Chapter 4
"Big day," Mae announced.
Lucy looked up from the croissants she was arranging. "It's Wednesday."
"Exactly. Hockey Guy day."
"His name is Jake. And it's just a normal Wednesday."
"Uh-huh." Mae tied her apron with the expertise of someone who'd done it a thousand times. "Except you're wearing lipstick."
Lucy's hand flew to her mouth. "I am not—"
"You are. It's subtle, but it's there. And you curled your hair."
"I did not curl my hair. It's just... doing a thing today."
"A thing." Mae grinned. "Right. And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Jake Morrison comes in every Wednesday at 8:17 and you've been checking the clock every three minutes since I got here."
"I have not—" Lucy stopped, because Mae was right and there was no point denying it. "Okay, fine. I may have put on actual pants instead of my flour-covered leggings. But that's just professionalism."
"You're wearing jeans with the little embroidered flowers on the pockets. Those are your 'cute' jeans."
"I hate you."
"You love me." Mae grabbed the coffee pot and started brewing a fresh batch. "So what's the plan? You're gonna actually talk to him this time? Beyond just taking his order?"
"I talk to him every week."
"'Six pork buns and a black coffee?' doesn't count as conversation, boss."
Lucy went back to her croissants, but Mae had planted the seed and now it was growing. What was her plan? Jake would come in at 8:17, same as always. He'd order six pork buns and black coffee, same as always. She'd ring him up, hand him his food, he'd leave.
Except.
Except on Saturday, he'd actually complimented the pork buns. Had looked at her like he wanted to say more but didn't know how. And according to Rei, he'd been asking about her. Asking if she ever took breaks.
Maybe—maybe—this Wednesday could be different.
"I don't have a plan," Lucy admitted. "But I'm going to... I don't know. See what happens."
"Very spontaneous. I'm proud of you."
"Don't make a big deal out of it."
"Too late. I'm texting Rei right now. 'Operation: Get Lucy A Life' is officially in motion."
"There is no operation. And I have a life."
"Do you though?" Mae's voice was gentle despite the teasing. "Because from where I'm standing, you work six days a week, sixteen hour days, and your idea of excitement is trying a new flour supplier."
Lucy opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Because Mae wasn't wrong. When had her life become so small? So predictable?
When you decided it was easier to hide than to risk anything, a voice in her head whispered. It sounded disturbingly like her grandmother.
"Okay," Lucy said. "You're right. I need to... branch out. Be more social. Have hobbies or whatever."
"Start with talking to Hot Hockey Guy for more than thirty seconds. Baby steps."
The morning rush was steady—Mr. Peterson with his bran muffin, the Knitting Circle with their gossip and decaf, Tom and Jerry arguing about whether to get the cinnamon rolls or the danishes (they got both, same as always).
By 8 AM, Lucy had developed a low-grade anxiety that she tried to disguise as normal Tuesday-into-Wednesday energy.
At 8:14, she glanced at the clock.
At 8:15, she wiped down the counter for the third time.
At 8:16, Mae caught her eye and mouthed "breathe."
At 8:17, the door didn't open.
Lucy told herself it was fine. He was probably just running late. Hockey practice had gone long, or he'd hit traffic, or—
At 8:19, the door still didn't open.
"Maybe he's sick," Mae offered.
"Maybe." Lucy busied herself restocking napkins. "It's fine. He's a customer. He doesn't owe me his business."
But by 8:25, Lucy had to admit that Jake Morrison wasn't coming. For the first time in three years, he'd missed Wednesday pork bun day.
And Lucy was surprised by how disappointed she felt.
Jake knew he was late. He'd meant to leave at 8 AM, same as always, but Owen had cornered him after practice with questions about forehand technique, and then Tommy had wanted to talk about Saturday's lineup, and before Jake knew it, it was 8:20 and he was still at the rink.
He grabbed his gear bag and practically jogged to his truck.
The drive to The Bread Basket took nine minutes instead of the usual seven. Jake parked in his usual spot across the street and checked his phone: 8:29.
Twelve minutes late. Which shouldn't matter—it was just pork buns, just a routine, just a bakery—but it felt like he'd broken some unspoken contract. Three years of showing up at the same time, and now he'd shattered the pattern.
He sat in his truck for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out why his heart was beating too fast.
This was Marcus's fault. All that talk about sitting down, staying, actually talking to Lucy. It had gotten into Jake's head, made him nervous about something that should be simple.
Just go in. Order your pork buns. Leave.
Except if he was going to sit down—if he was actually going to try what Marcus suggested—shouldn't he have a plan? Something to talk about beyond the weather and hockey?
His phone buzzed. Marcus, in the team group chat:
Reaper's running late. Someone check if he's okay. This is unprecedented.
Owen immediately replied: Should we send a search party?
Ryan: Maybe he's finally learned to sleep in
Marcus: Or maybe he's doing something INTERESTING. Like having a CONVERSATION with a HUMAN FEMALE.
Jake typed back: I hate all of you
Marcus sent back a string of heart emojis.
Jake pocketed his phone and got out of the truck.
The Bread Basket's windows glowed warm against the gray November morning.
Through the glass, he could see Lucy behind the counter, talking to Mae.
Her hair was down today instead of in its usual bun, falling past her shoulders in dark waves.
She looked tired but also somehow more..
. present? Alert? Like she'd actually slept for once.
Jake pushed open the door. The bell chimed.
Lucy looked up, and for just a second, her entire face transformed—surprise, followed by something that might have been relief, followed by careful neutrality.
"Hey," Jake said.
"Hey. I thought you weren't coming today."
"Practice ran late."
"Oh. Right." Lucy wiped her hands on her apron—a nervous gesture that Jake had seen her do a hundred times but never really noticed until now. "The usual?"
This was it. The moment where he either ordered his six pork buns and black coffee and left, or he did something different.
Settling or choosing, Tommy had asked.
"Actually," Jake said, and his voice came out rougher than intended. "Can I get the usual, but... could I eat it here? If that's okay?"
Lucy blinked. Mae, restocking napkins nearby, froze mid-motion.
"You want to eat here?" Lucy repeated.
"If you have space. I can take it to go if—"
"No! I mean, yes. Space. We have space." Lucy gestured to the small café area—four tables, eight chairs, currently empty except for the Knitting Circle in the corner. "Sit anywhere."
"Thanks."
Jake moved to a table by the window—far enough from the Knitting Circle to avoid their scrutiny, close enough to the counter that he could see Lucy.
He set down his gear bag and immediately felt awkward.
What did people do when they sat in cafés?
Read? Work on laptops? Stare meaningfully into space?
Lucy brought over his pork buns and coffee a moment later. Her hands were shaking slightly.
"Here you go. Six pork buns, black coffee."
"Thanks." Jake pulled out his wallet.
"You can pay at the counter when you're done."
"Oh. Right." Jake had never eaten here before. He didn't know the protocol.
Lucy hovered for a second, like she wanted to say something, then seemed to change her mind and headed back to the counter.
Jake opened the container of pork buns. They were still warm, the dough soft and perfect, the filling exactly the right combination of savory and sweet.
He took a bite and allowed himself to just..
. appreciate it. Not eat quickly in his truck while driving home, but actually taste the food, notice the textures, the spices, the care that went into making them.
They were incredible. They'd always been incredible, but eating them here, in the space where they were made, somehow made them better.
Through the window, Jake watched Timber Falls wake up. Mrs. Henderson walking her ancient beagle. A group of high school kids heading toward the bus stop, backpacks weighing them down. Tom from the hardware store flipping the "OPEN" sign in his window.
This was his town. Not the town where he'd failed to make it in the NHL. Not the temporary stop before something better came along. Just... home.
"How are they?"
Jake looked up to find Lucy standing beside his table, coffee pot in hand.
"Amazing," he said honestly. "Same as always."
"My grandmother's recipe. I haven't changed anything in five years."
"You don't need to. It's perfect."
Lucy's cheeks flushed slightly. She gestured to the coffee pot. "Want a refill?"
"Sure."
She poured carefully, her movements precise and practiced.
Up close, Jake noticed things he'd missed before: the small scar on her wrist from what was probably a kitchen burn, the flour permanently embedded in the creases of her hands, the way her eyes had these little flecks of gold mixed in with the dark brown.
"Can I ask you something?" Lucy said.
"Yeah."
"Why today? I mean, you've been coming here for three years. Why decide to sit down today?"
Jake considered lying, giving some easy answer about having time to kill. But something about the way Lucy was looking at him—direct, curious, genuinely interested—made him want to tell the truth.
"A friend told me I should stop just going through the motions," Jake said. "That I should actually show up to my life instead of just existing in it."
Lucy was quiet for a moment. Then: "That's good advice."
"You sound like you could use it too."