3. Lina
Lina
"The cinnamon rolls are lopsided today," Maya says, leaning over the glass display case with a critical squint. "The swirl on this one looks like a confused snail."
I don't look up from the chalkboard where I am writing the daily specials. "It has character, Maya. Real baking isn't symmetrical. If you want factory-perfect circles, go to the grocery store down the street and eat preservatives."
"I don't want preservatives. I want aesthetic consistency for my Instagram story." She taps the glass right above the offending pastry. "I'm tagging the shop. I have a brand to uphold, Lina."
"Your brand is selling overpriced linen dresses to tourists who get sunburned on the rocky beach," I say, wiping a speck of chalk dust off my fingers onto my apron. "My lopsided cinnamon rolls are not going to ruin your reputation."
"They might," she hums, but she slides a three-dollar bill across the wood anyway. "Give me the snail. And put a double shot of espresso in my cup. The fog out there is so thick I almost walked into the harbor on my way over."
I pop the pastry onto a small ceramic plate and set to work on her espresso.
Outside, the coastal Maine air is heavy and gray.
A dense, salty fog has rolled in off the Atlantic, swallowing the pier and turning the yellow streetlamps into blurry, glowing halos.
Inside The Mug & Page, though, the wood-burning stove is crackling, the air smells like roasted hazelnut and damp paper, and the soft hum of an indie playlist is keeping the chill at bay.
It’s my favorite kind of morning. The quiet ones, where the locals drift in, shaking the mist off their coats and speaking in hushed, respectful voices as they browse the shelves.
"Here," I say, sliding her coffee across the counter. "Double shot. Don't drink it too fast, or you'll start reorganizing my biography section again."
"That was one time, and honestly, alphabetical by author's last name is so outdated," she says, taking a sip and closing her eyes with a dramatic sigh. "Oh, god. That is the only thing keeping me alive today. Did the repairman ever show up for the radiator in the back?"
"No," I say, leaning my weight against the counter.
A small, familiar prick of frustration tightens my chest. "He canceled. Again. Said his truck broke down in Kennebunkport. I think he’s just dodging me because he knows the building next door is undergoing some massive renovation and he doesn't want to deal with the street parking. "
"Is someone actually moving into that place?" Maya asks, her curiosity instantly spiking. She points her cinnamon-roll fork toward the brick wall to our left. "I thought the landlord was letting it rot. It’s been empty since the old tailor retired three years ago."
"Someone bought the whole building last month," I say, wiping down the steam wand. "No one in town knows who. The paperwork went through some corporate LLC based out of Boston. They’ve had construction crews in and out at odd hours, but I haven't seen a single tenant."
"Probably some wealthy tech bro looking for summer property," Maya scoffs, shaking her head. "Just what we need. Another guy in boat shoes complaining about the lack of high-speed fiber internet."
"As long as he doesn't complain about my music, I don't care who he is," I say.
We spend the next hour in our usual comfortable rhythm.
I serve coffee to the morning regulars, making sure Mr. Henderson gets his extra napkin, and Mrs. Gable gets her decaf flat white, while Maya helps me organize the new arrivals in the thriller section.
This is my life. It is small, predictable, and entirely mine.
And that is exactly how I want it.
By five o'clock, the fog has turned into a steady, freezing drizzle. I lock the front doors, flip the sign to CLOSED, and bid Maya goodbye as she heads off to her boutique to lock up for the night.
I linger in the dimming shop for a few minutes, enjoying the absolute silence.
I dust the shelves, make sure the books are aligned with the edges of the dark wood, and pack a small cardboard box with three leftover pastries.
If I leave them, they’ll be stale by tomorrow, and I figured I could leave them on the doorstep of the old lady who lives on the first floor of my building.
I pull my yellow raincoat over my green sweater, hoist my canvas tote bag over my shoulder, and step out into the wet, freezing air.
The wind off the water hits me immediately, biting.
I tuck my chin into my collar, holding the pastry box tightly against my chest as I start the two-block walk to my apartment.
The street is nearly empty. The shop owners have already locked up, and the only sound is the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the halyards hitting the metal masts of the boats tied up at the pier down the hill.
I’m walking carefully, pressing my right shoulder close to the brick wall to catch what little shelter the shallow store awnings can offer against the freezing drizzle.
I keep my eyes trained downward, watching my step on the slick, wet cobblestones and deliberately sticking to my narrow lane on the right so I don't slip.
Ahead, the brick wall cuts off at a sharp, ninety-degree angle where a narrow, pitch-dark alleyway separates my apartment building from the empty storefront next door. I am perfectly on my side of the sidewalk, giving the corner a wide berth.
I take one step past the intersecting wall, and a massive, dark figure suddenly bursts out of the blind alleyway.
He is striding, his face buried in a sleek black phone. He isn't looking ahead at all, walking with huge, reckless, aggressive strides that carry him directly into my path.
Crack.
Because he steps out blindly from behind the stone corner, I have no time to react. His solid, heavy shoulder collides violently with mine, like the brutal force of a battering ram.
My breath is knocked clean out of my lungs.
The sheer, sideways physical impact sends me spinning helplessly backward.
The cardboard box slips from my fingers, tumbling onto the wet stone, and my canvas bag slides off my shoulder, spilling two library books directly into a muddy puddle.
My wet boot loses its grip on a patch of wet moss, my balance shattering entirely.
The world tilts sideways—I’m going down, and it's going to be hard.
Before I can hit the wet concrete, a hand shoots out of the darkness.
It grabs my upper arm. The grip is shocking, like a band of heated iron wrapping around my flesh. He jerks me forward, arresting my fall with a terrifying display of effortless strength. The momentum flings me straight into him.
My chest smacks into his, and it feels like hitting solid oak. He is entirely hard-packed, heavy muscle beneath his damp wool coat.
"You should look where you are going," he says.
His voice is low and gravelly, dripping with arrogant, clipped dismissiveness that makes my blood boil instantly. He doesn't sound apologetic. He sounds as if I’ve personally inconvenienced him by existing on the same street.
I look up, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He is incredibly tall. I have to tilt my head all the way back just to meet his gaze.
He is wearing an expensive black wool coat, damp from the mist, but my eyes are instantly drawn to his face.
He is devastatingly handsome in a cold, severe way, with sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and a strong, square jaw that looks as if it were chiseled from granite.
And his lips. They are full and perfectly formed, yet pressed into a hard, arrogant line that makes me want to slap him.
"Me?" I gasp, my voice trembling with shock and pure indignation.
I try to pull my arm back, but his grip is unyielding.
His fingers are huge, wrapping completely around my arm and sending a visceral, terrifying wave of heat through my sleeve.
"You stepped right out of the alley! You were looking at your phone and literally plowed into me! "
"If you had been paying attention, you would have stepped out of the way, and this wouldn’t have happened," he says, his dark eyes narrowing.
He doesn't let go. Instead, his gaze slowly drops. His eyes, black, intense, and incredibly heavy, trail down my face. They linger on my mouth for a fraction of a second, then glide down the column of my throat to where my sweater meets my collarbone.
A shiver ripples down my spine. My skin prickles under my clothes, a sudden, ridiculous blush heating my cheeks despite the freezing rain.
"I was on my side of the sidewalk. You should have stayed in your lane," I say, my voice breathier than I want it to be. I hate myself for it. I hate that my body is reacting to a stranger’s proximity like this. He smells of rain, expensive cedarwood, and cold leather. He’s a jerk.
A gorgeous, towering one. "Let go of me. "
He doesn't release me right away. He looks at me for another long, agonizing heartbeat, his chest rising and falling against mine. I can feel the heat radiating off him, melting the afternoon chill.
"You are clumsy, piccola," he murmurs.
Erhm, what now? Piccola?
The foreign word rolls off his tongue like velvet and smoke, sounding entirely too intimate for a stranger on a dark, wet street corner.
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"Don't call me that," I snap, my chest heaving as I try to find my footing. I shove against his solid chest, but he doesn't budge an inch. "We don't know each other. Do not use strange pet names with me."
A slow, devastating grin tugs at the corner of his lips. It is the dark, amused look of a man who has just found a toy he fully intends to keep. The expression completely transforms his cold, granite face, making him look dangerously alive.
"No?" he asks, his voice soft, almost a purr.
"No," I bite out.