Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The following two days, Oliver had somehow become a fixture in my bakery.
He’d taken to stopping by at lunchtime, always at the same table near the window, with his laptop open and his phone buzzing every ten minutes.
At first, I thought it was just because we had pretty good Wi-Fi signal, which, admittedly, wasn’t saying much.
But after the third day in a row, I began to suspect it had less to do with internet speed and more to do with habit.
He always ordered the same thing: a black coffee, one of Ivy’s cheese scones, and whatever I happened to be testing for the Christmas menu that day.
He’d smile politely, thank me, and then proceed to look far too serious over his emails while locals passed by the window whispering, Is that the London man?
I pretended not to notice the way people lingered to look at him or the way Ivy watched me whenever I walked over to his table.
That afternoon, the snow was falling lightly again, dusting the square in white. The bakery was warm and busy, laughter and chatter spilling across the counter. I was boxing up shortbread when Ivy sidled up beside me, eyes glinting mischievously.
“You’re smilin’ again,” she said under her breath.
“I smile all the time.”
“Not like that.” She leaned closer. “That’s the kind of smile a girl gets when a certain English gentleman comes in for his daily coffee.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re imagining things and watching too many romcoms.”
“Am I? He’s been here every day, ordering food he can’t pronounce, just to sit there and talk to you about the weather.”
“It’s harmless,” I said, maybe too quickly. “He’s just being polite.”
“Mmm.” Ivy’s grin widened. “Polite looks an awful lot like flirting these days.”
I was spared from replying when Oliver’s voice drifted from the corner. “Miss Hart, I think your oven’s developed a vendetta against my laptop, it keeps fogging up the screen.”
I turned, biting back a smile. He was seated at his table, sleeves now rolled up exposing his surprisingly muscular arms, his tie was gone and had a faint flush on his face from the heat. The sight was… unexpectedly nice.
“Move closer to the window,” I called back. “It’s safer there.”
He grinned faintly. “You mean colder.”
“Exactly.”
The bell above the door jingled as another burst of snow swept in.
Ivy went to greet a customer, leaving me behind the counter wiping down the surface and trying not to think about how easily Oliver had started to fit into our days.
Still, I noticed he seemed more restless today.
Between bites of his scone and half-drunk coffee, he answered calls, his tone clipped and formal.
“No, Richard, I’m not back yet,” I overheard him say quietly. “Yes, the storm’s still bad. No, I haven’t forgotten the meeting. I said I’ll handle it remotely.”
He ended the call with a soft sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.
When I brought over a slice of cranberry tart, he smiled gratefully but looked worn out. “Apologies. London’s not taking my imprisonment very well. Apparently, my absence has ruined three dinner parties and at least one golf game.”
“Tragic,” I said, deadpan.
He laughed under his breath. “You’ve no idea.”
“Actually, I think I do. This town would throw a fit if Ivy missed the Christmas bake-off. People get very attached to their routines.”
He leaned back, watching me with amusement. “You’re comparing your bake-off to London society events?”
“They’re both exhausting and full of gossip. The only difference is, ours has better food.”
That earned me a real warm, low, genuine laugh. It did funny things to my chest.
A few hours later, the lunch rush had passed, and the bakery was quiet again. The snow outside had thickened into a soft white haze, and Ivy was humming as she restocked the shelves.
“You know what you should do?” she said suddenly, breaking the silence. “Take Mr Grant to the Winter Wonderland tonight.”
I nearly dropped the tray I was holding. “Excuse me?”
She grinned, eyes sparkling. “Aye, the whole town’ll be there. Ice skating, stalls, the Christmas tree maze–it’s grand. He’s stuck here another week anyway, poor lad. Might as well show him what Highland Christmas really looks like.”
“Ivy—”
“You’re the perfect tour guide. Nobody knows this place like you. Go on, Bri. Be nice. The man’s trapped in a hotel with nothing but shortbread and business calls. Do a good deed.”
I groaned. “You can’t be serious.”
“Don’t be a wimp,” She shot me a grin. “Besides, he looks like he could use some fun. You’d be doing him a favour.”
I turned toward Oliver, who was packing up his laptop. He did in fact look very tired. Not the usual kind of tiredness that could be fixed with coffee, the kind that came from being far from home and pretending it didn’t bother you.
“Winter Wonderland?” I asked before I could talk myself out of it.
He looked up, surprised. “Sorry?”
“Oh—umm.” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, instantly regretting opening my mouth. “The festival. Ice skating, Christmas market, tree maze, terrible hot chocolate.” I hesitated, clearing my throat. “With whiskey, would you like to go?”
A slow, boyish smile broke across his face. “You had me at whiskey.”
I tried — really tried — not to smile. “Ivy thinks I should show you around. Apparently, I’m the resident historian.”
“I’d be honoured,” he said, mock-serious, then softened. “Only if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
I folded my arms. “It’s just a tour, Mr Grant. Harmless.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s what you said about the coffee.”
Ivy snorted behind me, whispering something that sounded dangerously like “progress.”
Outside, the bells from the church tower began to ring in the distance, echoing across the snow-covered rooftops. And for the first time in days, I felt something like anticipation flicker in my chest.
“Right, um— I’ll, ah, meet you outside in an hour. I still need to close everything up here and… yeah. I’ll meet you out front.”
Oliver’s mouth curved into that small, warm smile that was becoming far too familiar.
“Sounds good,” he said softly. “Will give me a chance to… clean myself up and try not to embarrass myself on skates.”
“That would be ideal,” I managed, cheeks warming.
He let out a quiet laugh and gave a little wave, a simple gesture, but it sent a strange flutter through my chest. “See you shortly, Miss Hart.”
“See you soon,” I echoed.
He slipped out into the snow, the bell chiming gently behind him, leaving a trail of cold air and something warmer tangled in its wake. Before the door had even fully shut, Ivy was at my side.
“Well, isn’t this exciting,” she teased, crossing her arms with a grin far too pleased with itself. “You really think it’ll all be ‘harmless’ by tomorrow?”
I groaned. “Ivy…”
“Oh, don’t ‘Ivy’ me.” She bumped her shoulder into mine. “You’re going ice skating. Under the Christmas lights. In what is literally the most romantic setting this town has ever produced.”
“It’s not a date,” I insisted, even if I didn’t sound convinced. I wiped down a table, pretending far more focus than I actually had. “I’m just showing him more of the town.”
“Mmm-hmm. We’ll see about that tomorrow.” She smirked, leaning closer. “Bri, just admit it–you like him.”
My heart stuttered. “I do not.”
“What’s not to like though?” Ivy countered, eyebrows lifting. “He’s handsome, he’s clearly into you, he’s a businessman with good manners, and—” she waved vaguely toward the snowy windows “—he’s stuck here. Might as well use the time wisely.”
I shot her a look, cheeks warming despite myself.
“And,” she added triumphantly, pointing at my face, “you get that soft smile whenever he walks in. Yep. That one you’re doing right now.”
“I’m not—ugh, Ivy!”
She laughed, delighted. “Just wear something cute, okay? We want him to stay trapped here forever.”
“Ivy!”
She winked. “Accidentally on purpose, of course.”
I shook my head, turning back toward the counter to hide the blush heating my cheeks. But the truth pressed warm and unfamiliar against my ribs.
An hour. Just one hour. And I was already looking forward to seeing him again. The snow kept falling outside, soft and steady, as if the whole town had decided to hold its breath for whatever came next.
“I’ll finish closing up here,” she said, already waving me toward the stairs. “Go get yourself dolled up and ready! You don’t want him thinking you smell like flour all the time.” She laughed, giving me a gentle push toward the door.