Chapter 3
CHRISTOPHER
Christopher reappeared in the kitchen doorway five minutes later, pushing up the sleeves of his long t-shirt after dealing with the laundry. The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the inn, and he could see Isabella working at the counter, completely absorbed in whatever she was doing.
He’d spent most of his adult life moving from place to place, never staying anywhere long enough to form attachments. It was easier that way, cleaner. No complications, no expectations, no one left behind when orders came through.
But something about Isabella had caught his attention from the moment he and Gabe had walked into the inn last night, and her eyes had lit up as she’d been expecting them.
Maybe it was the way she’d welcomed them so warmly despite being complete strangers, speaking of Holly, Trinity, and Charlie as if she’d known them for years instead of days.
Her genuine warmth had felt curiously like coming home, and Christopher had felt something he’d never experienced before: the desire for someone to come home to.
Someone like Isabella. The thought caught him off guard, unsettling in its intensity.
Or maybe it was simpler than that: she was beautiful, and he wasn’t as dead inside as he thought he was.
“So what exactly are you making that requires being up before the sun?” Christopher moved closer to her workspace, genuinely curious as he examined the rectangle of dough she’d been working on.
“Croissants,” Isabella replied, using her forearm to brush back a stray hair that had escaped her ponytail. “Fresh ones for breakfast. The guests seem to really love them.”
Christopher’s eyebrows rose. “You make croissants from scratch? Like actual, real croissants?”
“As opposed to fake ones?” She smiled, and the expression transformed her face.
“I always just thought those flaky delicacies were made by bakery elves.” He kept his expression completely serious, but let humor dance in his eyes. “You know, they sneak in at night, wave their little magic whisks, and poof! Croissants appear in the morning.”
Her laugh burst out bright and genuine, and Christopher felt something warm unfurl in his chest. That laugh—he wanted to hear it again.
“Sorry to shatter your illusions,” Isabella said when she could speak again. “No elves. Just an insomniac chef with a lot of butter.”
He leaned against the counter, watching her work with the same focused attention he’d learned in the Marines. Observation was key to understanding people, and something told him Isabella Turner was someone worth understanding.
“It looks complicated.”
“Since you gave me that self-defense lesson, why don’t I return the favor and teach you how to make croissants?
” Isabella seemed surprised by her offer, which actually sounded more like a challenge, and Christopher was never one to back down from a challenge.
Even if he couldn’t cook to save his or anyone else’s life. There was a first time for everything.
Christopher found himself grinning. He glanced at his abandoned laundry bag and the two washing machines that were still on their first load and pushed away from the counter. “Okay.”
“Really?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. Did she think he was going to walk away?
“Yeah, I love learning new things.” He eyed the dough with raised eyebrows before turning to grin at her warningly. “Though I should warn you, my cooking skills pretty much end at MREs and instant coffee.”
“Then this will be an adventure.” Isabella moved to the sink, and Christopher followed. “First rule of baking: clean hands.”
They stood side by side at the sink, and Christopher was acutely aware of how small she was next to him. His shoulder brushed hers as they washed their hands, and he felt her slight intake of breath. The kitchen suddenly felt warmer, or maybe that was just him.
This is dangerous territory, Christopher. But his warning thoughts faded as she smiled up at him.
“Okay,” Isabella said, her voice slightly breathless. “The key to croissants is the lamination. That’s the process of folding butter into dough to create all those flaky layers.”
She showed him how to roll the dough, keeping it even and not too thin. Christopher’s first attempt was crooked, one side notably thicker than the other. His hands were made for weapons and tactical gear, not delicate pastry work.
“Like this?” He looked at her uncertainly.
“Almost. Here.” Isabella moved closer to him without warning, her hands covering his on the rolling pin.
Christopher tensed instinctively, but then forced himself to relax.
Her body was close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her and smell the flour and vanilla that clung to her skin.
“You need even pressure. Feel that?” Isabella’s voice was soft near his ear.
“Yeah, I think so.” Christophers’s voice came out rougher than intended.
They moved together, rolling the dough in smooth strokes.
Christopher became intensely aware of every point of contact: her hands on his, smaller and softer but surprisingly strong.
Her body was close enough that if he shifted slightly, they’d be pressed together.
The way her breath seemed to catch when she adjusted his grip. ..
Easy, Christopher. This is a baking lesson. You’re leaving in three weeks. Don’t start something you can’t finish.
“Perfect,” she said softly, stepping back.
Christopher felt the loss of her warmth immediately and had to resist the urge to pull her back.
The lesson continued, with Isabella demonstrating how to fold the dough and create the layers that would puff and separate in the oven.
Christopher focused on following her instructions, using the same attention to detail that had kept him alive through three deployments.
His hands were steady and careful, more careful than they’d been with anything in a long time.
“You’re a natural,” Isabella told him as he completed his third fold.
“I have a good teacher.” He looked at her, meaning it. The smile she gave him made something shift in his chest.
They worked in comfortable silence for a while.
Christopher found the rhythm soothing: the whisper of flour on the counter, the distant rumble of the washing machine, the quiet presence of Isabella beside him.
It felt domestic in a way he’d never experienced.
He’d spent his entire adult life avoiding exactly this kind of moment, the intimacy of shared tasks, the comfort of easy companionship.
He never stayed anywhere long enough for domestic.
When it came time to shape the croissants, Isabella showed him how to cut the triangles and roll them into the classic crescent shape. Their fingers brushed, and Christopher felt the spark of contact like static electricity.
“Mine looks like a mutant,” he said, holding up his first attempt. It was lopsided, one end significantly fatter than the other.
Isabella laughed again, and Christopher decided he could get addicted to that sound.
“It has character. Besides, they all taste the same once they’re baked,” Isabella assured him.
“That’s what you tell all the bakery students who can’t roll a straight croissant?” Christopher eyed his pastry.
“It’s the truth,” Isabella shrugged. “Besides, you’ve done really well for your first time. It takes years to perfect them.”
They finished shaping the croissants, Christopher acutely aware of every accidental touch, every time their hands brushed or their shoulders bumped. When the tray was full, Isabella slid it into the oven with practiced ease, setting the timer.
“Twenty minutes,” she announced. “Just enough time to move your laundry to the dryer.”
“Right.” He’d forgotten about it entirely. “Thanks for reminding me.”
They walked to the laundry room together, and Isabella helped him with the dryer settings, their heads close together as she explained the different options. Christopher could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks in the dim light.
“You know a lot about laundry for a chef,” he observed.
“I’m a single mom,” Isabella said, matter-of-factly. “You learn to be an expert at everything. Or at least pretend to be.”
Something in her tone made Christopher want to ask more questions. Where was Maddy’s father? What had happened? But it was too soon, too personal. Instead, he just nodded.
When they returned to the kitchen, Isabella moved to the coffee station. “Want some? It’s my own special blend, freshly ground.”
“Absolutely.” Christopher watched her work the professional espresso machine with the same focus and precision she’d brought to the croissants. She moved with confidence here, completely in her element.
“You really do everything around here, don’t you?” Christopher asked.
“Not everything. Jane manages the inn, Julie handles the books, and Logan does maintenance.” She handed him a cup, their fingers brushing again. That spark. “I just cook.”
Christopher took a sip, and his eyes widened. The coffee was extraordinary. Rich and complex with notes he couldn’t quite identify, but that somehow worked perfectly together. “Okay, this is incredible. Like, seriously incredible. What did you do to it?”
“Secret blend.” Isabella looked pleased by his reaction. “My grandmother’s recipe from Italy, with a few modifications.”
“Your grandmother must have been a genius.” Christopher took another appreciative sip. “This might be the best coffee I’ve ever had, and trust me, I’ve had coffee all over the world.”
Her smile widened, genuine and unguarded, and Christopher felt that shift in his chest again. Like something that had been locked away was trying to break free.