Page 12 of Rescued In The Storm

I don't trust myself to respond without revealing the hope blooming in my chest, so I simply nod.

At the door, he turns back. "Call if you need anything. Anything at all."

"I will."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that feels somehow final. I listen to his truck start, the sound of tires on gravel, then silence.

I close my eyes, the ice pack cold against my skin, and try to make sense of the day. Of the storm, the cabin, the way Connor looked at me. But all I can think is that his protectiveness, his care, his concern...none of it means what I want it to mean.

It's not love. It's Connor being Connor. He’s the dependable guide, the reliable rescuer, the good man who would never leave anyone stranded on a mountain in a storm.

Even if that someone is the baker who sells him coffee and scones once a week.

* * *

It takes me twice as long as usual to get ready for work the next morning. Every movement is a careful negotiation with my injured ankle. Maya offered to open the bakery alone, but I insisted on coming in. I need the normalcy, the comfort of flour on my hands and the scent of bread baking.

I hobble through the back door at five a.m., leaning heavily on the crutches Connor dropped off last night. He left them on my porch with a note that simply read "Use these." I didn't hear his truck. Didn't know he'd been back until I found them propped against my door when I reluctantly checked to see if my car had been returned. It was there, parked exactly where I always leave it, keys in the mailbox.

The bakery is dark and quiet, the ovens cold. I'm flipping on lights and setting down my bag when a knock at the front door startles me.

Through the glass, I see a familiar silhouette.

Connor.

My heart does that stupid little flutter it always does at the sight of him, but stronger now, charged with memories of yesterday. Memories of his arms around me, his hands gentle on my ankle, the way he looked at me in that cabin.

I maneuver my way to the door, trying to appear more steady on the crutches than I feel. The lock clicks open, and there he is, two to-go cups from The Coffee Loft in his hands.

"Morning," he says, as if showing up at my bakery before dawn is perfectly normal. "Thought you might need this."

He holds out one of the cups. The rich aroma of the lodge’s special dark roast reaches my nose.

"Thanks," I say, accepting it. "But isn't this against the rules? Bringing another venue's coffee into my bakery?"

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "I won't tell if you won't."

I step back, balancing awkwardly on my good leg. "Do you want to come in?"

He nods, following me inside. The familiar bell chimes as the door swings shut behind him, but everything else about this moment feels foreign. Connor Callahan in my bakery at five in the morning, not on a Tuesday, carrying coffee he brought for me.

"How's the ankle?" he asks, watching me navigate to the counter.

"Been better," I admit. "But the crutches help. Thank you for those."

He shrugs. "We have a couple at the lodge just in case. Seemed like you could use them."

I take a sip of the coffee. It’s strong and black, exactly how I like it in the morning. "And my car? Did you have any trouble getting it back?"

"No trouble." He leans against the counter, making no move to leave. His gaze sweeps over the display cases, still empty, waiting for the day's baking. "Need any help setting up?"

The offer catches me off guard. "Don't you have hikers to guide? Mountains to climb?"

"Not until ten," he says. "Lodge has a group doing the summit hike."

"Oh." I clutch my coffee cup tighter, unsure what to make of this. Connor has never lingered in my bakery before. Never offered to help. Never brought me coffee or checked on me or looked at me with this particular intensity that makes my skin warm despite the early morning chill.

"So?" he prompts. "What can I do?"

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