Chapter 6 #2
“On Lane?” I ask, suddenly worried that this is now even more complicated. Then again, Jess is happily married to Liam, so what would it matter?
“I had a silly crush on his father, Lane Sheridan Senior, back in high school.” She waves her hand dismissively.
Whit arches an eyebrow. “By then, he was already thirty.”
Flustered, Jess says, “It was completely ridiculous, but he was a hotshot player and I thought he was so dreamy with the ‘stache and flow.’”
“Ah, the hair and the mustache. I get it.” Whit tries to suppress a smile, likely thinking about her husband James Reddford, who is renowned for his various hairstyles both on his head and his face.
“That’s actually kind of sweet,” Gracie says.
“Nothing wrong with an age gap,” Jess says.
Whit mutters, “That one wasn’t just wide, it was illegal.”
Jess rolls her eyes. “Obviously, nothing happened. I never even met the man in real life. Just a silly little crush.”
Bree waggles her eyebrows. “Both Senior and Junior look remarkably alike. Just saying.”
There’s no question that Lane Sheridan Junior is an attractive man.
But he’s not my man.
Just my husband.
For now.
However, I’m not really listening anymore. Because the name Sheridan set off an alarm bell in my head, and not for the reasons Jess might think, as a vague memory slowly comes into focus.
Lane Sheridan Senior isn’t just any legendary NHL player.
He’s one of the players Papa used to talk about—with a mixture of respect and wariness.
The kind of player who had talent and success but also a reputation for being difficult, demanding, and never satisfied with anything less than perfection.
The kind of player Papa worried I might fall for, because they seem larger than life until you realize that hockey is all they have to offer.
The kind who had a reputation for not just being a player on the ice, but in real life, in relationships.
A man who had no compunction about being with the mother of another player’s child.
My mouth goes dry as realization dawns like a blazing shaft of morning light in a dark room.
“Nina?” Bree’s voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away. “You look pale. Need a coffee? More cocoa? One of those matcha lattes I keep hearing about?”
My voice is faint when I say, “No. Thanks. Suzie Bass.”
“What? Who?” Gracie asks.
Before I can explain about my mother, a certain Mustangs player, and the promise that’s shaped my entire dating life, my phone buzzes with a text message that makes me jump because my head was somewhere else … on someone else.
Lane: Running about an hour late. Sorry. See you soon.
I stare at the message, part of me hoping he’s changed his mind entirely. But why would I care if he backs out? This whole situation is temporary, anyway. I hastily reply.
Me: No worries. Be sure to use the side door when you get to the bakery.
“Was that him?” Bree asks, reading over my shoulder.
“He’s late.”
“You’re already texting. So romantic,” Gracie says.
Voice practically a whine, I say, “Nothing about this is romantic. We’re meeting to discuss options.”
However, even as I speak the words, I feel a flutter of nervous anticipation in my stomach that has nothing to do with legal proceedings and everything to do with seeing Lane again.
I practically have to sweep the girls out the door with Bibi’s whisk broom, but not before they extract promises that I’ll call with updates and accept help if I need it.
Good friends are like that—they show up uninvited with Bundt cake and make clumpy cocoa and remind me that I’m not facing my problems alone …
even if they’re also instigating said problems.
When I get to the Busy Bee, I breathe in the ever-present scent of cinnamon and comfort, like a hug from Bibi that has never faded.
But soon it may be a thing of the past. The landlord was generous with Bibi—never raised her rent once in all the years she operated the bakery.
When I took over, they started with small increases, which I could manage.
But late last year, they hit me with a thirty percent hike out of nowhere, and I haven’t been able to afford it while not cutting back elsewhere.
Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t paid myself in months and have been living off savings.
I work by candlelight in the morning to save on electricity, and I made some adjustments to the dry goods orders, like cups and napkins.
But I can’t compromise on the quality of the baked goods’ ingredients.
I use Bibi’s recipes and don’t want to change what works. What customers have come to expect.
There are other potential locations I could investigate around town, especially by the highway, but they weren’t my grandmother’s prime spot right here in town. Her fingerprints are all over this place.
The little pair of felt nisser (gnomes) with red caps, patterned with white, sit on the shelf above the coffee station.
Bibi used to insist they were mischievous and made me a promise that if I were a good girl and gave them risengr?d (sweet porridge) every Christmas Eve, they wouldn’t cause too much trouble.
She got a Royal Copenhagen porcelain set on her wedding day and I still have one teacup left—she’d drink out of it in the afternoon while reviewing the day and preparing for the next in the tiny office.
The beeswax candles she’d order every December and burn until the first day of spring are in their holders. I carry on the tradition—all of them because I can’t let go of the past when the future is so uncertain.
But the signs of Bibi, the reminders, and the way the candlelight flickers when I light them give me hope. I simply cannot imagine this place closing, saying goodbye to the bustle of customers, the ring of the register, and above all, baking.
An hour and thirty minutes later, I’ve baked up yet another storm when there’s a light knock on the side door. My heart immediately starts pounding in my chest, and I realize the timer is also beeping. I quickly pull a batch of cookies from the oven and take a deep breath before I trust my voice.
I call, “Come in. It’s open.”
Lane steps through the door, and suddenly, my kitchen feels even smaller. He’s tall—I remember that from last night—but seeing him in my space, surrounded by mixing bowls and recipe cards and Bibi’s old photograph, makes me realize just how big he really is.
He’s wearing jeans and a simple gray sweater under a canvas winter jacket. His green eyes land on me and he looks slightly nervous. Which is oddly comforting, because it means I’m not the only one who feels like they’re navigating uncharted territory.
Pulling off my oven mitts, I feel slightly miffed that he was ninety minutes late, but I also can’t resist showing hospitality—it was the way I was raised. “Have a cross-check cookie.”
He blinks at me. “A what?”
“A cross-check cookie. It’s a new recipe I’m trying out.
” I gesture to the cooling rack full of half butter cookies and half chocolate cookies in the shape of X’s that I’m considering drizzling chocolate over them, then adding a sprinkle of shaved coconut.
Feeling frantic and like my wires are crossing after the doozy of a weekend and the worry about this place closing, I blurt, “I’m thinking about naming all my bakery specials after hockey penalties. ”
I’m joking, mostly, but now that Lane is here, I feel more twisted than a custard-filled Danish pastry knot.
A slow smile spreads across his face. “People in Cobbiton really go all in for hockey.”
“Are you surprised?”
“A little,” he admits, accepting the cookie I offer him. “Are you a fan?”
“Yes. No.” I shake my head. “Both?”
“How does that work?” He takes a bite of the cookie and makes a soft sound of appreciation that makes my pulse leap out of the window.
“I like the game itself, the strategy, the teamwork, and that kind of thing.” I see the same light in his eyes that sparked in my father’s at the crack of the puck against his stick and the rush of flying down the ice.
The same one I experienced, but it was extinguished all too soon. “How about you?”
He nods. “I couldn’t have said it better. But I could do without the cameras, the superficial interviews, and the constant scrutiny of my every move on and off the ice—” He lets out a breath that suggests each of those words weighed more than the invisible letters spoken.
Thinking about my promise to my father and how everything went so wrong between him and my mother, I say, “I could see how you’d like to do without all that.”
Looking surprisingly thoughtful, he says, “Sometimes I just want to hit rewind and be the kid who wasn’t under constant scrutiny and pressure.” He tips his head as if that’s nothing more than wishful thinking.
I wonder if he’s referring to expectations his father may have placed on him. “Well, what do I know about pro hockey? I’m small-town potatoes—”
“Isn’t Cobbiton known for its corn?” His lips ripple.
I try not to grin because I’m not sure if he was intentionally making a joke or is being serious.
“And amazing baked goods. I’ve driven by and seen how busy this place gets. You’re not small-town potatoes or corn. More like delicious Danish buns.” Lane’s eyes widen. “I mean, pastries. I don’t know what I—” The tips of his ears go pink.
With a warm shiver, because there’s no mistaking the subtext, I help us both recover and say, “I know what you mean. I’d also like to eliminate the business side of things and just bake.”
“Leave you to the kitchen and leave me to fresh ice, and we’re both in our happy places.”
I’m reminded of last night’s conversation with Lucian Little. So he does remember? There’s something vulnerable in the way Lane speaks, like he’s admitting something he doesn’t usually share.
My father’s voice echoes in my mind and I worry I’m being played. “I’m surprised to find we agree. Then again, you could just be telling me what you think I want to hear.”