Page 16 of Rescued In The Storm

I should tell him nothing. Should maintain some distance, protect myself from the hope fluttering dangerously in my chest. But the words that come out are: "The ovens need preheating."

He nods, heading for the kitchen with familiar confidence. He's been here enough in the past week to know where things are, how I like them set up. It should feel like an intrusion, someone in my space, disrupting my routine. Instead, it feels like something sliding into place.

I follow him, watching as he adjusts the oven dials to the exact temperature I prefer, then washes his hands at the sink.

"I'll start the coffee," he says, moving toward the industrial coffee maker. "Maya should be here in about fifteen minutes, right?"

"You've got her schedule memorized?" I ask, surprised by how much he's noticed.

He shrugs, measuring coffee grounds with practiced ease. "I pay attention." He glances up, something warm in his eyes. "Just like I know she takes hers with two sugars and that vanilla creamer you keep hidden in the back of the fridge."

He does know. He knows where I keep the filters, how I organize the pastry bags and which drawer holds the extra aprons.

We work in companionable silence for a while, me kneading dough while he measures coffee grounds. The familiarity of it—the quiet rhythm of two people who know the dance—makes my chest ache with a longing I try not to name.

"I like your photos," he says suddenly, his back to me as he reaches for mugs.

My hands still in the dough. "They're just a hobby."

"They're more than that." He turns, those blue eyes too perceptive. "You have a gift, Sarah. You see things other people don't."

Like you, I think but don't say. I see you.

The bell over the door chimes, saving me from having to respond. Maya arrives in a flurry of movement, unwinding her scarf as she steps inside.

"Morning, boss!" she calls, then spots Connor. Her eyebrows rise slightly. "Morning, Connor. Didn't realize you were on the payroll now."

He laughs, pouring a cup of coffee and adding the exact amount of sugar and creamer Maya likes. "Just earning my keep."

"Well, I'm not complaining," she says, accepting the mug with a too-knowing smile. "Sarah's been much less grumpy with you around."

"Maya," I warn, my cheeks warming.

"What? It's true. You used to stomp around all morning until at least your second cup of coffee. Now you're practically singing when I arrive."

"I don't sing," I mutter, focusing intently on my dough.

"Humming, then," Maya concedes, winking at Connor before disappearing into the back to hang up her things.

When I dare to look up, Connor is watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "You hum?"

"Don't let it go to your head," I say, but there's no bite to my words. "I hum when I'm content."

Something shifts in his gaze, softens. "Good."

The morning moves quickly after that. Maya and I prepare to open, while Connor helps where he can. The man is washing dishes, carrying trays, and keeping the coffee flowing. It shouldn't work, having him here, but somehow it does.

By the time we flip the sign to "Open," the display cases are full, the air rich with the scent of fresh bread and pastries, and my cheeks ache from smiling more than usual.

Our first customer is the retired high school principal who comes in every morning for a bran muffin and coffee. His eyebrows rise when he spots Connor behind the counter.

"Well, look who's here," he says, grinning. "Didn't know you were a regular, Callahan."

In the past, Connor might have offered a polite nod, maybe a brief explanation for his presence. Instead, he reaches for a mug, filling it with black coffee.

"Getting to be," Connor says, setting the coffee on the counter. His eyes find mine across the bakery. "Sarah makes it worth stopping by."

The principal looks between us, his smile widening. "I'm sure she does."

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