19. Ember
Ember
“There’s something holy about being known in ordinary ways.
The exact sound of your footsteps. The way you take your coffee.
Which pocket you hide your hands in when you’re scared.”
— Ember
“More flour on five, kid!” Marge barks from the pastry station.
She has a cloud of white dust suspended around her hair like an aura, her forearms glistening with sweat as she cleaves a sheet of laminated butter dough into twelve perfect triangles.
I glance at the clock. 5:16 AM.
“And stop staring at the clock. It doesn’t give a damn if you’re tired.”
“The clock and I aren’t on speaking terms, Marge,” I yell back, hauling a twenty-five-pound sack of flour over my shoulder.
I slice the paper sack with my small pocket knife and dump it into the hopper, my thoughts instantly sliding back to last night on the porch.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel the solid weight of Brooks’s hands, the friction of his stubble, and the absolute chaos of Kevin spilling forty-two dollars worth of French culture all over the planks.
My face burns just thinking about the way his mouth tasted—deep, hungry, and completely stripping away that serious, quiet wall he usually keeps between us.
“You’re dragging your feet on the scaling,” Marge says.
She walks over to my station, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the flour-dusted tile. She reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a small, amber glass bottle of balm, setting it on the ledge next to my scale.
“Rub that into your knuckles. The yeast will draw every drop of moisture out of those city hands until they split right across the joints.”
I blink at the little jar, then up at her.
Her face is set in its default expression of skepticism, but she reaches out and shoves a stray curl behind my ear with a surprisingly gentle flick of her thumb.
“Go on. Don’t look at me like I’ve lost my mind. A baker with cracked fingers is useless.”
“Thank you, Marge,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
“Don’t get sappy,” she mutters, turning back to her bench. “Sappy dough doesn’t rise. Keep your head on the work.”
Marge never technically hired me in any official capacity.
There’s no schedule taped to the fridge. No proper onboarding process beyond her shoving an apron at my chest and grunting, “If you’re late, don’t bother coming.”
Mostly, she texts me at strange hours with messages that sound vaguely threatening.
5:02 AM — Need hands. Or: Can you work Thursday or do the goats need you again? Or sometimes just: 8 AM tomorrow.
At first, I thought the irregularity would bother me.
Back in Manhattan, every second of my life used to exist inside color-coded calendar blocks and fifteen-minute increments. Everything had structure. Meetings. Deadlines. Reservations made three weeks in advance.
Now, half the time I don’t know if I’m working until Marge sends me a text at four-thirty in the morning that simply says:
You awake, Ember?
And somehow, weirdly, I always am.
The bakery has become this strange, shifting thing in my life. Not quite a real job. Not charity either, despite Marge pretending she’s doing me a favor every time she lets me clock in beside her.
Some weeks I work one shift. Some weeks I work six days straight because tourist season rolls through Suncrest Hollow and everyone suddenly decides they need cinnamon rolls to survive.
Marge acts annoyed every single time I show up.
But she also started keeping oat milk for me in the fridge without mentioning it.
Which, from Marge, is basically an emotional support hug.
? ? ?
By seven-thirty, the sun is breaking through the high windows in long, yellow bars, turning the flour dust into a golden haze.
The front bell gives a triple chime, and I slide through the counter gate just as Amy leans over the wooden half-door that separates the kitchen from the shop.
Her dark hair is woven into an intricate crown braid, her white linen blouse is crisp, and she’s holding a leather tote bag.
“Tell me you have the raspberry danish,” she says. “The third-grade committee meeting is at eight, and if I don’t have sugar, I am going to lose my mind on the principal.”
“The danish has been secured,” I say, wiping my hands on my apron. I grab a wax-paper sheet and pull the largest, glossiest pastry from the rack, tucking it into a brown paper bag. “Complete with a dusting of sugar that matches my current stress levels.”
Amy takes the bag, inhaling the scent of butter with a theatrical sigh. She leans her elbows on the glass, her eyes narrowing as she looks at my hair, which is currently held back by a plastic claw clip in three different directions.
“You look like you’ve been handled by a small engine, Emmy. Is that actual dirt on your collar again?”
“It’s sourdough starter,” I say, leaning against the register. “But forget about the dirt. Did you see the monument this weekend?”
“The Chief?” Amy’s mouth twists into a smirk. She leans closer. “I saw the big truck parked down your lane during my grocery run. Don’t tell me he found another problem with your house.”
“The propane line was air-locked,” I whisper. “He brought Sophie. He used a very big wrench. And then he stood approximately four inches from my face and basically told me that I don’t belong in the valley because I’m a ‘financial anomaly’ from Manhattan.”
“Oh, he is so far gone,” Amy gasps, her hand flying to her collar. “He’s trying to scare you off because if you stay, he’s going to have to admit he’s a living, breathing person instead of just a town official. What else?”
“And… last night, we met up on the porch.”
Amy’s eyes widen. “No. Shut up. On the porch? In the open?”
“Yes! I was trying to make goat cheese, and he was sitting across the lane watching me. We started bickering, and then… things escalated. He pulled me right onto his lap.”
I bury my face in my hands, my voice a muffled wail. “Right there on the deck! Anyone could have driven down the lane. He was practically hyperventilating about people seeing us, but then he kissed me anyway, and it was… oh my God, Amy.”
“And?” Amy prods, slapping the counter. “Don’t leave me hanging at the good part!”
“And Kevin blew the entire operation!” I hiss, stepping back as Marge’s heavy tread echoes near the walk-in cooler. “He marched up the steps and knocked the bowl over. Three quarts of cheese, down the cracks of the deck. Brooks told me to get off his lap after that.”
Amy lets out a sharp gasp, clamping her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. “I am buying that goat a bag of premium oats. He is a master of timing. But listen to me—if Brooks is pulling you onto his lap on a porch where anyone could drive by, the man is losing his grip. He’s territorial.”
“He’s a walking hazard to my blood pressure,” I mutter.
“Keep up your work,” Amy winks, grabbing her bag and backing toward the door. “I want updates!”
? ? ?
I’m standing behind the counter, wiping down the glass.
A loud crack echoes from the back storage room, followed by a wet, high-pressure spraying sound.
I drop the rag and jog through the swinging doors. The main supply line feeding the dish sink has split at the coupling. A steady, violent stream of rusty water is spraying straight across the room, hitting the dry-storage shelves.
“Marge!” I yell, lunging forward and grabbing an empty twenty-quart bucket, shoving it under the spray. The water hits the plastic with a roar, soaking the front of my white apron.
The office door flies open. Marge takes one look at the geyser, curses with a proficiency that makes my jaw drop, and marches to the wall phone.
“Lawson,” she says flatly. “The supply line behind the sink just blew. I’ve got water hitting the cake boxes and the city girl is currently trying to catch it with a soup bucket. Get over here with your torch. No, I don’t care if you just got off your shift. Move it.”
She slams the phone down and looks at me, hands on her hips. “Stand there and keep that bucket aligned, Ember. I’m going to the alley to see if I can force the main valve, but that thing hasn’t moved in twenty years.”
She disappears, leaving me alone in the narrow, echoing corridor.
Four minutes later, the screen door bangs open. Brooks steps into the kitchen, carrying his red plastic toolbox.
He isn’t wearing his uniform; he’s in a faded black t-shirt that clings to his chest, and his jeans are smudged with grease. He looks exhausted, but his jaw is set in that hard, unyielding line.
He stops dead, his gaze raking over the scene—the bucket, the spray, and the sight of me on my knees, dripping wet and frantic. His eyes lock onto mine, and the air in the narrow room shifts, turning heavy and charged with the immediate, raw memory of last night.
His gaze drags down to my mouth for a split second—a look that’s half-hunger, half-annoyance—before he forces his eyes up to the pipe.
“Move the bucket,” he grunts, dropping his toolbox with a loud clink.
“Nice to see you too, Brooks.”
He drops to his knees next to me in the narrow space beneath the sink. He’s so close his shoulder brushes against mine, the heat from his skin cutting through the damp cotton of my apron.
“Marge is twisting the main, but there’s still five gallons of backpressure in the line,” he says. “Hold this pipe steady so the torque doesn’t twist it off the wall.”
I reach out, my fingers wrapping around the cold copper pipe right above his hand.
My knuckles brush his, and a shock goes up my arm. Brooks freezes, his eyes cutting sideways to look at me, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm.
“You’re shivering,” he murmurs, his eyes tracing the damp line of my collarbone.
“The water is freezing,” I whisper, though my skin feels on fire.
“Sure it is.”
He turns the wrench with one powerful thrust of his shoulder. The metal groans, and a final hiss of steam escapes, clouding the dark space beneath the sink.
The leak stops. The water slows to a lazy drip.
But Brooks doesn’t move. He stays there on his knees, trapped in the narrow space between the sink and the wall, blocking my exit with his frame.
His hand leaves the wrench, his fingers sliding slowly up my forearm, a rough palm catching my hip through the apron.
He pulls me an inch closer, his thumb hooking into the waistband of my shorts, pressing against the bare skin of my hip with a slow, heavy pressure that makes my legs go weak. He leans in until his face is inches from mine, his stubble brushing against my cheek, his scent filling my head.
“We’re in the middle of Marge’s kitchen,” I breathe, my hands flattening against his t-shirt, feeling the hard, rapid beat of his heart. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to see. Marge could be back in five seconds.”
“Marge is eighty yards down the alley fighting an iron valve,” he murmurs, his mouth tracing a path from my cheek to my jaw. “And you’re the one who keeps coming into my space, Emmy. You’re the one who came across the lane last night.”
“You’re the one who pulled me into your lap,” I laugh, breathless. My fingers tangle into the short hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. “You were terrified the neighbors would see, but you didn’t seem to care once you started tasting the cheese.”
Brooks looks down at me, his breathing rough. He looks at my mouth, his thumb resting against my hip, his expression shifting from raw heat into something more serious.
The banter slows, the atmosphere beneath the sink settling into a real weight.
He stays close, his forehead almost touching mine, but he stops the pressure of his hand. He looks at my gold curls, at the flour smudged near my ear, and then down at my hands.
“We really can’t do this, Emmy,” he says softly.
“You’ve got a whole life back in Manhattan.
You’re down here scrubbing goats and making a mess of my deck, but when October hits, and the wind starts howling…
you’re gonna pack up that truck and go back.
And I can’t have this town getting attached to seeing us together. ”
I look into his gray eyes, my hands staying steady on his broad shoulders.
“I’m not going back, Brooks,” I say quietly. “I like the mud line. I like the five-am shifts. I’m here.”
Brooks looks at me for one long, silent second, searching my face as if he’s trying to verify the integrity of the statement. A small, genuine smile breaks across his face, the tight line of his jaw melting into a slow, relaxed grin.
He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, before he pulls his hands back and picks up his wrench.
“We’ll see about that, city girl,” he murmurs, then he shifts, pushing himself up to a crouch before standing, offering me a hand to haul me off the tile.
The back screen door lets out a loud, slamming bang, and Marge’s heavy rubber soles squeak into the room.
Brooks steps back, snapping a rag out of his pocket and wiping his palms with professional precision.
His mask is back in place, but as he looks over Marge’s shoulder toward the exit, his eyes stay fixed on mine, full of a quiet, unsaid promise.