Chapter 6
Sunday morning arrived with snow.
Lucy hoped she was right.
She was roasting the squash for the second batch when her phone buzzed.
Rei: how are you feeling?
Lucy: Nervous. Terrified. Like I might throw up.
Rei: that's how you know it matters
Lucy: What if I'm boring? What if we run out of things to talk about? What if he tastes the muffins and hates them and realizes I'm actually a terrible baker and has been lying to himself for three years?
Rei: Lucy. Breathe.
Rei: You're not boring. You're interesting and smart and funny when you let yourself be. He's been eating your food for THREE YEARS. He's not going to suddenly decide you're a terrible baker.
Rei: And if you run out of things to talk about, which you won't, you can talk about the weather. Or hockey. Or literally anything because you're both humans with interests and thoughts.
Lucy: When did you become so wise?
Rei: I've always been wise. You're just usually too busy stress-baking to notice.
Lucy: I'm stress-baking right now.
Rei: I know. But this time it's for a good reason. Now go make those muffins amazing and let yourself have fun. You deserve this.
Lucy set down her phone and looked around her kitchen.
The first batch of muffins sat cooling on a rack—perfectly golden, the aroma of sage and browned butter filling the apartment.
The butternut squash for batch two was almost ready.
Her grandmother's recipe card sat on the counter, flour-stained and worn, the familiar handwriting like a hug across time.
You can do this, Lucy told herself. It's just muffins. It's just a guy. It's just your entire heart on the line.
She laughed at herself. When had she become this person? When had Jake Morrison—steady, quiet, Wednesday-morning-pork-bun Jake—become someone who made her nervous?
Probably around the time she realized she'd been half in love with him for three years without admitting it.
At 11:30, Lucy pulled the second batch from the oven. Perfect. Both batches had turned out exactly right—tender crumb, savory-sweet balance, that hint of sage that made them special.
She arranged them on a plate, then immediately rearranged them. Then arranged them again.
"Stop it," she said out loud. "They're muffins, not a marriage proposal."
But her hands were shaking.
At 11:58, there was a knock at her door.
Lucy checked her reflection one last time—gray sweater, hair down and mostly cooperating, minimal makeup because anything more felt like trying too hard—and opened the door.
Jake stood in the hallway, snow dusting his dark hair and shoulders. He was wearing a navy blue sweater that made his hazel eyes look almost green, and he was holding a small box.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi. You're early."
"Two minutes. I can come back—"
"No! I mean, no. Come in. Please." Lucy stepped aside, and Jake walked into her apartment for the first time.
He looked around, taking in the space—her grandmother's furniture, the cookbooks stacked on every available surface, the framed photo on the mantle, the kitchen visible through the open doorway with its professional-grade mixer and her collection of mismatched mugs.
"It smells amazing in here," Jake said.
"That's the muffins. They just came out." Lucy closed the door, suddenly aware of how small her apartment was, how close Jake was standing. "What's in the box?"
Jake held it out. "I stopped by the farmers market this morning. The coffee vendor—the one we got coffee from yesterday? She had these beans she said would pair well with sage and brown butter. I don't know if that's actually a thing, but I thought..." He trailed off, looking uncertain.
Lucy took the box. Inside was a bag of freshly roasted coffee beans, the vendor's label hand-written in careful script. Her chest felt too full.
"That's really thoughtful," Lucy managed. "Thank you."
"I figured if I'm going to be your official taste-tester, I should take the job seriously."
"Official taste-tester implies a long-term position."
"I'm hoping for tenure."
They stood there for a moment, smiling at each other like idiots, until Lucy remembered how to function.
"Right. Coffee. I should make coffee." She headed to the kitchen, grateful for something to do with her hands. "Make yourself comfortable. The muffins need to cool for another few minutes anyway."
Jake followed her to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe while Lucy ground the beans and started her espresso machine—a professional-grade device that had been Uncle Walter's gift when she took over the bakery.
"This is a serious setup," Jake observed.
"I take my coffee very seriously."
"I've noticed. The coffee you make at the bakery is the best I've ever had."
"Better than the stuff Marcus makes?"
"Marcus makes coffee like he's punishing it for something. Yours tastes like you actually care about it."
Lucy smiled despite her nerves. "I do care about it. My grandmother taught me that everything you make for people should be made with care. Even something as simple as coffee."
"That's a good philosophy."
"It's exhausting sometimes. But yeah, it's good."
The espresso machine hissed and steamed. Lucy made two cappuccinos, the familiar ritual calming her hands. When she turned around, Jake was studying the recipe card on her counter.
"Is this the muffin recipe?" he asked.
"Yeah. That's my grandmother's handwriting."
Jake traced his finger over the faded ink, careful not to smudge it. "It's beautiful. You can tell someone loved writing this."
"She loved cooking. Loved feeding people." Lucy handed Jake his cappuccino. "She used to say that food was love made visible. That when you cooked for someone, you were giving them a piece of your heart."
"That's poetic."
"That was her. Poetic and practical in equal measure." Lucy picked up the plate of muffins. "Come on. Let's sit before these get cold."
They settled at Lucy's small dining table—really just a table for two shoved against the window overlooking Main Street. Snow was still falling, covering Timber Falls in a clean white blanket.
"Here's how this works," Lucy said, trying to channel her grandmother's confidence. "These are butternut squash muffins. Savory, not sweet. Sage, brown butter, a hint of maple. You take a bite, you tell me honestly what you think. No polite lying allowed."
"I don't think I'm capable of polite lying."
"Good." Lucy pushed the plate toward him. "Then tell me the truth."
Jake took a muffin, broke it open—releasing a puff of steam and that incredible aroma—and took a bite.
Lucy watched his face, her heart hammering. She'd made these muffins hundreds of times. She knew they were good. But suddenly, Jake's opinion felt more important than all the customers who'd bought them over the years combined.
Jake chewed slowly, his expression thoughtful. Then he took another bite. Then another.
"Well?" Lucy asked when she couldn't stand the silence anymore.
Jake set down the muffin. "Lucy, this is the best thing I've ever eaten."
"You're being polite."
"I'm being honest. This is incredible. The sage—it's earthy but not overwhelming. The brown butter adds this nutty richness. And the squash makes it tender without being dense." He took another bite. "This is art."
Lucy felt her face heat. "It's just a muffin."
"It's not just anything. This is what you mean about food being love made visible. I can taste the care in every bite."
They ate in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the snow fall outside. Lucy's nerves were starting to settle, replaced by something warmer. Something that felt like possibility.
"Can I ask you something?" Jake said finally.
"Yeah."
"Yesterday at the farmers market, you said your grandmother would have liked me. How do you know? We never met."
Lucy considered this. "Because you notice things.
The way you noticed the coffee would pair with the muffins.
The way you remembered Emma's name and asked about her.
The way you've been coming to the bakery every Wednesday for three years and always say thank you, even though I'm just doing my job.
" She paused. "My grandmother believed that how you treat people when you don't have to says everything about who you are.
And you're always kind. Even when you look exhausted. Even when you clearly haven't slept."
"You notice that? That I don't sleep?"
"We share a wall, Jake. I hear you moving around at 3 AM. I've been hearing you for three years."
Jake ran his hand through his hair, looking embarrassed. "I didn't realize I was that loud."
"You're not loud. I'm just a light sleeper. And also chronically awake at weird hours."
"The bakery schedule."
"The bakery schedule," Lucy agreed. "And the insomnia. And the anxiety about whether I'm doing everything right."
"Do you ever just let yourself do things wrong?"
"No. That's not really in my skill set."
Jake smiled, but it was sad. "Me neither. I spent three years trying to be perfect at hockey—perfect technique, perfect stats, perfect professionalism. Trying to prove I deserved another shot at the NHL. And all it did was make me miserable."
"Is that why you looked so detached during your game last night?"
Jake's eyebrows rose. "You could tell?"
"You looked like you were going through the motions. Like you were somewhere else in your head." Lucy took a sip of her cappuccino. "Did the scout make an offer?"
"Yeah. Two-way contract. AHL with NHL call-ups when they need me."
"Jake, that's amazing!"
"Is it?"
The question hung between them.
"You don't sound excited," Lucy said quietly.
"I'm not. Not the way I should be. Not the way eighteen-year-old me would have been." Jake stared at his coffee. "I have until tomorrow to decide. And I don't know what to do."
"What does your gut say?"