Page 15 of Rescued In The Storm

I sigh, giving in. "Sarah took it. Sarah Miller."

"The baker." There's no question in her voice.

"Yeah." I pass her the photo. "She has this whole collection. Street photography. People around town. They're really good."

My mother studies the image, her expression softening. "She captured something special here."

"That's what bothers me," I admit. "I didn't know I ever looked like that."

"Like what?" she prompts.

"I don't know. At peace, maybe?" I run a hand through my hair. "The thing is, she took this last summer. And the way she looked when I found it... like I'd discovered some secret."

My mother hands the photo back, her eyes too perceptive. "Maybe you did."

The implication hangs in the air between us. I've suspected for days now, but haven't allowed myself to fully form the thought.

"She's always been there," I say finally. "At the bakery. At town events. Just... there. And I never really saw her. Not the way she apparently saw me."

"And now?" My mother's voice is gentle.

"Now I can't stop seeing her." The admission feels like letting go of something I've been clutching too tightly. "How long has she felt this way? How did I miss it?"

Evie pats my knee. "Sometimes the things we're looking for are right in front of us all along."

"I wasn't looking for anything."

"Weren't you?" She stands, pressing a kiss to the top of my head like she did when I was small. "Drink your tea, Connor. And maybe consider that Sarah Miller might be exactly what you've been needing without realizing it."

She leaves me with that thought, her footsteps fading as she returns to the main lodge.

I look back at the photo, seeing it differently now. It's not just how Sarah sees me. It's evidence of how long she's been seeing me. The real me. Not the guide, the brother, the Callahan son that everyone else knows.

And I've been blind. Coming to her bakery week after week, brushing past her like she was just part of the scenery. Never noticing how her eyes followed me, how she remembered exactly how I took my coffee, how she always had blueberry scones on Tuesdays.

Sarah Miller has known me—really known me—all this time.

ChapterSeven

Sarah

Iround the corner to the bakery just as dawn breaks, the familiar silhouette of my storefront coming into view. The morning is quiet, Main Street still sleepy, most shops hours from opening. This is my favorite time of day. Just me, the dough, and the promise of what's to come.

Except I'm not alone this morning.

Connor sits on the bench outside my bakery, standing when he sees me approach. Something about the way he straightens, the way his eyes find mine and hold, makes my heart skip.

"Morning," he says, hands tucked into his jacket pockets against the early chill. "Thought I'd come help out today."

"Oh." I'm momentarily thrown by his presence, by the casual way he's made himself part of my morning. "Thanks."

I fumble with my keys, hyperconscious of him watching me. Last night. The photos. He saw the photo. And a dozen others, but that one—the one of him—that's the one that matters. That's the one that gives away too much.

The door swings open, and I step into the familiar darkness of my bakery. Connor follows without invitation, something he never would have done weeks ago. Something he never would have done before the storm.

"You don't have to help today," I say, flipping on lights, setting down my bag. "I'm sure you have guide stuff to do."

"Not until later." He shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack by the door as if he's done it a hundred times before. As if he belongs here. "What can I do?"

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