Chapter 8
Emmaline
The bakery was quiet at last.
Late afternoon was always the lull—school wasn’t out yet, working folks wouldn’t trickle in for bread on their way home for another hour, and what few tourists had wandered our way had thinned with the oppressive summer heat that made even the locals move slower.
I sagged against the counter, my shoulders drooping as I allowed myself this precious moment to just breathe without performing.
The cool marble felt good against my palms as I pressed them flat, steadying myself.
My cheeks still ached from the forced brightness I’d plastered on for every neighbor who’d stopped in today.
They’d come ostensibly to order a pie or a loaf of my grandmother’s famous sourdough, but really they’d come to gawk.
To ask about the will with that particular mix of curiosity and concern that small towns specialized in.
How are you holding up, Emmaline?
Did Evelyn really put that marriage clause in writing?
You know it’s not fair—everybody knows you’re the one who’s been running this place since you were sixteen.
Each word had been kindly meant, wrapped in genuine care and indignation.
I appreciated their outrage on my behalf.
But their sympathy hadn’t eased the sick knot that had taken up permanent residence in my stomach.
If anything, it made everything worse. Their pity was another mirror held up to the brutal truth: my whole world was sliding out from under me like flour through a sieve, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do to stop it.
I busied myself wiping down the spotless glass display case again, my cloth moving in slow, methodical circles though there wasn’t so much as a crumb to be found.
The pastries sat in perfect rows—chocolate croissants, apple turnovers, the last few slices of today’s lemon pound cake.
All of it, just as Gran had taught me, down to the precise spacing and the way the light caught the glazes.
Anything to keep my hands moving and my mind from fixating on the countdown happening in my brain.
Six months. That was what Mr. Whitlock had said, his voice neutral as he’d read the terms that would decide my fate.
Six months to somehow transform myself from Emmaline Maddox, spinster baker, into someone’s wife—or watch fifty years of family legacy, sweat, and dreams get handed over to my mother and vindictive aunt, who’d never so much as willingly mixed a batch of cookie dough in their lives.
And that didn’t even begin to cover the smaller, more immediate terror of where the hell I was supposed to live when it all fell apart.
The bell over the door jingled, and I straightened, fixing the fake smile in place.
My heart gave a startled leap, then seemed to forget how to beat properly as I saw Bodie stepping through the doorway.
Of course. Because apparently the universe had decided that today—this particular day when I felt like I was balanced on the edge of a cliff with nothing but air beneath me—was the perfect time to throw him into my path again.
I saw him often enough. It was impossible not to in a town like this, where his badge and uniform and the fact that he was a Gibson made him omnipresent.
The man seemed to be everywhere at once, a constant reminder of authority and order in a place where everyone knew everyone else’s business.
But in the last few weeks, ever since Gran’s funeral, it felt like I couldn’t turn around without running into him.
At the gas station, where he’d given me that careful nod of acknowledgment while I fumbled with the pump.
On Main Street, where our paths had crossed three separate times as I’d hurried between errands.
At the grocery store, where I’d caught him watching me struggle to reach something on the top shelf before stepping in to help without a word.
Always steady, always unfailingly polite, always carrying that air of responsibility like it weighed as much as the service weapon holstered at his hip. Like the whole town rested on his shoulders, and he’d accepted that burden without question.
And now here he was, stepping into what had always been my sanctuary, my safe harbor in a world that seemed determined to knock me down at every turn. And at his side trotted that adorable and endlessly loyal dog of his.
“Not you,” I muttered under my breath, but Rubble didn’t seem to take any offense to my less-than-enthusiastic greeting.
The dog’s entire body wiggled with unbridled joy, her tail wagging so hard it threatened to knock her off balance as she padded straight over to me with the kind of unconditional affection I’d forgotten existed.
She sat with almost military precision at my feet, then ruined the formal posture by leaning her solid weight into my legs like we were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in far too long.
Despite everything, I couldn’t resist leaning down to give her velvet ears a scratch. She really was the sweetest thing.
The sound of the door lock flipping jerked my attention back to Bodie.
“What the hell are you doing?” My voice came out all jagged edges over a too-tired heart, but I didn’t have it in me to soften them.
“Giving us some privacy.” He crossed the room in three long strides and held out a to-go cup. “I brought you this.”
Suspicion prickled over my skin. “What is it?”
“Tea.” His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Extra sugar. Just the way you like it.”
I blinked. Extra sugar. Nobody made it that way for me anymore. I hadn’t taken it that sweet in years. But the words unlocked something in the back of my mind, a memory so vivid it hit me like scent.
I was ten again, all knobby knees and tangled hair, curled up in a tight ball in the woods behind our house. My knees had been drawn up to my chest, arms wrapped around my shins as I’d shaken from something that had nothing to do with the cool spring air filtering through the new leaves overhead.
Mom had been on one of her tears that night—one of those frightening episodes when her voice became a whip and every word that fell from her lips was designed to cut deep, to find the most vulnerable spots and press until something broke.
The kitchen had become a battlefield, her anger ricocheting off the walls like shrapnel, and I’d finally bolted when I couldn’t take another second of it.
Too raw, too overwhelmed to do anything but run.
And Bodie had found me there in my hiding spot, huddled against the trunk of the old oak tree where I’d carved my initials the summer before.
He’d shown up in those scuffed sneakers he wore everywhere and the faded blue hoodie that was three sizes too big for his gangly frame.
He’d dropped down beside me on the carpet of last year’s leaves like he’d been out for a casual evening stroll, no big deal, nothing to see here.
He hadn’t asked questions, hadn’t tried to pry the story out of me with well-meaning but invasive concern.
Instead, he’d reached into his backpack and pressed half of his peanut butter sandwich into my trembling hands, then poured steaming tea from a dented thermos.
It had been almost like syrup, more sugar than tea, but I’d sipped it anyway because he’d looked so proud of himself for bringing it, so pleased to have something to offer that might help.
And then he’d tugged off that oversized hoodie and draped it over my shoulders, wrapping me in warmth that smelled like fresh air and laundry soap.
He’d sat there with me in comfortable silence as the shadows stretched long and dark between the trees, until the distant sound of Mom’s fury had quieted and the house had settled into an uneasy peace.
It had been the first time in my young life that I’d believed someone might stay when things got hard, might not run when the going got rough.
Now, two decades later, he was standing in my bakery holding out another cup of too-sweet tea like it was a lifeline thrown to someone drowning in deep water.
I found myself curling my hands around the warm cup before rational thought could intervene.
The heat seeped through the cardboard and into my palms, warming me in places I hadn’t even realized had gone cold and numb.
For one precious moment, I almost forgot about the wreckage of the last week.
Almost forgot about the impossible terms of the will, the impending deadline, the very real possibility that everything I’d ever known and loved was about to slip through my fingers like sand.
Almost.
“Thank you.” I warily brought the cup to my lips with hands that weren’t quite steady.
The sugar hit my tongue like a sweet punch, almost cloying after years of drinking my tea with about a quarter this amount of sugar, but I forced myself to swallow past the tightness in my throat.
“What are you doing here, Bodie? I have way too much on my plate right now to add anything else to the pile.”
His gaze didn’t waver from mine. “I heard about the will. About the stipulation. Is it true?”
Of course, the news was already making the rounds.
The steady stream of customers who’d been trickling through all morning had already proved that much.
In a town like Gibson Hollow, secrets traveled faster than lightning during a summer storm, and my mother had probably been the one to strike the match that lit the fuse.
“Unfortunately.” I forced what I hoped was a brittle but convincing smile, the kind that said I was handling everything just fine, thank you very much.
“So if you want one of those cinnamon rolls you used to love so much, you’d better get them now while the getting’s good.
My mother isn’t capable of running this place herself, and somehow I doubt it’s going to survive her tender care. ”
The words scraped out of me sharper and more bitter than I’d intended, tasting like ashes and disappointment on my tongue.