Chapter 5
June
The kitchen is dark when I stumble downstairs at six a.m., but my hands know the way. Flip the lights, preheat the oven, pull out flour and sugar and butter. The ritual soothes me, but my mind refuses to settle. Instead, it circles back to the same place it's lived all week—Adam.
It's been seven days since the baking lesson.
Seven days since he almost kissed me here in my kitchen, since his hands caught me and held me like I was something precious.
Seven days of constant texting—good morning messages that make me smile into my pillow, random thoughts sent in the middle of the day, late-night conversations that stretch past midnight and leave me giddy and sleepless.
He started at the fire station this week, settling into routines.
Emma's been spending days with Harper while Adam works, but she starts school next week.
He tells me about his shifts, about Emma's excitement over starting school soon.
I tell him about experimental recipes and difficult customers.
We talk about everything and nothing, and every message feels like a step closer to something I'm not sure I'm ready for—but desperately want.
I measure cinnamon, cardamom, vanilla—my grandmother's secret recipe. The "love cookies," she called them. Meant to inspire romance, or so the family legend goes. I've made them a hundred times, but never with intent. Never with someone specific in mind.
I stare at the bowl of dough, second-guessing everything. This is too obvious, right? Bringing love cookies to a block party where Adam will be? Where the entire neighborhood will watch us and speculate and gossip?
My phone buzzes. Maya's name lights the screen.
Maya:
Bring the love cookies. You know you want to.
I laugh despite myself, type back:
How did you know?
Maya:
Because I know you. And because you've been baking stress recipes since before dawn. I can feel it in the universe.
Maya:
Also Lucas told me you texted him at midnight asking if love cookies were "too much."
I groan. Note to self: stop asking Lucas for advice.
Maya:
They're not too much. Bring them. Bewitch the hot firefighter. Live your best romance novel life.
I set the phone down, roll the dough, cut perfect circles.
My nervous energy channels into precision—everything has to be perfect.
The cookies, the presentation, the entire dessert spread I'm contributing.
If I can control this, maybe I can control the wild hammering of my heart every time I think about seeing Adam today.
I head to my bedroom and change outfits four times. Finally, I settle on a cream-colored sundress, vintage-style with tiny buttons down the front. It makes me feel pretty without trying too hard, like I just threw this on even though I've been agonizing for twenty minutes.
My phone buzzes again. This time, Adam's name.
Adam:
Morning. Couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about today. About seeing you.
My heart does something acrobatic. I sit on the edge of my bed, pulse racing, and type back with trembling fingers.
Me:
Me too.
Three dots appear, vanish, reappear. Then:
Adam:
Good. See you soon, June.
I clutch the phone to my chest and let myself hope—just a little.
***
The neighborhood street is already transforming when I arrive mid-morning, arms laden with bakery boxes.
Tables line the blocked-off road, bunting strung between lampposts.
Classic small-town Americana. Kids darting between adults with balloons, elderly neighbors arranging lawn chairs, the smell of charcoal and barbecue sauce perfuming the air.
I'm setting up my dessert contribution—three-tiered display, carefully arranged—when Mrs. Henderson materializes at my elbow like a heat-seeking missile.
"June, dear! What a spread!" She peers at my cookies, eyes sharp. "I hear you've been spending time with Adam Lane. Private baking lessons?"
My face flushes hot. Of course she knows. The entire town probably knows by now. "Emma wanted to learn. It was nothing—"
"Mmm-hmm." Mrs. Henderson's smile is knowing, delighted. "That's not what I heard."
I'm saved by Maya's arrival. Lucas hovers at her side, one hand on her lower back, looking ready to catch her if she sways.
"June!" Maya calls, waving. "Come help me sit before Lucas wraps me in bubble wrap."
I abandon Mrs. Henderson gratefully. Lucas helps her into a chair with the care of someone handling explosives.
"You're glowing," I tell Maya, though honestly she looks exhausted and beautiful in equal measure.
"I'm sweating. There's a difference." She fans herself, then grabs my wrist. "Now. Adam. Tell me everything."
"There's nothing to—"
"June Callahan, do not lie to a pregnant woman. It's bad karma."
Before I can formulate a response, Harper appears, Nate trailing behind her carrying a cooler. Harper makes a beeline for me, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"June. We need to talk." She loops her arm through mine, physically dragging me a few steps away. "Adam has been asking about you."
My heart stutters. "What?"
"Like, a lot. It's adorable and annoying. Yesterday he asked me what your favorite flower is."
The world tilts slightly. "My favorite flower?"
"Sunflowers, I told him. You're welcome." Harper's grin is triumphant. "June, the man is gone. Completely smitten. It's actually kind of gross how sweet it is."
I can't breathe properly. Adam asked about my favorite flower. Which means he's thinking about me, wanting to know me, maybe planning something—
"June! June! We're here!"
Emma's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I turn, and my breath catches in my throat.
Adam's walking toward me through the crowd—jeans that fit perfectly, a fitted navy t-shirt that does magnificent things to his shoulders, eyes locked on mine like I'm the only person here.
Even from twenty feet away, I feel it. The connection, snapping into place like a magnetic pull.
Emma breaks free from his hand, sprinting toward me with pure joy on her face. I crouch down just in time for her to barrel into me.
"Daddy said you made special cookies!" she announces, breathless.
"I did," I manage, trying to focus on Emma and not on Adam closing the distance between us. "Want to help me finish setting up?"
But my eyes betray me, lifting to find Adam now standing right there, close enough to touch, looking at me like I've made his entire day just by existing.
"Hey," he says, voice low and intimate despite dozens of people around us.
My mouth is dry. "Hey yourself."
I stand, wiping suddenly nervous hands on my dress, hyperaware of everything—the warm afternoon sun on my shoulders despite the Autumn breeze, the distant laughter of children, the sound of my own heartbeat louder than the party around me.
I catch the faint scent of his cologne, something woodsy and clean that makes my knees weak.
His eyes track my movement, lingering on the cream sundress, traveling slowly back up to meet my gaze. "You look beautiful."
It's the first time he's said it outright, direct and unguarded, and the words land like a physical touch. My breath catches, heat flooding my cheeks. "Thank you," I manage, voice barely above a whisper.
Emma tugs on both our hands, oblivious to the moment crackling between us. "Come on! Show me the cookies!"
I let Emma pull me toward the dessert table, grateful for something to do with my hands.
Adam falls into step beside me, and suddenly we're shoulder to shoulder, arranging platters and adjusting displays.
Every brush of hands feels deliberate now—his fingers grazing mine as he reaches for a serving spoon, our hips bumping as we navigate the small space, his arm extending over my shoulder to straighten a cake stand.
"These the famous cookies?" he asks quietly, nodding toward the platter Emma's admiring.
"Maybe," I hedge, focusing very hard on adjusting a napkin that doesn't need adjusting.
His laugh is low, warm. "I've missed you. A week has felt like forever."
My heart soars, doing loop-de-loops in my chest. I chance a glance at him, find him watching me with an expression so open and honest it steals my breath. "It's only been a week."
"Like I said." His smile is soft, intimate. "Forever."
The sweetness of it—the sincerity—makes my chest tight with something too big to name.
I want to tell him I've missed him too, that every text has been both a lifeline and torture, that I've been counting down the hours until this moment.
But Mrs. Henderson's voice booms across the party space before I can form words.
"Attention, everyone! We're doing our annual dessert competition! Teams of two, most creative dessert wins!"
Emma bounces on her toes, clapping. "Daddy and June should be a team!"
Oh no. I open my mouth to deflect, but the crowd—clearly invested in whatever matchmaking scheme they've collectively decided on—takes up the chant.
"Yes! June and Adam!"
"The baker and the firefighter!"
"Perfect team!"
Adam leans close, his breath warm against my ear. "Looks like we're stuck together."
I meet his eyes, see the amusement and heat dancing there. "I can think of worse fates."
The look he gives me is pure promise—that this is going to be so much more than just a competition. That he's going to make every second count.
"Team Callahan-Lane it is, then," he says, loud enough for the crowd to hear.
The hyphenated name sends a thrill through me that I absolutely should not be feeling.
Emma cheers. The crowd applauds.
And I let myself fall just a little bit further.
We're handed a mystery basket ten minutes later. Fresh berries, whipping cream, phyllo dough, honey, and mint. I study the ingredients, my mind already assembling possibilities, flavor combinations clicking into place like puzzle pieces.
"We could do a deconstructed berry tart with honey-mint whipped cream," I say, thinking out loud. "Layer the phyllo in shards for texture, macerate the berries with a touch of honey—"