Chapter 3
three
. . .
Emmy
The second I push open the back door of Dockside the next morning, Evie is already pacing the kitchen like she’s preparing to testify before Congress.
I don’t even get a foot inside before she gasps, throws her arms into the air, and blurts, “THE BAKERY CAUGHT FIRE AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO WAKE ME UP?”
Here we go.
“I didn’t want to scare you,” I say gently, stepping around her so I can set my tote on the counter. “And it wasn’t even a big fire, just a little—”
“A little fire?” She clamps her hands on top of her head. “Emmy, there is no such thing as a little fire. There are big fires and there are disasters. You had a disaster.”
I bite back a laugh. It’s not really funny but if I don’t laugh, I will absolutely start crying. Again. “The firefighters didn’t think so.”
She levels me with a glare that says she absolutely knows who was on that call. “Oh, right. Hayes didn’t think so.”
And there it is.
The elephant in the room, wearing turnout gear and smelling like pine and smoke.
“We’ll come back to that in a moment. Emmaline Addison Alder, it’s bad enough that you didn’t wake me up last night when this all happened, but then you didn’t even mention it this morning!”
“I, uhm.” I look down at the floor and run the toe of my shoe across a leftover smudge from the night before.
“I was hoping I’d beat you here and could explain everything.
But I got stuck in traffic on the way back from Boston.
I called in a favor and found a place that was willing to open early just for me, so I could get a new mixer and more supplies than the general store currently has. ”
“Right. Not buying it.” Evie scowls. “You think I didn’t notice you creeping around the house this morning like a guilty little mouse? You’re a terrible liar, Em.”
I wince. “I wasn’t creeping.”
“You were absolutely creeping,” she fires back, pacing again. “Tiptoeing. Avoiding eye contact. Acting like someone who survived—oh, I don’t know—a fire and then tried to pretend it was just another day.”
“I didn’t want you to worry,” I say softly.
But that’s only half the truth.
The other half is a knot sitting low in my stomach, tight and tangled.
I hate being the reason Evie panics. She’s already shouldered more than she ever should’ve had to—losing Dad so young, watching Mom drown in grief for years, taking care of me when I couldn’t even figure out how to take care of myself.
She’s the strong one. The steady one. The one who always knows what to do. Even though she’s my little sister.
And I’m… well, I’m me.
The girl who sets timers and still forgets they’re going off. The girl who overbooks holiday orders because saying no feels like disappointing someone. The girl who can bake twelve kinds of Christmas cookies in her sleep but can’t seem to stop needing people.
Needing Evie. Mom. Hayes.
So no, I didn’t want to wake her up when I got home and tell her the bakery almost went up in flames.
Not when I knew the look she’d give me—the one she’s giving me now.
Equal parts terror and annoyance and fierce, protective sisterly energy that makes my chest ache so much that I can barely breathe.
Evie spins so fast her braid whips over her shoulder.
“Too late! I have already achieved maximum worry. I am at Worry Level Ten. I am the Olympic gold medalist of worrying.” She gestures wildly around the kitchen.
“Look at this place! It still smells like smoke—not Hayes’s smoke smell, but actual smoke.
There is no way we can open today. Maybe not even the rest of the week! ”
I press a hand to my forehead. “Evie—”
“No. I’m not done,” she stabs a finger at me. “You always stay late when we’ve got holiday orders,” she continues, softer now, but still wound tight. “And I get it. I do. But you should’ve called. Or texted. Or…something. I walked in and saw the scorch marks and I—”
Her voice breaks, just a little.
Instant guilt crashes over me. “Hey,” I murmur, stepping closer. “I’m okay. Really. The fire was tiny. Hayes handled it before it even had a chance to spread.”
“Evie.”
“What? I’m allowed to notice the man’s a walking safety blanket. A very muscled, very broody, very—”
The back door opens.
Evie freezes mid-rant.
I turn.
And there he is.
Still in his navy station jacket, hair damp from a morning shower and a look on his face that says he’s been counting down the minutes until he could get a good look at me again and make sure I’m still in one piece.
Evie whispers, “Oh. My. God.”
I whisper, “Please behave.”
But it’s already too late. Hayes lifts a paper bag filled with what smells like breakfast from the diner near the firehouse. He’s got a tray of coffee in the other hand.
He gives me the softest, most devastating half-smile. “Morning, Em,” he says, his voice filled with warmth and lingering concern. “Evie.” He nods at her.
Evie’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again like her brain is rebooting. A full system overload.
To be fair, Hayes showing up unannounced at seven a.m. with breakfast and that devastatingly handsome face would short-circuit most people's operating systems.
“Morning,” she croaks, sounding nothing like her usual polished, scolding self.
I elbow her lightly. “Behave,” I whisper again.
She doesn’t blink. “I make no promises.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how my hair is definitely in a lopsided bun and I’m wearing sweats that I typically reserve for days when I’m doing nothing but cleaning and/or baking.
Meanwhile, Hayes looks like he just stepped out of a calendar titled Salt-of-the-Earth Men Who Ruin Lives by Existing.
He sets the coffees on the stainless-steel table like he’s been doing it for years, like he belongs here, behind the scenes in what is usually our flour-covered chaos. The paper bag follows with a soft crinkle.
“I brought breakfast,” he says, glancing at me first—always at me first—before flicking his gaze to Evie. “Figured you might need something hot after… everything.”
Evie finally finds her voice. “After everything?” she parrots, eyes wide. “Oh, you mean the part where THE BAKERY CAUGHT FIRE AND MY SISTER ALMOST DIED?”
“Evie,” I hiss.
Hayes’s jaw tightens, but not with annoyance—with the kind of fear he tries to hide behind professionalism. “She wasn’t close to dying,” he says gently. “It was under control.”
Evie lifts both hands to the ceiling like she’s appealing to a higher power. “UNDER CONTROL, HE SAYS.”
Oh good. She’s reached the dramatic-monologue portion of her meltdown.
I shoot Hayes an apologetic look. He shakes his head once, slow, reassuring. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “She’s right to be upset.”
Evie blinks rapidly, thrown off balance by his calm. “Well… yeah. I am. Because I was picturing every worst-case scenario. I was freaking out while Emmy was off pretending she hadn’t inhaled smoke all night—”
“I didn’t—”
“You DID,” she snaps. Then her voice softens on the edges again. “I just… I was scared.”
The knot in my stomach pulls tighter.
Hayes looks between us, reading the unspoken things like he always does. His voice goes quieter, steadier. “She’s okay,” he says, directing the words to Evie but looking at me. “I wouldn’t have left her last night if she wasn’t.”
My breath catches.
Evie notices.
Of course she does.
Her gaze sharpens, flipping from Hayes to me to Hayes again. Suspicion. Realization. Curiosity. Oh no. The trifecta.
“Oh,” she says slowly, like the universe has just handed her a very interesting puzzle. “Is that so?”
“Evie,” I warn.
But she’s not listening anymore. She’s staring at Hayes like she’s discovered a Hallmark movie subplot happening right under her nose.
Hayes clears his throat. “Rhett’s on his way with a bunch of things,” he says, stepping back into firefighter mode. “We’ll check the wiring, replace what needs replacing, make sure everything’s safe before you open.”
Evie blinks. “You… you’re doing all that?”
He nods once. “Yeah. Well, me and Rhett are.”
“For us?”
“For Em,” he says without thinking.
The air leaves my lungs.
Evie’s jaw drops.
And Hayes freezes a split second too late, the words already hanging between us—warm, unguarded, true.
I whisper, “Hayes…”
His eyes flick to mine, storm-gray and steady. “Let me help,” he says. “Please.”
There’s no universe in which I can refuse him.
Next to me, Evie mutters something under her breath that I don’t catch before grabbing a coffee, clutching it like a lifeline, and announcing, “I’ll…just be over here. Not…watching the two of you. At all.”
She is absolutely going to watch.
He looks at me with those deep blue eyes. I can tell he doesn’t care who’s watching.
Evie retreats to the opposite counter, but she does it with the subtlety of a marching band. Every cabinet she opens is too loud. Every utensil she picks up clatters like she’s issuing a warning that she’s keeping an eye on both of us.
Hayes pretends not to notice.
Or maybe he really doesn’t. His focus has a way of narrowing to just me, even in a whole room full of noise.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asks, voice pitched low, just for me.
A blush crawls up my neck. “Some,” I lie.
He scans my face and I know he doesn’t buy it. “Try again.”
“Fine,” I huff. “A little. Maybe. Like an hour.”
Evie snorts loud enough to rattle the windows. “She paced the hallway twice, then stood in the bathroom mirror practicing her ‘I’m totally fine’ face. I should have known she was hiding something.”
“Evie!”
She holds up a spatula. “Just reporting the facts.”
Hayes’ mouth curves into a barely there smile. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says quietly.
Which is a problem, because pretending is the only thing keeping me held together by more than a thread.
I don’t get time to answer, though, because the back door opens again and heavy footsteps approach. Rhett Jennings—one of Hayes’ best friends, local handyman and hardware store owner—appears carrying a toolbox the size of a small horse.