Chapter 27 Harper
The shrill wail of the smoke detector cut through the laughter and clatter of mixing bowls, bouncing off the kitchen walls like an air raid siren.
Cold air from the open windows swept through the house, carrying with it the scent of burning sugar and flour.
The oven door hung wide, heat curling into the room and fogging the edges of the frosted window above the sink.
Outside, snow clung stubbornly to the bare branches, the pale winter light filtering in like it had better things to do.
Connor darted from the kitchen to the living room, his socks sliding dangerously on the hardwood as he flung the front door open. A gust of icy wind rushed in, scattering the smell of char into the rest of the house.
Ryan stood balanced on one of my kitchen chairs, tea towel in hand, swiping at the smoke detector like it was a particularly aggressive mosquito.
We were all trying to talk at once–me from the counter, Connor from the doorway, Ryan from above by head–but the smoke detector’s relentless screech drowned it all out.
Finally–blessedly–the noise cut off. Silence fell, broken only by the faint ticking of the oven cooling down.
Ryan hopped down from the chair, the ends of his dark hair falling over his blue eyes as he tossed the tea towel onto the counter with a smirk. “Well, at least we know the smoke detector works?”
I pressed the heel of my palm to my forehead, fighting a laugh. “Fantastic. I was worried about that.”
“Uh… Mom?” Connor’s voice came from beside the oven. He peered inside with the kind of guilty look that made my stomach brace. “The pages were stuck together. They were only supposed to be in for ten minutes… not… thirty.”
That did it. I burst out laughing. “Of course they were.”
Ryan shook his head, chuckling as Connor pulled out a tray of what could only generously be called cookies–blackened at the edges, flattened to paper-thin discs, and smelling faintly of campfire.
This had been our rhythm lately. Weekends we weren’t at the arena meant Ryan showing up at my house, ready to be one of my “professional taste testers” alongside Connor.
I’d bake, they’d hover–offering highly unqualified critiques while demolishing whatever I set in front of them.
Connor liked to act like he was learning the trade, but really, his and Ryan’s “help” was equal parts enthusiasm and chaos.
I’d never pictured myself as a baker. But somewhere along the way, I realized how much I enjoyed it–the precision, the creativity, the satisfaction of pulling something golden and fragrant from the oven.
With Benny’s guidance–and his endless stash of sarcastic commentary–I’d gotten better.
Actually good, if his praise–and the way the scones sold out most mornings–was anything to go by.
And the raise that came with the job? That was just the cherry on top. A reminder that this thing I’d stumbled into wasn’t just filling hours–it was becoming something I could really own.
I’d been experimenting–muffins, scones, cookies–trying out new recipes now that he’d hired another part-time barista and I could spend more time in the back, baking unless they needed an extra hand up front.
“Alright,” Ryan said, reaching for the ruined cookies, “we’re calling this batch a learning experience.”
Connor groaned dramatically, sliding the tray toward him. “They’re… edible?”
Ryan eyed the tray. “You could use them as hockey pucks.”
I bit back another laugh, grabbing a dish towel and started to wipe down the flour-covered counter. “I’ll make a fresh batch. I need to bring them to Benny tomorrow. Maybe without the fire hazard this time.”
Ryan stepped beside me, taking the towel from my hands and tossing it over his shoulder. “Or…” His voice dipped, teasing, “we could just order cinnamon buns and call it a day.”
I rolled my eyes, but my pulse skipped when his hand brushed mine on the counter. It was a small thing–light, casual–yet enough to spark that familiar, unsettling warmth low in my stomach.
Connor was already in the living room, sifting through his LEGO bin, leaving us alone in the kitchen.
Ryan leaned a hip against the counter so our arms were almost touching. That slow, crooked grin tugged at his mouth. “We make a good team,” he murmured, his voice lower now. “Even when we nearly burn your house down.”
I laughed softly, glancing up at him, and immediately regretted it–because those blue eyes were locked on mine, and suddenly the air between us felt charged, magnetic. His hand found the edge of the counter beside me, caging me in just enough to make my breath hitch.
He leaned in, close enough that I caught the faint scent of his cologne, my gaze dropping instinctively to his mouth–
“Mom! Ryan!” Connor’s voice rang out from the living room.
We both froze, then stepped back at the same time, the spell broken.
“We need to add more chocolate chips next time!”
Ryan gave a quick shake of his head, then leaned just close enough for his breath to brush my ear.
“I’ll come over tonight,” he whispered, his voice low and certain. “After he’s asleep.”
And then he pulled away, leaving me gripping the counter like it was the only thing keeping me upright.
The house was finally quiet.
Upstairs, Connor and Liam were sprawled across Connor’s bed, a tangle of blankets and limbs after a night of whispered jokes and too many snacks. Their soft, uneven snores drifted faintly down the stairs.
After Ryan left earlier–still grinning about our baking fiasco–Nina had stopped by with Liam in tow. She lingered in the doorway just long enough to ask if he could spend the night, lowering her voice to admit she had a date. I’d just smiled and waved them inside, no questions asked.
Now, I sat curled up on the couch, a blanket tucked over my legs and a half-full glass of wine in hand.
The TV was on but muted, casting a warm glow across the room.
Somewhere in the background, the dishwasher hummed, the sound steady and soothing, broken only by the occasional creak of the house settling.
It was the kind of quiet that felt earned–like the whole place had exhaled with me after a long, full day.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting my shoulders drop.
And then–
A rustle.
Soft. Quick. Outside.
My eyes snapped open.
I sat up a little straighter, heart skipping. It could’ve been the wind or a raccoon. Probably was. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just listened.
There it was again. Closer this time.
A chill climbed my spine as I slowly set down my glass. My eyes darted to the front window, but I couldn’t see anything in the dark. I reached for my phone, already imagining the worst–Was someone out there? Had he found us?
My fingers fumbled over the lock screen, but instead of dialling anyone, I saw a new message waiting. Twenty minutes old.
Ryan: Boys asleep? On my way over!
I blinked.
And then a knock at the back door.
I let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to my chest, willing my pulse to slow. I crossed the room on autopilot, my hand still trembling slightly as I unlocked the back door.
Ryan stood there, dusted with snow and wearing that boyish, easy grin–until he saw my face.
His smile faded. “You okay?”
I didn’t answer with words. Instead, I reached for him–fisted a hand into the front of his coat and pulled him toward me, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that was all urgency and heat.
His hesitation was brief. A breath. Then he was kissing me back, one hand rising to cup the back of my neck, the other landing firmly on my waist, anchoring me to him. The door clicked shut behind him, but I barely heard it over the pounding in my ears.
I didn’t want him to ask again. Didn’t want him to see the fear still clinging to me. I wanted to feel something else–something real. Safe. Familiar. Him.
He pulled back just enough to murmur, “Harper,” his voice rough with concern. His thumb stroked my jaw, eyes searching mine. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I swallowed hard, nodding quickly. “Yeah. You just scared me. I didn’t know you were here already.”
I didn’t give him a chance to say anything else. I rose onto my toes, wrapped both arms around his neck, and kissed him again–deeper this time. His hands slid down my sides, gripping my hips, and I felt him exhale against my mouth like he’d been holding his breath since I opened the door.
We stumbled toward the couch, mouths never parting, fingers tugging at layers of clothing.
My back hit the cushions and he followed, his body covering mine, his warmth pressing into every curve.
His hand slipped under the hem of my sweater, calloused fingers grazing my skin and sending a tremor through me.
My own hands roamed–over his chest, the line of his jaw, into his hair. I pulled him closer, needing more. He kissed me like he was trying to memorize every gasp, every sigh, every part of me that responded to his touch.
His lips left mine only to trail down my neck, across my collarbone, pushing the neckline of my sweater aside so he could kiss the bare skin at my shoulder. I arched into him, fingers tightening in his shirt, silently urging him closer.
The couch creaked softly beneath us as we shifted, my legs tangling with his. He pressed his forehead to mine for a beat, both of us breathing hard.
And just like that, we were lost again–his hands exploring, mine tugging at fabric, his mouth trailing fire down my throat and back again. Every touch was deliberate, reverent, like he was trying to rebuild me from the outside in. And I let him.
Because for one quiet moment, with snow falling outside and his body wrapped around mine, I didn’t feel afraid.
I felt wanted and safe.
Nina didn’t give me much choice.