Page 32 of Midnight Lessons

I glance at the clock on the wall. He’ll be starting classes soon. I’ll talk to him later when he comes over for dinner. I’ve missed him so much and can’t wait to see him tonight.

I close my eyes, counting to five slowly, grounding myself in the familiar sounds of the apartment—the hum of the refrigerator, the faint ticking of the wall clock, the soft patter of rain against the window. All regular, everyday noises. No creak of footsteps outside my door, no shadowy figures lurking behind the curtains.

Just me. Alone.

With a determined breath, I straighten, rolling my shoulders back. I’m not going to let this control me. I have a life to live, a business to run, and I refuse to become a prisoner of my fear. Whoever—orwhatever—is out there, they don’t get to win.

“Enough,” I tell myself firmly. “You’re taking this Halloween thing too far now. Time to get to work.”

I grab my keys and bag from the table, taking one last look around my apartment before heading out. The air outside is damp and cool, morning mist hanging low over the sleepy town. I glance around, searching for anything out of place, anyone who shouldn’t be there, but all I see are empty sidewalks and quiet storefronts.

See? Nothing.

“You’re paranoid, Winters,” I berate myself, turning toward the bakery. “Focus on the good stuff.”

I pick up my pace, the cool breeze nudging me forward, and try to lose myself in the comforting rhythm of my footsteps. The bakery is only a few blocks away, and the routine of getting the shop ready for the day will help settle my nerves. The familiar motions—kneading dough, brewing coffee, setting out the fresh pastries—will push these silly fears to the back of my mind.

Yet as I unlock the front door of the bakery, the bell above it giving a soft chime, a part of me can’t quite shake the sensation that someone’s watching. My fingers fumble with the key, the clink of metal louder than usual in the quiet space.

“Get it together, girl,” I mutter under my breath, pushing open the door and stepping inside. The scent of flour and sugar greets me, warm and welcoming, instantly soothing. This ismydomain, the place I built from the ground up. I’m safe here.

I flip on the lights, casting a soft glow over the display cases and wooden tables, and move through thefamiliar routine. Coffee on, ovens preheated, dough rolled out and lined up for proofing. The normalcy of it helps. Soon, I’m lost in the work, the steady rhythm of preparation calming my frazzled nerves.

By the time the sun fully rises, casting a pale light through the front windows, I’m almost convinced that the whole “someone’s following me” thing is in my head. I’m overly sensitive because of all the attention lately. That’s all it is.

Carol arrives a few minutes later, and our day begins in earnest. My worries are forgotten as we fire up the ovens, make cookie dough and pastry, and fill the display cases.

By the end of the day, I’m exhausted but happy. The closer we get to Halloween, the busier the shop becomes, but seeing people clamoring for my baked treats fills me with joy.

“You head home,” I tell Carol with a knowing smile. “You have a special meal with your husband tonight.”

“Twenty-five years, can you believe it?” she asks, shaking her head.

“You and Lance are practically an institution in Midnight Falls. You’ve been together for as long as I can remember. Get on home and get glammed up. I’ll clear up here,” I say, shooing her toward the door. “Have a great evening and say congratulations to Lance from me.”

Carol gives me a hug. “Thanks, Willow. You’re the best.”

“No, thankyou. I couldn’t do any of this without you,” I reply, spreading my wide to indicate the bakery. “Can you flip the sign to closed on your way out? I’ll lock up in a minute.”

“Sure thing,” Carol says as she leaves with a smile and a wave.

I set about cleaning up, humming softly as I wipe down the counters and put away the trays. Despite the long day, I love this part—the quiet calm after the bustle, the sense of accomplishment in every tidied surface and neatly stacked dish.

When the last of the crumbs are swept away, I let out a satisfied sigh andglance at the clock—almost seven. The late autumn light is fading outside, casting long shadows across the empty street. Excitement bubbles in my stomach at the thought of seeing Owen.

The bell chimes again, and I suddenly realize I forgot to lock the door. I make my way from the back into the shop.

“I’m sorry, we’re closed—” My words dry up as I see who’s on the threshold.

Matthew Crane stands in the doorway, a polished smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes, once familiar, now seem… darker. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, his crisp shirt and tailored slacks a stark contrast to the coziness of the bakery. He’s the picture of a successful businessman, and for a moment, it’s like I’ve stepped back in time. Back to the years when I pretended to be his girlfriend, smiling through every family dinner and town event, trying to convince myself it was real. Trying to convince myselfhewas real.

“Willow,” he greets warmly as if almost a year of silence between us is no big deal.

“Matthew,” I say evenly, forcing a polite smile. “I-I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Why not?” He raises an eyebrow, feigning hurt. “Can’t an old boyfriend stop by for a cup of coffee and some of your famous cookies?”

He may have been part of my life for years, but that ended the moment I realized he wanted more than I could give.

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