Chapter 9 #2
The morning blurs. My hands move on autopilot—box, tape, smile, thank you, next. The line finally thins around nine-thirty, and by ten we're nearly wiped out. Shelves stripped bare, display case down to crumbs, my body vibrating with exhaustion and adrenaline.
I'm restocking napkins when the bell over the door chimes.
"Welcome to The Sweet Spot," I call automatically, not looking up. "Be right with—"
"June."
The voice stops me cold.
I know that voice.
I lift my head slowly, everything inside me going still.
Adam stands in the doorway, impossibly solid and real. His turnout gear is streaked with soot, his face smudged with ash, hair damp and pushed back where he's dragged his hands through it. He looks wrecked—not injured, but depleted, like someone running on fumes and willpower and nothing else.
Relief slams into me so hard I can't breathe.
I'm moving before I think, weaving through customers, nearly knocking over a display of macarons. "Adam—are you—"
My voice cracks. I don't care.
He meets me halfway, and suddenly the bakery could be empty for all I know. I crash into him, arms tight around his waist, and he folds over me like he's been holding himself upright through sheer force of will and can finally let go.
He smells like smoke and sweat and fear. Like adrenaline burned down to ash.
"I'm okay," he murmurs into my hair, his voice shaking just enough that I know he's convincing himself as much as me. "Fire at the old Wilson barn. Call came in just after sunrise. Three-alarm. Massive blaze—thankfully nobody hurt."
His hand slides up to cradle the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. I feel the tremor in them.
Something inside me breaks open. I'm crying before I realize it, tears hot on my cheeks, soaking into his turnout coat.
"I texted you," I manage, voice muffled against his chest. "You didn't answer and I thought—"
"I know. God, June, I know." His breath is rough against my temple. "It was chaos during the call, and after—when I could finally check, it was over. I just needed to see you."
Behind us, I'm dimly aware of Riley's voice at the counter, the murmur of customers. Someone's phone camera clicks. Part of me knows we're being watched, recorded, that this moment will probably end up on social media by noon.
I don't care.
I squeeze him tighter, trying to absorb him through my skin, prove to myself he's here and whole and breathing.
"Come on," I whisper, pulling back just enough to see his face. "Back here. You need to sit."
I guide him into the kitchen, away from the cameras and curious eyes. He sinks onto the battered stool by the prep table like his legs just gave out, elbows on his knees, head hanging.
I hover, hands useless at my sides. "Was it bad?"
He lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted, but steady. "Yeah. Bad. The barn's gone—total loss. But at least it was the barn and not the farmhouse."
I nod, throat too tight to speak.
"This is the part I hate." His voice goes quieter, rawer. "That you have to wonder. Every time I don't answer. Every time a call runs long. That you're sitting here imagining the worst."
The voice echoes in my head. Firefighters die all the time.
"I know," I whisper. "But you're here. You came back. I have to hold onto that—even when it terrifies me."
He stands slowly, like his body aches, and frames my face in both hands. Ash smudges my cheeks where his thumbs brush away tears. "I told you I'd fight to come back. That's not changing. Not ever."
The dam breaks. I'm sobbing and laughing at the same time, forehead pressed to his chest, fingers twisted in his coat. It's all too much—the fear, the relief, the exhaustion. Everything.
But I'm not hiding from it. Not from him.
"I'm all in," I choke out. "Even when it's scary. Even when I'm terrified. You're worth it, Adam."
He kisses me—desperate and gentle, tasting like smoke and salt. I sink into him, into this moment, into the fierce certainty that whatever comes, we're in it together.
For just a second, I let myself want everything. Want the world to stop. Want him all to myself—
The kitchen door swings open.
Riley stands there, phone pressed to her chest, eyebrows raised. "Food and Flavor Magazine is on hold. Do you want me to tell them you're too busy smooching a hot fireman, or do you want to be famous?"
Adam huffs a laugh against my hair and presses a kiss to my temple. "Go. Take your call." He gestures vaguely at the stool. "I'll just exist here for a minute."
I squeeze his hand—a grounding pressure that says don't leave, don't go, stay.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says, reading my mind. "Promise."
Riley hands me the phone, grin splitting her face. "Make us famous, boss."
I take a breath, wipe my eyes, and lift the phone to my ear. My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"This is June."
***
By the time we finally lock the bakery doors, I feel hollowed out—scraped clean by equal parts relief and exhaustion.
My phone won't stop buzzing. New followers.
Influencer shoutouts. A cheery voicemail from Food and Flavor's editor wanting to "chat first thing next week to follow up on our earlier call. "
I barely register any of it. My hands shake as I scrub down the counters.
Riley nudges my shoulder on her way out, backpack slung over one arm. "Go home, boss. You look like you're about to faceplant into the cream cheese frosting."
"That's the plan," I mutter.
She snorts. "I meant accidentally, not as a life choice."
I gather my things—coat, scarf, keys I almost drop twice because my fingers won't cooperate. The wind outside has picked up, brutal and biting. The temperature has been dropping steadily as the season changes.
The walk from my car to my front door feels endless, cold slicing through my jeans, my coat, straight to my bones.
Dread pools in my stomach before I even get the key in the lock.
Something's wrong.
I step inside and it hits me immediately. Freezing. Not just chilly—freezing. Arctic. My breath fogs in front of my face like I'm still outside.
"Oh, come on," I whisper to the universe. "Seriously?"
I close the door and stand there, coat still on, staring at my living room like it might explain itself. The cold presses in from all sides, relentless.
I shuffle to the thermostat. Tap the screen. Tap it harder. Nothing. The display is black, lifeless, mocking me.
"Of course," I say to no one. "Of course this is happening today."
I pull out my phone and call Mr. Patterson, my elderly landlord, pacing the kitchen because I can't stand still when I'm this cold. It rings three times.
"June, my dear," he answers, warm and concerned. "Is everything alright?"
"The heat's out," I say, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel. "The house is freezing. Like, I-can-see-my-breath freezing."
He sighs, heavy and worried. "Oh no. Let me get someone out there right away. Hang tight, dear."
Forty minutes later, I'm still bundled in my coat when the repairman arrives. A grizzled guy in coveralls who looks like he's seen it all and is unimpressed by most of it.
He disappears into the basement. Clanking, muttering, the hiss of something mechanical. Five minutes later, his footsteps creak back up the stairs.
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes apologetic. "Yeah, so. Your boiler's shot."
"Shot," I repeat flatly.
"Dead. Kaput. Parts haven't been manufactured in years—you'd need a full replacement." He winces. "Best case, ten to fourteen days for the new unit to come in. Maybe longer with the holidays coming up."
I blink at him. "Ten to fourteen days?"
"Could be three weeks, honestly. Supply chain's a mess right now."
"Right. Of course. Why wouldn't it be."
He leaves. I call Mr. Patterson back.
"I'm so sorry, June," he says, voice thick with guilt. "I'll comp your rent this month, but you're going to need to find somewhere warm to stay."
I hang up and stand in my kitchen, staring at nothing. Ten to fourteen days. Maybe three weeks. Maybe longer. I can't live in a walk-in freezer for three weeks. And a hotel? Expensive. Lonely. The thought of checking into some sterile room, scrolling my phone while my house sits empty and freezing—
My chest constricts.
Adam.
Before I can overthink it, I'm texting:
Small crisis. My boiler died. No heat for at least a week and a half. Maybe longer.
His response comes back almost immediately:
Pack a bag. You're staying with us.
I stare at the screen, then type back:
Adam, I can't impose—
Adam:
You're not imposing. Emma will be thrilled. It's decided.
A pause. Then:
But June, I hope you don't mind sharing my bed.
A startled laugh bursts out of me—nervous, wild, slightly hysterical. I press my hand over my mouth, cheeks flaming despite the cold.
Staying at Adam's house. In his bed. With Emma down the hall and everything between us still crackling and unresolved and—
My brain misfires somewhere between panic and excitement.
I grab my overnight bag and start throwing things in. Pajamas. Jeans. Toothbrush. The soft blue sweater Adam once said brought out my eyes. My hands won't stop shaking—part cold, part nerves.
What will we tell Emma? That my house is broken so I'm crashing in her dad's room? Will she even care, or will she just be thrilled I'm staying over?
God, what am I doing?
I zip the bag, lock up my freezing house—breath steaming in the cold—and cross the shadowed yard toward Adam's glowing porch lights.
Each step feels like a leap.
Toward something unknown. Toward something that might be everything I've ever wanted.
Or toward the most awkward two weeks of my entire life.
Guess I'm about to find out.