Chapter 15
fifteen
LUCY
The first bite of spring always tastes the sweetest. It makes you forget the damp chill of winter ever existed with the sun bright, the breeze warm, the world suddenly too full of possibility to keep up with.
It’s town festival day. The local businesses line up with their booths, the streets fill with music and laughter, and everyone comes out for a good time. Poppy was supposed to help me set up, but she’s come down with something, leaving me to do the heavy lifting solo.
I grip the edge of the folding table and haul it toward its spot. It’s heavier than I remember, the weight of it digging into my arms and making the muscles in my neck strain in protest.
I’ve got a good stretch ahead of me if I want to get everything set up before the crowd starts rolling in. Callan and Knox said they’d come help once they get their own booth for the distillery sorted down the street, but apparently, that’s its own kind of chaos.
I finally manage to wrestle the table into place and take a step back to assess what needs to be set up.
It’s not much, just a few baskets of pastries and cookies to display.
I’ve been baking since dawn. Strawberry tarts, lemon scones, chocolate chip cookies still slightly warm from the oven.
The makeshift banner I made flutters in the breeze, the words “Thistle & Spoon” threatening to tear away from the flimsy tape holding them in place.
Just as I’m setting out the first tray of pastries, a gust of wind tears through the street, sending napkins flying and knocking over the stack of paper cups I just arranged. I lunge for them, nearly toppling the display in the process.
“Come on,” I mutter, trying to anchor everything down while simultaneously reaching for the flyaway napkins. My fingers brush against one just as another gust sends it spiraling farther away.
The wind picks up again, stronger this time, and I watch in horror as my carefully arranged sign starts to peel away from the front of the table.
I dart forward, trying to catch it before it takes flight, but my elbow knocks against the tray of scones, sending them sliding precariously close to the edge.
“No, no, no.” I make a desperate grab for both the sign and the tray. The wind has other plans, though, whipping the sign free and sending it tumbling down the street like a wayward kite.
“Perfect,” I mutter, blowing a loose strand of hair from my face.
That’s exactly when the tower of cardboard boxes I’d stacked behind the table decides to join the chaos, toppling over and spilling the packaged pastries across the pavement. My heart sinks as I watch my morning’s work scatter on the ground.
I drop to my knees, frantically gathering what I can salvage.
Thank god a few baked goods landed on the stray napkins but the rest…
It’s an absolute crime scene. My fingers work quickly, scooping up the less damaged goods and trying to arrange them back on the trays.
The festival officially starts in fifteen minutes, and I’m nowhere near ready.
“Need a hand?”
The low voice slices right through my flustered spiral.
I glance up to find Aidan towering in front of me, broad shoulders framed by the sun like some kind of reluctant, brooding hero.
He’s wearing a navy T-shirt that fits unfairly well.
It’s snug across his chest and tight around his tattooed biceps that I’d bet good money he doesn’t show off on purpose.
His jeans are worn and faded, and there’s a little scuff of stubble along his jaw, catching the light as he squints down at me.
The look on his face lands somewhere between amused and mildly exasperated, like I’m a walking storm he’s half tempted to get caught in.
“Oh! I—” I push a lock of hair out of my face, painfully aware of how much of a mess I must look. Hair falling out of place, cheeks flushed, pastry carnage at my feet. “I mean, yes. Please. If you don’t mind.”
He doesn’t say anything, just lowers himself into a crouch beside me, jeans pulling tight across his thighs as he starts collecting the scattered scones with care. His hands—goodness, his strong, capable hands—move with a surprising gentleness.
My stomach does a little fluttery thing that I pretend not to feel.
“Wind’s causing you grief?” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear it over the bustle around us.
I let out a breathless laugh. “That obvious?”
He glances over, lips tugging up at one corner. There’s a small dimple that appears when he does that. It’s subtle, but there.
“Just a bit,” he says, eyes dragging over me in a way that doesn’t feel unkind. Just…observant. Noting every flyaway hair, every smudge of flour I probably didn’t catch. Not judging. Just seeing.
I move to straighten the crate again, trying not to focus on how close he is. He smells like clean soap and cedar and the last bit of night air before the sun comes up. It fills my lungs, mixing with the buttery sweetness of the pastries, making my brain go a little hazy.
My eyes linger on the curve of his mouth, the way the tendons in his forearms flex as he steadies the napkin beneath the stack. He’s…impossibly handsome. I just pray he doesn’t notice the heat creeping up my neck every time I look in his direction.
“Where’s Isla today?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds steadier than it feels.
“With my mum just down the street,” he replies, standing up with some rescued pastries. “I saw you battling your table.”
I nod. “It’s just…one of those days.” I gesture toward the desserts on the table still teetering dangerously close to disaster.
He follows my gaze, and then without asking, starts helping me arrange everything.
“I owe you one,” I say, my hands still moving in a little flurry of action. “Really didn’t expect to end up alone with this, but…” I shrug. “I’ll survive.”
Aidan places the last tray of scones at the front of the display. The festival crowd streams past us, but somehow, it feels like we’re in our own little bubble.
“I’ve got time,” he says simply, his gray eyes meeting mine. “Isla’s busy making flower crowns with my mum. She’ll be busy for the next hour, at the minimum.”
“Well, in that case, would you mind helping me get this banner back up? It seems determined to fly away today.”
He nods, reaching for the sign I’d rescued from halfway down the street. Our fingers brush as he takes it from me, and that same spark I felt in the grocery store jolts through me again. I quickly turn away, searching for tape in my apron pocket.
“Here,” I say, pulling out a roll. “If we can secure it better this time, maybe it’ll stay put.”
Aidan takes the tape without a word, making quick work of securing the banner to the front of the table. He’s methodical, making sure each corner is reinforced against the persistent breeze.
“Thanks,” I say, mesmerized by the efficiency of his movements, the concentration in his expression. “You’re good at this.”
He glances up briefly. “I’m used to it. Everything needs to be secure when you’re out at sea.”
I nod, trying to imagine what that life must be like. Weeks away from home, surrounded by nothing but water and steel. It explains the weathered look about him, that slight hardness around his eyes.
“Must be tough,” I venture, arranging the last of the cookies on their tray. “Being away from Isla for so long.”
His hands pause for just a moment, and I worry I’ve overstepped. Then he continues, his voice a little rougher than before.
“It is. But it’s provided well for us. And she’s got my mum.” He secures the last corner of the banner. “It’s just how it is.”
There’s a finality to his words that makes my heart ache. I busy myself with the display, not wanting him to see the emotion I’m sure is written all over my face.
After a beat, Aidan steps back, his eyes scanning the table. “Looks good.”
“It would have been a disaster without your help.”
A comfortable silence settles between us as we stand back to admire our handiwork. The wind has calmed a bit, and the pastries now sit safely displayed, the banner secure against any future gusts.
“So…which is your favorite?” I ask. “I’m setting one aside as payment for your heroic rescue.”
His gaze flicks up from the pastries to me, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. Not a full smile—it seems he never gives those out freely—but close enough to make my heart skip. “Don’t need payment for lending a hand.”
“Well, I insist,” I say, sweeping my hand toward the slightly pathetic, but now stable, array of scones and cookies. “Baker’s honor.”
He glances at the display, and for a second, I think he might deflect again. He surprises me by pointing to a lemon scone. “If there’s any of those left at the end of the day, I’ll take one.”
I grin. “Excellent choice. My secret recipe.”
“Secret, huh? What makes it special?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore,” I tease. The corner of his mouth twitches up again, just a fraction.
For a heartbeat, the world blurs around us. He watches me with guarded yet curious eyes.
Then, because apparently fate has a wicked sense of humor, a gust of wind kicks up again, sending a stack of paper cups skittering across the pavement.
“Bloody hell—” I lunge for them, but Aidan moves at the same time. We collide. My shoulder knocks against his chest. One of his hands grabs my waist to support me.
Everything stops.
His touch is too careful to be casual, too protective to be nothing. We both go still, the air between us yanked tight. His hand doesn’t fall. If anything, it settles more firmly at my waist.
I can feel every inch of him, solid and so close. His gaze drops to my mouth, and the world narrows to that single, impossible inch between us.
He leans in just enough that I feel the whisper of his breath against my cheek, the promise of something we’re both seconds from falling into.
A burst of noise—someone shouting—snaps the moment. His hand falls from my waist before he steps back.
“Sorry,” he breathes, rough and unsteady.