Chapter 3
three
LUCY
“What can I help with, boss?”
I turn to my left, and there’s Poppy, always ready to jump in.
She’s tying her apron with that no-nonsense look of hers, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, glasses perched just a little crooked on her button nose.
A few rebellious curls escape from the messy bun she’s tried to wrangle them into, framing her round face.
“Would you mind giving me a hand with these cookies?” I ask, glancing back at the dough. “I’ve still got a tray to finish cutting out, and these are for kids’ night tomorrow.”
My hands are coated in a light dusting of flour, trails of it creeping up my arms. The kitchen air is thick, mingling with the sweet, almost intoxicating scent of butter and sugar that permanently sticks to every surface.
“This is just the test batch,” I say, lifting a star-shaped cutter and pressing it into the dough with a little extra care, making sure each edge is sharp and clean. “I want to make sure they’re perfect. The kids deserve the good stuff.”
“Of course!” Poppy slides up beside me, already grabbing a heart-shaped cutter from the nearby tray. “These smell incredible already. What’s the secret ingredient this time?”
“A bit of honey and a dash of cinnamon,” I reply as I add another star to the tray. “Thought we’d try something new for the wee ones.”
As we work side by side, the rhythmic click of cookie cutters pressing into the dough is almost meditative. The kitchen is my sanctuary, humming with a warmth that goes beyond the heat of the ovens.
“If you’ve got this for a bit, I’m going to head back up front to make sure Michael doesn’t need help with anything,” I say, wiping my hands on my apron.
“Sure thing, I’ve got this.” She doesn’t miss a beat as she presses another heart-shaped cutter into the dough with a little extra flourish.
I wash my hands quickly, and as I step out into the shop, the familiar buzz of activity greets me. Before I can properly take in the scene, a loud clattering noise erupts from the back, echoing through the space. My head snaps toward the sound.
“Ach! Sorry, Lou!” I turn to see one of our regulars kneeling on the floor, surrounded by the debris of a broken mug.
“No worries, Shane,” I call back. “We’ll get that cleaned up, and I’ll grab you another one.”
I glance over at Michael, who’s already starting to head to the back for a broom. “Would you mind taking care of that? I’ll hold down the fort up here.”
He nods without a word, and I return my focus to the counter, making sure everything is running as it should.
The usual sounds of laughter, clinking cups, and the soft hiss of the espresso machine surround me, but then there’s something else.
A low, deep rumble of a voice I don’t recognize drifts in from outside, and my head lifts to the front window like it’s been tugged by a string. And then I see him.
He’s…a lot.
Tall, broad shouldered, and soaked from the rain like the universe just dropped him off here gift-wrapped in storm clouds and brooding energy.
His damp jacket clings to his frame as he steps through the threshold like he’s not entirely convinced he wants to be indoors.
The cold air follows him in, curling around my ankles.
He doesn’t look at anyone. Just heads straight to the counter with a look that says don’t start with me, and for some reason, I really, really want to start with him.
He steps up to the counter, his gray eyes sweeping the menu.
A tiny crease tugs between his brows—focused, unaware he’s already caught my attention.
He has lines around his eyes, but not in a tired way.
More in a…been through it kind of way. Mid-thirties, maybe?
A full decade older than me, if I had to guess.
He’s not the buttoned-up, office job kind of thirty something, though.
No… This guy looks like he builds things with his hands and breaks them when he’s mad.
I press my palm flat against the counter to ground myself and clear my throat. “Welcome in! What can I get you?”
His eyes snap to mine, and I forget how to breathe.
“Coffee. Black. To go.”
Each word lands with weight, like conversation is a currency he’s not willing to spend. Still, there’s something in the way he says it, something rough around the edges that scrapes against my skin and leaves a mark.
I nod, already moving. “Coming right up.”
As I turn, I feel his eyes on me. Not a glance, not a casual once-over. This is full-on attention. It prickles along the back of my neck, curling low in my stomach in a way that feels both wrong and wildly right.
I set the cup down in front of him. “On the house,” I say, a little breathless. “Looks like you could use it.”
For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just lifts those stormy gray eyes to mine and quirks a brow.
“I…sorry. You don’t look bad or anything. Just…tired, maybe? And…damp?”
Oh god, I’m just digging this hole deeper. I’m usually fantastic with small talk. Why does he have me so flustered?
He finally offers a subtle nod, putting me out of my misery before he says, “Thanks.”
That’s it. No smile. Just his rough, deep voice twisting through my insides like smoke. That voice is doing…inconvenient things to me.
He wraps both hands around the takeaway cup, his focus dropping to the swirl of steam rising from the lid. I linger long enough to feel silly about it until I realize I’m just standing there like I forgot how to be a functioning human.
“Right. Well, enjoy!” I blurt, my voice pitching higher than I want it to, cheeks heating. Smooth, Lou. Olympic-level grace, right there.
He turns as if he’s going to walk out, then comes to a halt. His attention snags on the stack of flyers by the till, colorful and slightly crooked.
His eyes narrow slightly, and he reaches for one with a hesitant hand. “Can I take one?”
“Oh! Absolutely!” I yank the top flyer off the pile with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than necessary.
The corner catches on the rest, and a few of the flyers flutter to the floor like confetti.
“Here,” I add quickly, pressing the flyer into his hand before dropping to my knees to scoop up the mess.
By the time I straighten, he’s already studying the flyer, his rough fingers tracing the edges of the paper.
For a split second, I let myself really look at him.
His dark hair peeks out from under a beanie, just enough to hint at the unruly waves beneath.
The scruff on his jaw is a few days old, adding to the rugged charm that practically radiates off him.
Just when I think I’ve let myself stare a little too long, he moves again. A slight tilt of his head, like he’s genuinely interested in the flyer. He glances up at me, voice quieter this time, and I don’t know if I’m imagining it or if there’s something softer in his tone.
“Kids’ night?”
“Yep.” My brain’s still struggling to catch up, but at least my voice doesn’t crack this time. “First one’s tomorrow. Should be fun. I mean, for the kids. And, uh, hopefully the adults, too.”
He gives a small nod before tucking the flyer into his jacket pocket, mumbling a quick thanks before heading for the door.
The door swings shut behind him, letting in a sharp gust of winter air, and I exhale slowly, realizing I’d been holding my breath the entire time.
“Who was that?” Michael asks, appearing at my side with a broom in hand.
“I’m not sure,” I murmur, my eyes still locked on the door, as if expecting him to walk back in at any moment.
“Looked like he’d just stepped out of one of those Highland adventure novels,” he chuckles, leaning on the broom with a smirk. “You know, the ones with the brooding hero on the cover?”
A blush creeps up my neck, warmth spreading across my cheeks as I quickly turn away, pretending to be busy with wiping down the counter. “Oh, hush. He was just a customer.”
Even as I say it, I know it’s not true. There was…something about him. Something in the way he carried himself, in the intensity of his gaze, that made him stand out.
I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts of him out of my mind. “How are we doing on pastries?”
“We’re running low on scones,” Michael replies, his eyes still twinkling with that roguish amusement. “I’ll go grab some from the kitchen.”
I nod, but even as he walks away, I’m still replaying that brief, heart-skipping encounter. His stormy eyes, that low, gravelly voice…
I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders.
I’ve got a shop to run. What I don’t have is time to swoon over some guy with a killer jawline and a mysterious air.
I grab a tray of pastries, forcing myself to stop thinking about the way he looked at me, the way he made everything else in the room feel a little…
off. No more distractions. Just get back to work.
The afternoon rush hits like a wave, and I’m instantly pulled back into the familiar chaos of taking orders, steaming milk, and pouring lattes with the ease of muscle memory. My hands move faster than my brain can keep up, and before long, I’m floating in the rhythm of it all.
Thoughts of the gruff stranger are pushed to the back of my mind, tucked away where they won’t distract me. For now, anyway.
As the last customer shuffles out and the café door clicks shut, I flip the sign to Closed and let out a tired sigh, the weight of the day settling on my shoulders. The café lights glow against the frosted windows, while outside the January sky is slipping toward night, all shadows and cold.
I wipe down the tables, stack a few mugs, and lock up.
Routine. Easy. Then I tug my scarf tighter around my neck and push into the crisp air, cheeks instantly stinging from the chill.
The walk home isn’t long, and I know every step by heart.
My flat’s just a few streets over, tucked into one of those new builds.
Two bedrooms, nothing flashy. But it’s mine.
It’s close enough that I can roll out of bed and into the café when I need to.
I reach my front door and fumble with the keys for a moment, the usual clumsiness of the end of a long day taking over.
Finally, I push it open and am greeted by a rush of warmth, along with the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air.
Dropping my bag by the door, I kick off my shoes and let out a deep sigh, already imagining how good it’s going to feel to sink into the sofa and let the day slip away.
I pause for a moment, staring at the empty space around me. I think I need to get a cat or something. The thought’s been nagging at me more and more lately, especially on nights like this when the silence in my flat feels louder than anything.
You’d think, after spending my entire day surrounded by people, chatting with regulars, greeting new faces, and hearing snippets of conversations, I’d crave the quiet. But it’s the opposite.
The emptiness of the place seems to echo. No sense of another presence here. Just me.
Lonely. There, I’ve said it. It’s the word I keep dodging, but it’s the truth. Maybe a little ball of fur with a penchant for getting into mischief is exactly what I need to fill the space, to add a little commotion to the quiet.
I shake the thought off, mentally rolling my eyes at myself, and head to the kitchen instead, hoping the task of making something to eat will distract me.
I yank open the fridge, only to be greeted by the sad reality of leftovers and half-empty containers.
My stomach grumbles in protest. I really need to go shopping.
Sighing, I pull out some cheese and bread, hoping I can at least make it a decent snack. As the pan heats up, my phone buzzes from the counter. It’s a text from Callan.
Callan: Lou, you free this weekend? Thinking of having a family dinner.
I love it when we get everyone together. The café keeps me busy, but there’s never a good excuse to skip family time.
Me: Sounds great! I’ll be there. Need me to bring anything?
Callan: Just yourself. And cookies ;)
Me: As if I wasn’t going to already.
I can practically see his grin through the screen, and it makes me shake my head as I set my phone down.
Classic Callan, always thinking about sweets.
Not that I’m much different. I flip my sandwich in the pan, realizing I’m smiling, too.
The weekend can’t come fast enough. Noise, commotion, family—it’s exactly what I need.