We’re not just leaving the mountain. We’re carrying its weight with us.
Chapter 2
Abigail
The kitchen smells divine,like melted chocolate and butter swirling together in the warm air. Layla’s perched on a stool at the counter, her little hands deep in a bowl of flour. She’s got it everywhere—on her cheeks, her jumper, even a streak across her nose. She looks up at me with a proud grin, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Careful, love,” I say, trying to sound stern but failing miserably. “We’re making muffins, not a flour bomb.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t love the chaos,” Nancy pipes up from the kitchen table, sipping her tea like she’s queen of the Yorkshire Dales.
I shoot her a look. “You’re one to talk, Miss ‘Two Left Feet,’ who knocked an entire tray of cupcakes onto the floor last Christmas.”
Nancy grins. “That was an accident. Besides, if I’d known you were gonna hold it over me forever, I’d have claimed it was performance art.”
Layla giggles, sprinkling a handful of chocolate chips into the batter. Most of them actually make it in, which I take as a win.
“Nice work, chef,” I say, giving her a wink.
Nancy sets her mug down, her grin turning sly. “So, when are you going to stop hiding behind muffins and start dating again?”
I freeze for half a second, whisk in mid-air. “I’m not hiding,” I say, a little too quickly, then pour the batter into the muffin cases. “I’m just... busy.”
“Busy? Abby, you’re running a B&B in the middle of nowhere, not MI5.” She leans forward, folding her arms on the table. “It’s been, what, four years since—?”
“Nance,” I cut her off gently, my back to her as I pop the tray into the oven. The heat rushes out, warming my face as I close the door and set the timer. “I’m happy as I am. I’ve got Layla, the B&B, my guests. Life’s good.”
Nancy doesn’t let up. She’s got that big-sister look about her, the one that says she’s not buying a word of it. “You deserve more than ‘good,’ Abby. You deserve someone who makes your cheeks go pink and your heart race like a teenager’s.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “My cheeks are already pink, thanks to the oven. And I’m not interested in being swept off my feet. I’ve got my hands full as it is.”
Nancy sighs, coming over to rest her hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay to move on, you know. It doesn’t mean forgetting him. You are forty-one. He wouldn’t want you to be alone for the rest of your life.”
I swallow hard, glancing out the window. The Dales stretch out in front of me, soft and endless, the late afternoon sun lighting up the fields like something out of a painting. It’s beautiful here, peaceful. I remind myself to be grateful for that, even if her words sting more than I want to admit.
“I know,” I say softly, turning back to Layla. “What do you think, love? Time to lick the spoon?”
Layla’s eyes light up. “Yes!” she squeals, holding up her flour-covered hands for me to pass it over. I hand her the spoon, watching her face light up with pure joy as she licks the chocolate batter. It’s moments like this that remind me what really matters.
“Besides, I’m not the only one who is single. What about you?” I challenge her.
“Hey, I date. As much as the limited population of St. Claire allows. I’m kind of running out of prospects but do not fear, I have a plan to attract new blood to the area,” she giggles.
As hoped, this gets her off my back and onto her new venture. Some rambling club she is planning to set up. Nancy is the sporty person in our family. Me and my curves don’t enjoy endless walks through the hills. I'd rather look at them from the distance.
The crunch of gravel outside snaps me out of my thoughts. I wipe my hands on a tea towel and glance out the window. A car has just pulled up, the sun bouncing off the windscreen so I can’t see who’s inside.
“That’ll be your mystery guest,” Nancy says, setting her tea down with an exaggerated flourish. “Three weeks in this quaint little slice of nowhere. I’m calling it now—he’s either hiding from the law, writing the next great novel, or nursing a broken heart.”
I roll my eyes, tying my apron back into place. “Or, and hear me out, maybe he’s just someone who wanted a quiet getaway?”
Nancy waves me off dramatically. “No, no, it’s always more exciting than that. What’s his name again? Tell me his name has potential.”
I smirk, pulling my phone from the counter where I’d left it earlier. “Jon Peterson,” I read from the booking confirmation.
Nancy gasps, clutching her chest like she’s just heard the lead in a period drama announced. “Jon Peterson? That’s not just a name—it’s a character. A brooding artist! Or a secret spy! Or... wait, what if he’s a soldier come home to find peace after the horrors of war?”
“Good grief, Nancy,” I say, shaking my head. “He could also just be an accountant from Derby.”