Chapter 12
Aweek had passed, and technically, it was her day off.
But Hazel was in the kitchen anyway, sleeves dusted with flour, the scent of gingerbread and chai thick in the air.
Outside, Bar Harbor had crossed the threshold into winter.
Frost clung to windowpanes, smoke curled from chimney stacks, and snow flurried in from the coast in soft spirals that stuck to the streets and caught in the bare branches overhead.
Inside Rise, the ovens had been turned off for hours, but warmth still lingered.
The bakery carried a new palette of scent and colour— holiday blends and deeper spice, cranberry brie hand pies, ginger molasses cookies, chai apple loaves, and frosted gingerbread set to cool in rows.
Flavours that belonged to short days and long nights, to memory and muscle and grief.
Hazel moved from station to station with practiced ease, her apron smudged, her braid loose at the crown.
It was easier, sometimes, to stay busy. To keep her hands moving, her thoughts stitched to the task at hand.
Anything to keep from glancing toward the front door.
Anything to keep from wondering if he might walk through it.
He hadn’t, not since that night on the porch.
He’d texted her the next morning— said he was under the weather, staying in for a few days to recover. But the words had landed hollow, a little too neat, like something drafted, not felt. She’d replied that she hoped he felt better soon, added a half-hearted emoji, and left it at that.
He hadn’t written since.
And she hadn’t asked.
Not because she didn’t want to. But because she wasn’t sure what she’d do with the answer.
His distance had begun to feel like answer enough.
Hazel turned off the mixer and rinsed her hands under warm water, then dried them, letting the silence settle.
She poured herself a mug of spiced cider from the stovetop and wandered out to the front of the bakery, where the light was dim and gold and the windows fogged faintly from the contrast of inside to out.
Snow was still falling, the fat, quiet flakes catching the curve of lamplight. Main Street stood hushed and empty, most of the shops already closed for the day. Hazel stood by the glass and sipped, the cider sharp with clove and citrus, sweet enough to coat the ache in her throat.
She hadn’t seen him.
And she missed him.
God, she missed him.
But what could she do with that?
She let the thought go and watched the snow instead, one hand wrapped tight around the mug, the other pressed flat to the glass— hoping, maybe, for something to thaw.
Then she turned back toward the front counter. Her phone sat there, screen dim.
She reached for it and tapped the display to life, the cider still warm in her palm. A few cookie crumbs clung to the edge of the counter from earlier in the day, when she’d tested the latest batch of gingerbreads.
Sorry again that we didn’t get the full order out. Cold snap hit hard. Next week should be better.
Hazel stared at the screen, unimpressed by Ezra’s latest attempt at explanation. The warmth of the cider turned sharp in her stomach.
There had been too many texts like that lately, too many half-filled crates, too many early morning grocery store runs in damp clothes and aching joints.
She always made it work, but lately, working had begun to feel like bleeding.
Like cutting herself open just to make things easier for someone else.
She waited and let the silence in the bakery hold her a moment longer, and then she tapped the call button.
It rang twice before he answered. She was surprised he’d answered at all.
“Hazel,” he said, far too casually. The sound of it grated against the last corner of her patience. “Hey, listen, I meant to call sooner—“
“You shorted me,” she said, her voice low but firm. “Again.”
“I know. It’s been tough this week. Hens are weird in the cold, you know that. And with the holidays coming, I’ve got bigger—“
“Clients?” Hazel cut in, her jaw tight. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got bigger clients, Ezra. I’m not asking for special treatment. I’m asking for what we agreed on, what I’ve paid for.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Look… you know what Imogen’s like. I can’t short Fork & Fable or she’d raise hell. And she orders double what you—“
Hazel rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, her hand tightening around the phone. Of course it came back to Imogen.
“You can’t short her but you can short me?”
“That’s not what I meant—“
“We have an agreement,” she said, the sharpened edge beneath her words more clear. “Two hundred eggs per week, in writing. You told me that was manageable. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”
He didn’t respond.
“It clearly is a problem,“ she continued, bolstered by his silence. “Because I haven’t received that in weeks. And I can’t keep scraping by while you decide who gets to matter more.”
Another silence. Then, his voice dipped a bit lower. “Hazel, come on. It’s not personal—“
“No,” she said, nodding in agreement. “It’s business. Which is why I’ve found someone else.”
Ezra didn’t answer. Hazel stared at the far window, the snow starting to stick now in light patches across the sidewalk.
“I wish you the best,” she said. “I really do. I hope you have a good holiday season.”
And she ended the call. She set the phone back down onto the counter and took a moment to simply breathe, to try and calm her racing heart.
Once the ache in her chest had settled, she crossed to the window once more and stood in front of it, hip pressed against the cold wood of the frame. Her reflection wavered in the condensation and her breath fogged against the glass. She reached up absently to wipe it away.
Her hand trembled, though not with doubt. It was with the leftover weight of finally saying something.
The guilt came first, like it always did. That familiar itch to smooth things over, to apologize, though she’d done nothing wrong.
But beneath that?
Pride. A steady, quiet sense of self. She’d chosen herself. She’d chosen Rise.
And she didn’t feel like she owed anyone an explanation for that.
Behind her, a timer beeped, reminding her of something she’d intended to do.
She turned toward the kitchen, prepared to press on.
And that’s when the knock came.
Hazel jumped, letting out a gentle curse beneath her breath. For a moment, she just stared at the door, the sound of the knock echoing inside her like a bell struck too close to bone.
Then, remembering, she moved, wiping her hands on her apron and tugging the sleeves of her sweater into place as she crossed the room.
She’d forgotten. Or maybe not forgotten, exactly, but underestimated how quickly the contact would reach out.
Leigh had smiled like she knew something Hazel didn’t and handed over the name, the email, and whispered “I can’t wait to read the piece!
” in a voice so light and sincere it made Hazel’s stomach twist.
And now, here he was.
Hazel opened the door to find a man in his early thirties with an olive wool coat, a button-up layered under a sweater, and a worn leather satchel slung across his body.
His smile was easy and disarming, but his eyes, sharp and dark behind his tortoiseshell frames, looked like they missed nothing.
She was immediately on edge, that same lingering sensation of regret tugging at the back of her throat.
Is it too late to cancel?
“Hazel Simmons?” he asked.
Hazel swallowed back her anxieties as best she could, and nodded. “That’s me.”
“I’m Eli Chang, from Maine Monthly. Thanks for having me.”
He offered a hand, which she shook, hers embarrassingly cold from the draft by the window, his warm and dry and professional.
There was something about him that reminded her of a former instructor at culinary school— neatly pressed, clipped diction, and the kind of patience that wasn’t entirely passive.
The kind that gathered things. Catalogued them.
She stepped back, letting him in. “Sorry about the mess. I didn’t have much time to prep. Or maybe I just lost track of time a little.”
“No problem,” he said, gaze already roaming. “I like mess. Makes for good colour.”
Hazel swallowed.
Inside, the bakery still smelled like chai and citrus peel. The last batch of rosemary scones sat cooling by the register, and the cider pot steamed softly behind the counter. It should’ve felt comforting. It usually did.
But her nerves, which had been dormant just minutes ago, began to crackle awake. They settled inside her, a low simmer.
She moved on instinct, offering coffee, waving toward a table near the back, grabbing two mismatched mugs from the drying rack behind the counter. She turned to speak but dropped one before she got the words out. It slipped from her hand and shattered across the hardwood like a shot.
Hazel froze, eyes flaring wide. Crimson instantly rushed to her cheeks, staining her olive skin with a visible mark of her embarrassment. “Shit.”
Eli lifted one brow and pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket, flipping it open with deliberate grace.
“Please tell me you’re not putting that in the story,“ she said, crouching to gather the broken ceramic with a dishtowel.
He smiled and tapped his pen against the page. “We’re officially on the record, Hazel.”
Hazel groaned. “You’re brutal.”
“Only a little.”
When she looked up, he was already seated, legs crossed and pen poised.
She cleaned the rest as quickly as she could, then joined him at the table, cheeks still warm.
She slid his steaming cup of coffee towards him and clutched her own, a replacement for the broken one now lying in pieces at the bottom of her waste bin.
Eli glanced around once more, then met her eyes.
“So,” he began, his gaze settling on hers in that heavy, prodding way of his. “Rise. Tell me how it started.”