Chapter 13 Winter Hearth
As the day went on, it seemed like Lachlan, Eliza, and Puffcake had settled into a pretty easy routine. Lachlan tapped away briskly at emails between sips of hot chocolate, the glow of the screen reflecting in his mug. Across the counter, Eliza folded the dough for her second round of scones.
This batch carried its own twist, slight tweaks from yesterday’s recipe. Extra flakes of citrus zest wove throughout the dough like confetti, promising a burst of freshness to balance out the bite of the cranberry and the savory of the butter.
To drive the flavor home further, she decided to forsake chopped almonds altogether. Their heaviness only seemed to weigh down the dough before. Instead, she added almond extract, a concentrated liquid that wrapped warmth and sweetness around the cottage’s kitchen like a large blanket.
The room had settled into a gentle rhythm of small noises: the steady clack of keys as Lachlan typed, the occasional clink of a measuring spoon against a bowl, and the faint hum of Puffcake’s snores as he lost himself in sugary dreams. Beneath it all was the muffled crackle of holiday tunes floating in the air from the record player.
Lachlan let out a huff, breaking their long stretch of silence. “Do you ever get tired of listening to the same Christmas music? It’s been going on for five hours now.”
Eliza shot him a glare. “Do you ever get tired of working?” she asked, but she already knew the answer.
He didn’t look up from his screen. “There’s always someone who needs answering.”
“It’s three days before Christmas,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “The only replies you’re going to get back are from the Grinch.”
“Or from an insanely gorgeous beach house off Southampton,” he said, flipping the laptop around for Eliza to see. He cracked his knuckles. “Enough commission off this bad boy to supply a lifetime of rolling pins.”
Eliza’s eyes widened. “Whoa. That is insanely gorgeous.” She flipped through all the pictures of the beach house, noting the scenic view, the six bedrooms, and the price. Lachlan must do very well for himself. “Impressive. Carry on.” She slid it back around to him.
As if on cue, Puffcake fluttered over to the keyboard and stretched out across it like a cat. Lachlan swatted him away while Eliza laughed.
“He got icing all over my keys,” Lachlan muttered.
“You can’t win an argument against Puffcake.
He lives for drama.” She braced herself against the counter with both of her wrists, throwing the hand towel over her shoulder.
She studied Lachlan for a moment, unsure exactly how to proceed.
“I thought your sister sent you here on a getaway mission to save you from your work. Not just set aside more time to dive headlong into it.”
He looked up at Eliza, meeting her gaze. He was contemplating something, only Eliza wasn’t sure what until he closed his laptop softly and leaned back in his chair. “This is the first Christmas without my dad.” His voice came low, cracking a little at the last word.
Eliza set down the bowl of sugar, momentarily abandoning her work. She said nothing in response, only silently waited for more, if he was willing to offer.
“He’s still alive. Just with his new girlfriend on the Amalfi Coast. She was his secretary.
” He gave a tight smile, drumming his fingers on the island nervously.
“Mum’s visiting my sister in Brighton. I didn’t want to intrude.
They never invited me, and I never asked.
And honestly, I didn’t know if I could handle the whole matching-jim-jams-and-pretend-we’re-fine family thing this year. ”
Eliza met his gaze, her heart twisting. “So you came here.”
“So I came here,” he nodded. “I needed a break, and as far away as I could get. My sister knew that. Guess she didn’t read the fine print when she booked.” He rubbed the back of his neck, “And I guess I didn’t expect all this.” He waved his hand through the air.
Eliza raised her brow. “What? You didn’t expect a magical snowstorm, a feisty fire-breathing shortbread, or an antisocial baker? It was all in the fine print, Hollis.”
He let out a laugh, flexing a little in his seat. “Especially the baker.” His brown eyes locked on hers too long.
Puffcake snorted and batted his wings over to the hearth, clearly uncomfortable by the serious turn of conversation.
Eliza’s chest swelled with a feeling she couldn’t quite place. Was it pride? Satisfaction? “Well ... I’m glad you’re here,” she smiled genuinely.
“Me too.”
“You’re lucky I like you, or else you’d be confined to the living room—magical house rules or not,” she said, pushing the bowl of coarse sugar across the table to him. Their fingers brushed in the transfer. “Here, help me with topping off the scones.”
He grinned, already dusting the sugar onto the tops of the desserts. “And miss out on the opportunity to be your trustee Sous-Chef? That would be tragic.”
She took the pan of scones from the oven and bumped the door shut with her hip. “Well, if you’re going to stick around, you might as well make yourself useful.”
“Today’s my first day besides burning a frozen pizza and making a mediocre breakfast. Now you’re trusting me with a job so delicate?”
“Oh, hush. You’re sprinkling sugar on top of the pastries, not disabling an atomic bomb.”
“Okay, says the girl who bakes like it’s an Olympic sport,” Lachlan said behind his shoulder. “I’d better get half the spoil tomorrow for helping you out. How much is the contest for, anyway?”
“Five thousand pounds.”
Lachlan whistled. “That’s like a month’s supply of flour and sugar for you, Snow.”
“Yeah, or a down payment on a bakery.”
Their shoulders brushed as she came next to him and began whipping up another batch.
“Is that really what you’re going to spend the money on?” he asked.
Eliza immediately felt childish. She’d already failed once.
What was Lachlan going to say to make her change her mind?
It was probably foolish to try again, but she’d never know unless she did.
She was never much of a risk-taker, but Gretel had already entered her in the contest. All she could do now was give it her all and aim for first place.
“Yes,” she nodded once.
He stole a sideways glance at her, a smile tugging at his lip. “Think you’ll smoke, Mrs. Elle Toe?”
“I’m certainly going to try.”
“If you need help finding a place...” he nudged her playfully on the shoulder. “... I just so happen to know a charming realtor.”
Eliza froze for a second, her hand buried deep in a bag of flour. Lachlan’s words caught her off guard. Sure, he was being playful, but she heard the sincerity behind them. Help. Lachlan wanted to help her. “Oh? Is he cute?”
“Devastating.” He smirked, “And the word’s out that he’s got a soft spot for sassy blondes who bake like their life depends on it.”
Eliza snorted, feeling her face warm. “That’s a very specific type.”
Lachlan flashed his white teeth, abandoning his work to turn to her. He looked down, his smile almost blinding. “Turns out, it’s my favorite.”
Her fingers suddenly felt foreign and tingly, like she was having an out-of-body experience. Him flirting with her made her knees way more wobbly than it had any right to do. Why was a twenty-five year old woman this nervous over something so simple?
She still couldn’t quite fathom why he would offer his help outside the safety of this holiday escape.
It hinted at something more—something that connected them outside of the realm of this cottage’s strange and mysterious enchantment.
Something real that might follow them back from the world of make-believe that was this kitchen.
She wiped her hands off on her apron, nervously turning to face him. She took a deep breath, suddenly feeling the weight of everything unspoken between them. Whatever this was—whatever he was playing at ... It wouldn’t last. She knew it.
They’d leave the day after Christmas, go their separate ways, and Lachlan would forget all about her. Chalk up the whole story to some weird coincidence.
“I had a bakery once,” she blurted, not meeting his eyes. As soon as she said the words, she instantly wanted to take them back.
“Tell me about it.”
She looked down, focusing her attention on where the lumps of dough sat on the flour-sprinkled countertop.
“It was small. Nothing fancy. Just a bright blue building with white trim. A couple of employees to work the checkout. A door that jammed in the summer...” her voice grew into a whisper.
“I poured everything into that place. My time, my money, every ounce of who I was.
“My fiancé—ex-fiancé—” she clarified, “co-signed the lease for me. He knew Honeycomb was everything to me, and he took it when we split. In the papers, he made it so that he owned fifty-one percent, so he owned the majority. I didn’t have the money to fight him.”
She gave a sad smile, remembering all of the drama again, her anger rekindling. Lachlan didn’t offer to speak. Just offered his quiet presence next to her.
She laughed bitterly. “Which is funny because he always told me that baking was a silly career. That while I was busy playing housewife, he was out there making ‘big boy money.’”
Lachlan took a step forward, but didn’t reach out to touch her. “That’s not funny. That’s—”
“I know,” she cut in, her voice frayed. “The more he ridiculed me, the more I worked. I worked myself to the bone trying to make a name for myself. I wanted to prove ...” Her voice felt broken as she finished the last part.
“I guess I wanted to prove that it was worth it. That I was worth it. But it wasn’t.
It never was. So I closed it, or at least, tried to. ”
She curled her fingers into tight fists at her sides. “Until Davis realized how much he wanted to keep it, and refused to take it out of his name. Said it was his idea all along. And guess what? His new girlfriend is his lawyer.”
A long silence stretched between them. Puffcake, sensing Eliza’s sadness, fluttered over to her shoulder and curled up on it like a purring cat. She reached up and stroked his spine, her gaze absent.
Lachlan didn’t speak, didn’t try to give advice or half-hearted platitudes. He didn’t offer up anything. Instead, he just looked at her. Not as something broken, or to figure out, but as someone worth listening to.
“He’s out of his mind,” Lachlan said at last. “He’s got no idea what he lost.” He took a step forward. “And if I’ve learned anything about people who hurt others on purpose, it’s that their actions say more about them than they do about you.”
Eliza blinked, letting the words sink in. “I just can't imagine doing something like that to someone you're supposed to love.” Tears now filled her eyes.
“You can’t imagine doing that to someone you love because you would never do it to anyone. Even to someone you hate. You’re nothing like him, Eliza. You’re good. That’s why it hurts.”
Her throat tightened. Lachlan had used her first name when referring to her, not her last. It was like a match that lit from inside her chest, spreading throughout her entire body.
She looked down at her hands, getting an idea. “I’m going to name the scones ‘Winter Hearth Scones.’ Because they remind me of that kind of warmth. The kind you don’t expect, but once you feel it, you never want to lose it. What do you think?”
A grin grew across his face. “I love it.”
She wasn’t sure when she’d started enjoying his company, much less opening up to him. But now that he was here, listening, it all felt right and warm and oddly familiar, the same way Puffcake nestled into her shoulder felt right and warm and oddly familiar too.
“Lachlan?” She breathed his name, voice low. “Thanks for sticking around.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he whispered.
Their eyes met and held. So many unspoken things hung between them that felt communicated in one single look. Gratitude. Recognition. Understanding. Longing.
Eliza blinked fast, trying to combat the tears. Lachlan noticed and smiled, trying, in his usual way, to lighten the mood.
“And if we’re being honest, I’ve been sneaking seconds like there’s no tomorrow. If you were mine, I’d be just fine with you ‘playing housewife’ any day of the week. May need to up my gym time, but I’ll manage.”
Those words made her heart beat stupidly in her chest. “If you were mine.”
As if on cue, the oven dinged. The scones were finally ready for tasting.
Eliza slid on her oven mitts quickly, eager to focus her attention on something else.
She opened the door, and a wave of cinnamon-spiced air wafted out and filled the cottage with its redolent warmth.
The scones were golden brown and looked like a picture in a magazine.
She snapped a photo of them before Lachlan or Puffcake could grab one.
“Moment of truth,” she anxiously said, watching Lachlan’s every move as he took the first bite. He chewed slowly and closed his eyes as if he needed a second to process his thoughts.
“Snow ...” There was something reverent in his tone. “This is perfection. This is thirteen out of ten.”
“Really?” Her voice jumped an octave, pride blooming in her chest. “You really think so?”
She reached for half of the broken scone and took a bite. The crisp, golden dough crunched slightly before the orange and cranberry notes burst in her mouth. It was the kind of taste that curled around your belly like a scarf.
It wasn’t just perfect. It was delicious and magical and sweet. And it was entirely hers. For the first time in a long time, it was enough.