Chapter 19
Hannah
Hannah's arms ached from carrying boxes of pastries, but she kept her chin high as she approached the farmers' market coordinator. Carol Bennett had been running the market since Hannah was a child—had even helped her set up her first stall when she'd taken over the bakery.
Now Carol wouldn't meet her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Hannah." Carol shuffled her papers. "Your usual spot is... well, we've had to make some changes to the layout."
Hannah's fingers tightened on her box. "I've had that corner spot for five years."
"The Wilsons needed more space for their produce stand." Carol's voice was carefully neutral. "And with your... situation... we thought it best to—"
"To what?" The words came out sharper than Hannah intended. "Punish me for something I didn't do?"
A few early vendors looked over, already whispering. Hannah forced her voice steady.
"I just need a spot, Carol. Any spot."
"There's really nowhere—"
"She can share with me."
Hannah's heart stopped at that voice. Jake stood by the fire safety booth—the spot they always gave first responders for community outreach. He was in his uniform again, sleeves rolled up, looking so much like the man she'd trusted that it made her chest ache.
"That's not necessary," Hannah said stiffly.
"It's either that or no spot at all." Carol seized the out gratefully. "Fire safety gets priority placement."
Hannah looked at her boxes of carefully crafted pastries. She thought about the bills piling up on her desk. About the empty bakery that used to be full of regulars.
She couldn't afford pride right now.
"Fine." The word tasted like ash.
Jake helped her set up without speaking, his movements efficient as he rearranged his safety pamphlets to make room for her display. She tried not to notice how easily they still worked together, how his hands steadied her cake stands with familiar care.
The market filled slowly. Tourists wandered through, drawn by the smell of fresh pastries. They bought eagerly, complimenting her work.
But the locals—her neighbors, her friends—they just walked past.
Mrs. Wilson, who'd ordered Hannah's apple tarts every week for three years, deliberately turned away.
Tommy Mercer's mother pulled him to the other side of the aisle when he pointed at the cookies.
Sarah, her former assistant, ducked behind another stall rather than walk past.
"Your macarons are perfect today."
Hannah startled at Jake's quiet words. He stood carefully on his side of their shared space, professional distance maintained.
"Thank you." She arranged another tray.
Movement caught her eye. Maggie Reynolds, her friend since high school, was walking through the market. Hannah's heart lifted. Maggie would stop. Maggie would understand.
"Maggie!" The name burst from her before she could stop it. "Hey!"
Maggie froze, her market tote full of produce. For one horrible moment, she just stared at Hannah like she was seeing a stranger.
Hannah's smile fixed in place. "I've got those lemon squares you—"
Maggie took a deliberate step back.
The movement was small. Precise. Devastating.
Hannah felt Jake tense beside her, but she couldn't look at him. Couldn't look away from Maggie's face—from the conflict and resolution she saw there.
"I can't, Hannah."
Three words. That's all it took to shatter what was left of her heart.
"Maggie, come on." Hannah heard the desperation in her own voice, hated it. "It's still me."
"That's the problem." Maggie's voice hardened even as her eyes filled with tears. "We all trusted you. Trusted your family." She swallowed hard. "And now my parents have to rent out their farm to stay afloat. I lost my college fund, Hannah."
The words hit like physical blows. Hannah gripped the edge of the table to stay upright.
"I didn't—" But what could she say? That she didn't know? That she was sorry? That she would have stopped it if she'd understood?
It didn't matter. Maggie was already walking away, movements deliberate and final.
Hannah's vision blurred. She felt Jake shift closer, felt the heat of him at her back, familiar and dangerous.
"Don't you dare," she whispered. But she wasn't sure if she was talking to him or herself.
Because right now, with the weight of the town's judgment crushing her chest, all she wanted was to let him hold her together.
And that terrified her more than anything.
Hannah made it exactly three minutes after Maggie walked away. Three minutes of mechanically arranging pastries with shaking hands. Three minutes of feeling the town's eyes on her, of hearing the whispers, of trying to breathe through the weight crushing her chest.
Then a child's voice—clear and cruel: "Mommy says we can't buy from her anymore because her daddy's bad."
Something inside Hannah shattered.
She turned blindly, needing to escape, to hide, to breathe—
Strong hands caught her shoulders, guiding her behind the stall. Jake. Of course it was Jake. It was always Jake.
"Don't—" she started, but her voice broke.
"Back here." He steered her behind their shared tent, into the narrow space between canvas and brick wall. "No one can see."
The sobs hit then, hard and ugly. Hannah pressed her hands to her mouth, trying to hold them in, but they tore free anyway. Days of holding it together, of keeping her head high, of pretending she was fine—all of it crumbled in the face of the town's rejection, of Maggie's rejection.
"Hannah." Jake's voice cracked. Then his arms were around her, pulling her against his chest, one hand cradling her head as she broke apart.
She should push him away. Should remember that he was part of why her world had shattered. Should hate him for witnessing her weakness.
Instead, she clutched his uniform shirt and let herself feel safe for just one moment.
"I didn't know," she whispered against his chest. "I swear I didn't know. About stealing the money, about Maggie's college fund, about the Harrison's expansion, about any of it—"
"I know." His arms tightened. "God, Hannah, I know."
She breathed him in—smoke and coffee and that unique Jake-scent that still felt like home. His heartbeat was steady under her ear, his hand gentle as it stroked her hair.
"I keep thinking," she hiccupped, "if I just explain, if I just make them understand—"
"Shh." Jake's chest rumbled with the sound. "You don't owe them explanations. You don't owe them anything."
Hannah squeezed her eyes shut. "They were my friends. My family. And now they all look at me like—"
"Like they looked at me in that council meeting?" His voice was rough. "When I told them you were innocent?"
The memory hit hard—Jake standing up, defending her when no one else would. When she hadn't wanted him to.
Reality crashed back in. Hannah stiffened, trying to pull away, but Jake's arms tightened fractionally.
"Just... give yourself one minute," he murmured against her hair. "One minute to fall apart. Then you can go back out there and be strong again."
She should argue. Should maintain the walls between them. Should remember all the reasons she couldn't trust him.
Instead, she pressed her face into his shirt and let herself have this one moment of comfort.
His hand moved in slow circles on her back, the way it used to when storms woke her in the night. For just one breath, she could pretend nothing had changed. That he was still her Jake, still the man who fixed things, still someone she could trust with her heart.
Even if he had never really cared for her, if she had only been a job, she could still pretend for a little while. Was that so bad?
"Time's up," she whispered finally, pulling back.
Jake's arms fell away immediately, but his eyes were dark with something that made her chest ache.
"Hannah—"
She straightened her apron, wiped her eyes. "This doesn't change anything."
"I know." But he reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb. The gesture was so achingly familiar that Hannah had to close her eyes.
"Thank you," she made herself say. "For... this. But—"
"But nothing's changed." His hand dropped. "I know."
Hannah nodded once and walked back to their shared stall, chin high, shoulders straight. She could feel Jake's eyes on her as she arranged her displays, as she smiled at tourists, as she pretended her world hadn't just crumbled again.
Nothing had changed.
But her skin still tingled where he'd touched her, and her heart still knew exactly how well she fit in his arms.
There were worse things than believing in a lie.
Water sprayed from beneath the industrial sink, soaking Hannah's tank top as she worked. She'd already shut off the main valve, already cleared the cabinet, already done everything she'd watched Jake do a dozen times before.
"Come on," she muttered, fingers finding the coupling beneath the sink. The metal was cold against her skin as she worked it loose. This part was simple—she'd seen Jake do it so many times she should be able to manage it blindfolded.
Jake. Always Jake.
The pipe gave a warning groan. Hannah tightened her grip on the wrench, remembering his hands guiding hers months ago. "Easy," he'd said, his chest warm against her back. "Let the tools do the work."
She gritted her teeth and pushed the memory away. She didn't need him. She could fix this herself.
The bell above the door chimed.
"Be right with you," she called out, voice muffled under the sink.
"Fire department." The familiar voice hit her like a physical blow. "Got a call about a water issue."
Hannah froze, wrench halfway through a turn. No. Not him. Not now.
Heavy boots crossed her kitchen floor. She could track his movement by sound alone—three steps to the prep table, two more to the sink. Then he was there, kneeling beside her, close enough that she could smell engine grease and coffee and him.
"I've got it handled." Her voice was steady despite the water now dripping down her neck.
"I can see that." Was that amusement in his voice? She turned her head to glare at him and immediately regretted it. Jake was too close, his fire department t-shirt pulled tight across his shoulders as he leaned in to inspect her work.
"Coupling's stripped," he said, professional mask firmly in place. "You'll need to—"
"Replace it. I know." Hannah reached for her toolbox without looking, but her wet hand slipped on the metal. The box clattered, scattering tools across the floor.
They both reached for the fallen wrench at the same time. Jake's fingers brushed hers, callused and warm and achingly familiar. Hannah jerked back like she'd been burned, cracking her head on the bottom of the sink.
"Easy." Jake's hand caught her shoulder, steadying her. "Let me—"
"I said I've got it." But she was dizzy now, the bump on her head throbbing in time with her pulse.
"Hannah." His voice softened. "At least let me look at—"
"No." She shrugged off his hand, ignoring the way her skin tingled where he'd touched her. "I don't need you to fix anything."
Jake was quiet for a moment. Then: "Your technique was perfect."
She stilled. "What?"
"With the wrench. The angle, the pressure—exactly how I showed you." There was something raw in his voice. "You were paying attention."
"Of course I was paying attention." Hannah swallowed hard. "I trusted you back then."
The words hung between them, heavy with everything unsaid. Jake shifted closer, reaching past her for the replacement coupling. His arm brushed her side, and her breath caught at the contact.
"Hannah." Her name was barely a whisper.
She turned her head, ready to tell him to back off, to leave, to stop making her feel like this. But he was right there, his face inches from hers, his eyes dark with something that made her stomach flip.
A drop of water fell from her hair, landing on his arm. Jake's hand tightened on the pipe, his knuckles going white.
"You're soaked," he said roughly.
"It's just water."
"It's freezing."
"I'm fine."
His free hand came up, brushing wet hair from her face. The gesture was so achingly familiar that Hannah had to close her eyes.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't touch me like you still have the right to."
His hand dropped immediately. But he didn't move away. "The coupling," he said after a moment, voice carefully neutral. "Do you want me to—"
"No." Hannah opened her eyes, forced herself to meet his gaze. "I need to do this myself."
Something flickered across his face—pride or pain or both. Then he nodded once and stood, backing away.
"If you need anything—"
"I won't."
Jake paused at the kitchen door. "Your form really was perfect," he said quietly. Then he was gone, boots echoing across the floor, bell chiming as he left.
Hannah let out a shaky breath and turned back to the pipes. Her hands weren't quite steady as she reached for the wrench, but they'd do.
She didn't need him.
She didn't want him.
She didn't miss the way he used to look at her like she was magic.
The pipe gave one final groan as she tightened the new coupling into place.
She could fix this herself.
She could fix everything herself.
Even if her heart felt like a stripped coupling, damaged beyond repair.