Chapter 19
On my way to Slice of Life, I start texting Amelia, but then call her instead. I need to move away from my reliance on messaging—especially with my family. But after only one ring, her voicemail picks up. She’s likely already in class and has her phone on Do Not Disturb.
“Hey, Sissy, can you give me a call when you get this? I have a question for you. About… that thing I’m home for.
” I’m hoping when she calls back, she launches into whatever it is that has brought me home early—serendipitously, at least for my mom’s ankle.
Otherwise, I’m going to have to find a way to ask outright.
I turn onto Main Street and see the bakery up ahead.
There’s a flagpole outside with a hanging, bread-shaped sign that reads SLICE OF LIFE .
The black awning over the door and front windows says BOULANGERIE in white cursive.
Last night’s storm left layers of fluffy white snow trapped between the building’s redbrick crevices.
The aesthetic is Christmas-village charming.
A bell chimes as I open the front door and step inside, where I’m hit with cozy warmth.
It’s a small space with display cases on either side of the bleached-wood countertops and high-top stools facing the windows.
Sparkly, cutout snowflakes hang on clear fishing line down the windows, giving the impression they’re floating.
A Crock-Pot has a homemade sign taped to it that reads APPLE CIDER—ENJOY!
The air is fragrant with cinnamon, sweet apples, and the irresistible scent of freshly baking bread, hot from the oven.
Mr. Cutler suddenly appears, popping up from behind one of the display cases when the bell chimes. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Libby Munro. Hello!”
He looks exactly as I remember him—thick wavy hair (I see where Liam gets it), though now it’s white instead of its former deep brown, along with soft hazel eyes and an easy, welcoming smile. Mr. Cutler’s apron reads BAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE , which makes me smile.
“Mr. Cutler, it is so nice to see you.” He takes my outstretched hands, after wiping the flour from his own. “I can’t get over how good it smells in here. You really should bottle it.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he says, beaming. “I’ll put that one on the Blue Sky list Liam and I keep. Parfum au Pain… has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” I agree it does, promising to be his first customer.
“I’m sorry to interrupt. Morning must be a busy time,” I add, noting the row of lit-up ovens behind the swinging door’s window. “But I wanted to return Liam’s toque. Is he here?”
“He’s in the back, cleaning up.” Mr. Cutler gestures over his shoulder, and the corners of his mouth turn down. “We’ve had… an incident.”
“Oh? Is everything okay?”
At that moment the door swings open and there’s Liam. His eyebrows raise, and a brief shadow crosses his face, like he’s annoyed to find me at his bakery. I’m not sure what’s going on, but there’s charged energy in the room, and it’s clear I’m somehow involved.
“Libby, hey. Nice to see you,” Liam says, standing slightly behind his grandfather due to the lack of space. His tone is friendly enough, but he still seems displeased about something. “Sorry about this—I told Pops not to bother you.”
“Bother me?” I glance between the two men, wholly confused.
“Liam mentioned you were recovering from a bout of food poisoning. Hope you’re feeling better?” Mr. Cutler says.
Liam sighs audibly, and his grandfather turns his way, putting on his no-nonsense teacher voice, which I remember from high school. “Cool your jets. I didn’t call Libby.”
“I’m good as new,” I tell Mr. Cutler, before addressing Liam. “No one called me or bothered me. Though now I have to ask, what about?”
Liam sighs again, then holds up his hand, which I hadn’t noticed as it was hidden behind his grandfather. It’s wrapped in a white bar towel, a line of red seeping through the fabric.
“Uh-oh,” I say. “Is that a dough-destroyer injury?”
He grimaces. “More a dish-destroyer situation. I was washing up and sliced it on a knife. It was a stupid mistake.”
“Ouch. Want me to take a look?”
“Becks is going to drive me over to urgent care in Westhaven after she’s done with a sick horse,” Liam replies. “But if it’s not too much trouble, maybe you can tell me if you think it needs stitches?”
“You’re going to need stitches,” I say, calmly but without hesitation.
Mr. Cutler whistles under his breath. “I was distracted by the ovens. We’re tripling up on bread for Christmas chili night, and it has been nonstop.
On that note, I hope the party plans are coming together, Libby?
You’ve only just arrived home, and now you’ve been ill.
I’m sure your to-do list is the length of my arm. ”
Christmas chili night. It’s a much-loved, annual event that brings the entire town together. It’s always on December 18, exactly one week before Christmas. Does this party have something to do with chili night?
“Party plans… right. Yes, my to-do list.” But before I can ask any follow-up questions about this party I’m supposedly planning, Mr. Cutler continues, “Liam here kindly tackled the washing up, but he didn’t know I’d set a knife in the sink.
Seems it tackled him right back,” he says with a heavy sigh.
“Pops, it’s not your fault,” Liam says. “I’m a fully grown adult who should have known better than to stick my hand into a sink full of suds. So much for being helpful.”
He looks pale, a slight sheen to his face, but otherwise handsome as ever. My stomach flips, and my palms go sweaty. I can’t say exactly what it is, but something about Liam causes a visceral reaction in me. Like every cell in my body is magnetized, straining towards him.
“Accidents happen,” I say. “I wouldn’t have a job otherwise.”
Smiling at Liam when I say the last part, I’m glad to see he returns it.
I wipe my palms on my leggings, almost perplexed by my unfamiliar nervousness that has everything to do with the guy standing in front of me.
But then he gives a subtle wince when he looks down at the bloodied towel, and that, along with his pallor, kicks me into doctor mode.
“Let’s see the damage.” I gesture towards the stools. Unzipping my coat, I hang it on the hook by the front door. “Please, take a seat in my clinic.”
Liam’s smile widens—dimples turned on—as he sits on a stool. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says. “And that air freshener… what’s the scent?”
“Sourdough Serenity, I think it’s called.”
He chuckles, and I use the moment to unwrap the towel from his hand. The cut, about two inches long, is clean—what I’d expect from a run-in with a sharp knife. But it’s also deep, still bleeding. Definitely needs stitches. “Can you wiggle your thumb?”
He can, and I nod, satisfied there’s no other damage. When I glance up at him, I notice he’s white as a sheet. Then I remember our conversation at Season’s Eatings on the day of Amelia’s wedding. “Let me guess… you’re not great with blood?” I say. “At least your own.”
“No, I’m not,” he replies, shaking his head. “But how did you know that?”
“Experience,” I say in a breezy tone before meeting his eyes with a teasing smile. “What, do you think you’re special?”
I rewrap the towel, and he holds it with his other hand. “Hold this tight for a minute while I get my coat on and tell you the most embarrassing story of my life.
“When I was in residency, I wiped out running, tripped over a curb. See, unlike you with this knife accident, I am legit prone to clumsiness.”
“Nah, it’s not you. Curbs have it out for all of us,” he replies.
“That’s kind of you to say, but I assure you I have two left feet.” Liam laughs, glances down at my boots. “You’ve seen how many times I’ve been knocked off my feet.”
He tilts his head, eyebrows coming together in confusion, because in this timeline it has happened only once—yesterday, when Mary Piggins’s snort startled me.
I wave a hand as if swatting away a pesky fly.
Get back on track. “Anyway, the curb. Like I said, I tripped while running and smashed up my knee pretty badly.”
“Sounds painful,” Liam says.
“It was. I cried like a baby. My kneecap looked like a dog’s breakfast—it was bloodied, full of gravel, a real mess,” I reply, zipping up my coat.
“I sat on the curb and cried so much I hyperventilated, then fainted. A Good Samaritan called 911, and I ended up taking an ambulance ride to my own hospital .”
Liam cringes in sympathy.
“I would probably already be on the floor if this was my thumb. Just saying.” I set my hands on top of his, and the towel.
“Libby, who’s being kind now?” he says, before quickly adding, “Do you mind Libby, or do you prefer Elizabeth? I know you introduced yourself as Elizabeth, but everyone around here seems to call you Libby.”
“Libby’s fine. Libby’s good.” I stand quickly to put a bit of distance between us, because I’m getting that melty-centre, lightheaded feeling again. “Is this your coat?”
There’s one other hanging on the hook by the door.
He nods, and I hold it open for him, glad for the distraction.
“Okay, you have two options. One, I’m happy to drive you over to Westhaven to urgent care.
I’ll hang out in the waiting room to avoid becoming one of those hovering doctors other doctors wish would wait outside the treatment room. ”
“I would happily have you hover,” Liam says, and there’s that familiar lift in my centre again. What is it about this guy—aside from those most-charming dimples, and wavy hair I wouldn’t mind running my hands through, and those piercing eyes…
Snap out of it, Elizabeth. You are Dr. Munro right now. Also? You are in Christmas past and still have a boyfriend at the moment. In my memories he’s my ex, of course, but in this strange present I am most definitely not single.
Whatever lift I had deflates with this thought. Followed by, I absolutely need to deal with the Austin issue, and soon. You are not someone who cheats, Elizabeth Munro. Even if you’re a time traveller, or in a coma.
“And option two?” Liam asks, shrugging the coat over his shoulder.
I refocus on Liam, push thoughts of Austin to the side for now. “We can head to my parents’ clinic, and I can stitch this up myself.”
Just then Mr. Cutler returns from the back of the bakery. “So, Dr. Munro. What’s the verdict?”
“Stitches, as expected,” Liam replies, before turning my way. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“No problem at all,” I reply. “I’ve been going a little stir crazy, so I should probably thank you and that sharp knife for spicing things up. Besides, you don’t want to leave that cut too long, because it gets trickier to close.”
“You’ll be okay without me for a bit, Pops?” Liam asks his grandfather.
“I’ll just have to suffer through,” Mr. Cutler says, letting out an animated sigh.
Liam laughs. “What he’s not saying is that I can be more trouble than helpful. As I’ve said, I’m not skilled when it comes to baking.” He looks at his injured, towel-wrapped hand. “Or apparently even washing dishes.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Cutler replies. “I would be lost without you.”
He squeezes Liam’s arm but gives me a look that suggests a hint of sarcasm in his words.
But while there is much jest in the exchange, there’s also truth to his statement.
It’s the way the two smile at each other, the way Liam sets his good hand on his grandfather’s and squeezes back—they are family, and family sticks together through thick and thin.
“I’ll get him stitched up and back in a jiffy. Though you’ll have to keep that hand dry, so no dishwashing,” I say, clearing my throat to try to move the choked-up feeling along. Thoughts of my own family swirl through my mind, and then I remember the promised cinnamon loaf.
“Oh! I also need some bread. Mom asked specifically for the cinnamon-swirl loaf—she has a French toast craving.”
“Well, whatever Doc Munro wants, Doc Munro gets.” Mr. Cutler reaches into the glass case and sets two loaves of cinnamon bread on the countertop.
“Quick question…” I start, then whisper from behind my hand and gesture towards Liam. “He didn’t make any of these loaves, right?”
Mr. Cutler leans closer and whispers back, “You’re safe—baked these myself this morning.”
“I can hear you, you know,” Liam says, in a semi-grumbling tone.
Mr. Cutler hands me the canvas tote, and it’s full of freshly baked bread. The cinnamon scent drifts up, and I inhale deeply. “Thank you. What do I owe you?”
“On the house.” I start to protest, and he holds up his hands. “Libby, this is nonnegotiable. Or as a former math teacher I might say, ‘The probability of my taking your money is zero.’?”
As we step outside into the crisp air, I steal a glance at Liam.
He’s standing beside me on the bakery’s steps, his injured hand tucked carefully against his chest. There’s a fine dusting of flour in his thick, dark hair, and his eyelashes are impossibly long from this vantage point.
For a moment, the world feels still. Too still.
And that’s when it hits me.
I shouldn’t be here, at least not like this, thinking these thoughts.
Not when I haven’t handled the Austin situation yet—whatever that looks like.
And definitely not while Liam is bleeding and pale, and far too charming for his own good—or mine.
I clutch the tote tighter, then force myself to relax, so as not to squish the bread inside.
“Thanks for this,” Liam says, glancing down at me with that easy smile, dimples and all. “I owe you one.”
I tap the tote bag. “I think this cinnamon bread means we can call it even.”
As we set off for the clinic, the knots in my stomach tighten.
Here’s the truth I can’t ignore: I’m in no position to be falling for someone, not with the many unknowns and relationship loose ends I’m currently dealing with.
Besides, Liam doesn’t deserve to be anyone’s distraction, least of all mine.
“All right, Dough Destroyer,” I say, our boots crunching the fresh snow as we walk. “Let’s see what we can do about getting you back in one piece.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s not only Liam who needs piecing back together—I do, too, and I have no idea where to start.