Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
When I eventually reached the bakery’s side door, night had settled over Pine Hollow in a soft blue hush.
Snow drifted lazily under the lamplight, catching in my hair and coat as I pressed the buzzer beside the door that led up to Brianna’s flat.
For a moment, all I heard was the faint crackle of the lamp behind me and the muffled hum of the wind.
Then her voice crackled through the speaker–warm, slightly breathless.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” I said. “It’s Oliver. I just… wasn’t sure if our plans for this evening were still… a thing.”
There was a pause long enough for my stomach to tighten. Then she said something I was not expecting.
“Come up,” she said. “You might as well. I’m already the talk of the town, so I might as well give them something to gossip about.”
I laughed quietly, not expecting the way relief washed through me. “Right. Be right up.”
The door clicked, and I climbed the narrow stairs, shaking loose some of the snow. By the time I reached the landing, my pulse had settled into something steady. Warm. Anticipatory.
She opened the door before I knocked.
And suddenly everything softened.
Her flat glowed. That was the first thing I noticed. The scent that hit me the second I stepped in, the same quiet sweetness of vanilla, cinnamon, and pine. Like the bakery, but deeper, more personal.
“Sorry for the mess,” she said, though nothing about the space resembled a mess.
“It’s…” I shook my head, taking it all in. “This is really cosy.”
She closed the door behind me, and the moment she did, the flat felt smaller. Not in a bad way, just… closer.
“It’s home,” she said softly.
My gaze drifted along the wall by the entrance, and stopped completely.
Photographs. Dozens of them. Clipped to strings of fairy lights, framed neatly in clusters, little memories captured forever.
Brianna as a teenager on a windswept cliffside, hair in a messy braid.
Brianna in a chef’s jacket, covered in flour and laughing.
Brianna with her mother–tired smile, bright eyes, warmth in every inch of the woman’s face.
Her at graduation, cheeks flushed with pride.
Travel photos–Ireland, Edinburgh, Paris, Bali and more exotic places.
Candid moments in her kitchen.
The bakery’s re-opening day.
And so many more.
It was like seeing her life laid out in pieces–simple and honest and completely unguarded. I stepped closer before I even realised, I had.
“You’ve… lived,” I murmured, tracing each photograph with my eyes. “These are incredible.”
She stood beside me now, closer than before. “Just moments that matter.”
Important moments, I wanted to say but the words stuck somewhere in my throat, because every photo felt like a softness, she didn’t always let people see.
The kind of softness you protected. I looked at one picture, a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes and a tired smile, her hand resting on Brianna’s shoulder. Her mother.
“You look like her,” I said quietly.
Brianna exhaled, not quite a smile, not quite sadness. “She loved taking pictures. Said they made time feel less slippery.”
I nodded, because suddenly the silence felt sacred.
I followed her into the living room, my steps slow.
Warm lamplight poured over the cosy living room, making the tartan blankets and soft pillows look impossibly inviting.
A small Christmas tree twinkled in one corner, decorated with mismatched ornaments that could only belong to a life lived honestly, not curated.
Candles flickered on the coffee table beside two half-finished recipe books and a plate of gingerbread-shaped coasters.
The kitchen glowed warmly, ivy trailing down shelves, cookbooks stacked near a pale-yellow kettle.
“You’ve built a home here,” I said. “Piece by piece.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I tried.”
There was something in her voice–something fragile–that made me want to step closer, to understand more. This made me realise I had to make sure she didn’t lose this place.
Instead, I cleared my throat gently. “It’s lovely.”
She smiled, soft and real, and moved to the tiny kitchen.
“Hot chocolate? I have whisky too”
I felt a laugh slip out, quiet, warm. “Sounds great.”
As she filled a sauce pan up with milk, ready to heat, I leaned against the doorway, taking her in. The way the candlelight warmed her hair. The way she hummed under her breath as she reached for mugs. The natural ease she carried in a space that held so much of her history.
“Brianna?” I said before I could second-guess myself.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Hmm?”
I swallowed, because for once, honesty felt easy.
“I’m really glad you invited me up.”
Something tender flickered in her eyes. Something that tightened my chest in the gentlest, most dangerous way.
“You’re eh, welcome,” she said quietly.
And for a moment, with the snow falling softly outside and the warmth of her flat wrapping around us like a blanket, I realised I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” I said quietly, leaning a shoulder against the doorway as she worked at the stove. “I could see how uncomfortable those women were making you.”
Brianna let out a breath that turned into a soft laugh as she poured the steaming milk from the saucepan into two mismatched mugs. The scent of rich cocoa bloomed instantly, mixing with the candlelight and the faint pine of her Christmas tree.
“They’re harmless,” she said, shaking her head with a small smile as she spooned in the cocoa powder. “Honestly, if it weren’t me, they’d be gossiping about some other poor old sod.”
“Old gossip’s I take it?” I raised an eyebrow. “I know some like that back home.”
She shot me a look over her shoulder, playful and sharp. “Let's just say, if you want to know something about someone, they will tell you.”
She uncorked a tiny bottle of whisky and poured a measured splash into each mug, swirling the cocoa until it turned glossy and dark. Then she carried them over to the coffee table, moving around the small room with the practiced grace of someone who fit perfectly inside her own space.
“Careful,” she warned. “They’re still quite hot.”
I took a seat on the sofa as she set the mugs down. When she joined me, sitting just close enough that our knees nearly brushed, the cushion dipped toward her weight, and I felt the pull of her presence like gravity shifting.
She tucked a leg beneath herself, curled comfortably into her side of the couch, and for a moment all I could do was look at her, cheeks warm from the stove, hair a little tousled, eyes catching the glow of the fairy lights.
The room felt impossibly soft. Safe, even.
I reached for my mug. “You’re sure you're not still upset about earlier?”
She shook her head. “Upset? Course not, just embarrassed, maybe. They’re very good at what they do.”
“I wasn’t sure they’d leave you alone unless I stepped in.”
“Their interrogation skills are good,” she corrected. “Honestly, half the police force could learn a thing or two from the Pine Hollow knitting club.”
A laugh escaped me, low, real. “That’s exactly what it seemed like to me.”
“Oh, trust me,” she added, wrapping her hands around her mug. “They’re going to multiply their story before breakfast tomorrow.”
I feigned dread. “Should I prepare myself?”
“Probably.” A teasing smirk curved her lips. “By morning, we’ll be married with twins.”
I nearly choked on my first sip. And she laughed–really laughed–the sound so bright and warm it landed in my chest and stayed there.
I studied her from the corner of my eye, unable not to. “They all seem to adore you though.”
She shrugged, staring into her mug. “I grew up here. They watched me run around the bakery as a kid. Helped my mum when she got sick. They’re nosy, stubborn… but they care.” Her gaze flickered up, softer now. “And they’re protective. Very protective.”
“Of you?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Good,” I said before I could stop myself.
She blinked. “Good?”
“Someone should be,” I whispered.
Her breath caught–small, sharp, but unmistakably there. Her eyes briefly flicked to my mouth before she looked back into her cocoa, cheeks warming under the fairy lights.
The moment held, stretched, softened. Then she took another sip, hiding a shy smile behind the mug.
And I realised something as the warmth spread through me, from the whisky, yes, but also from her: This wasn’t nothing, not anymore.
Whatever this was, whatever this was becoming I wasn’t sure I could pretend I didn’t feel it.
Not tonight. Not here. Not sitting beside her in a room full of memories and gentle light.