a rush and so she took a moment and let herself breathe. Let herself feel the strange gravity of someone already seated, already present. And not just any someone.
Beck. The quiet man with a lot of unspoken words locked behind his dark eyes.
She crossed the room with the tray, footsteps light. Her sneakers squeaked faintly on the floor. She set everything down before him with careful hands.
Behind them, soft piano music drifted from the overhead speakers— gentle, unobtrusive, a low current of sound that filled the silence without asking anything of it. Notes curled upward toward the beams above like the scent of croissants, warm and slow.
Outside the window, the fog had started to pull back, just slightly, revealing the crooked edge of a rooftop and the faint shimmer of light on the glass at Greyfin across the street. The bakery wasn’t bright, not yet, but the light was shifting. Like the town was waking up around them.
“Thanks,” Beck said, and when his eyes met hers, they didn’t just glance, they held.
It was the kind of look that didn’t search for anything but saw everything anyway.
It sent a low warmth curling through Hazel’s chest, soft and immediate.
Like sunlight reaching a part of her she hadn’t realized was cold.
She nodded once, fingers brushing over the front of her apron like they needed a task, anything to anchor her in the moment.
“You been in Bar Harbor long?” she asked. Her voice came out quieter than she meant, more personal, somehow.
“A couple years,” he offered, leaning back in his chair.
She waited, but he didn’t offer more. Something about the way he said it convinced her he wasn’t being evasive, just contained. Like someone who’d learned not to waste words unless they mattered.
Hazel hesitated, then gave a small shrug, her smile curling at the edge.
“I just moved back,” she admitted, though he hadn’t asked. “Well, came back, I guess. I was here most of my life.”