Page 17 of Rescued In The Storm

I busy myself with arranging scones, trying to ignore the knowing look on the older man's face, the way my pulse quickens under Connor's steady gaze. This is dangerous territory. Reading too much into small kindnesses, casual compliments. Setting myself up for disappointment.

But when he leaves and Connor steps behind the counter, close enough that our shoulders brush, I can't help the flutter in my chest. It’s hope I've spent years trying to extinguish, now threatening to ignite into something uncontrollable.

"Sarah." His voice is low, just for me. "About that photo?—"

The bell chimes again as more customers enter, cutting him off. Whatever he was about to say will have to wait. But the way he looks at me before stepping back, the warmth in his eyes, the slight upturn of his lips, feels like a promise.

* * *

The evening air has that perfect early summer quality. It’s warm without being hot, the air scented with blooming flowers and the promise of longer days. Main Street is lively with Elk Ridge's Thursday evening summer concert series, the small town square filled with locals on picnic blankets and folding chairs while vendors sell ice cream and lemonade from carts along the periphery.

I'm leaving the post office, a stack of bills paid and ready for tomorrow's mail pickup, when I spot him.

Connor stands at the edge of the square, away from the gathered crowd, his attention focused on an elderly man playing violin. He's completely still, hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted. He’s listening with his whole body in that intense way he has, as if he's absorbing every note.

I pause, watching him. Most people would walk past the old violinist without a second glance. But that's Connor—noticing the things others miss, appreciating what most ignore. It's one of the first things I ever loved about him, though I'd never admit that aloud.

For a moment, I consider turning away, continuing my errands without interrupting his solitude. But something pulls me toward him, the same magnetic force that's been drawing me closer since the storm.

"I never took you for a classical music fan," I say, stepping up beside him.

Connor doesn't startle but his eyes warm when they land on me. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

"Apparently." I smile, nodding toward the violinist. "Though I have noticed you always leave extra tips for the string quartet that plays at the lodge's summer events."

His eyebrows rise slightly. "You've been watching me."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. After the photo incident, it's too close to an admission. "I notice things. Occupational hazard of being a baker. Details matter."

"Occupational hazard of being a photographer too, I'd imagine." His voice is casual, but his eyes are anything but.

The violin music swells around us, filling the silence that stretches between us. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly nervous.

"Speaking of which," Connor continues, turning to face me fully, "you mentioned your mom gave you your first camera when you were sixteen. Was that when you knew you loved photography, or did that come later?"

"It wasn't really a choice after that first camera." I watch the violinist's fingers dance across the strings, finding it easier than meeting Connor's gaze. "More like a compulsion. Some moments need to be preserved."

"Like me at the lodge?"

My eyes snap to his, heart stumbling. There it is. The direct acknowledgment of the photo I hoped we might politely avoid mentioning ever again.

"That was—" I start, then stop, not sure how to explain without revealing too much. "The light was good."

"Sarah." Just my name, but the way he says it—soft, almost coaxing—makes my defenses crumble.

"I like to capture the things people don't see," I admit finally. "The quiet moments. The real ones, not the posed smiles or the perfect angles people put on social media. Just... truth."

Connor studies me, his expression thoughtful. "And what truth were you capturing that day?"

We're venturing into dangerous territory now. My pulse quickens, and I scramble for an answer that won't expose the years of silent longing, the careful attention I've paid to his every habit, the way I've cataloged his expressions in my mind like precious artifacts.

"That you have another side," I say carefully. "Beyond the mountain guide, the Callahan brother. Something quieter. More contemplative."

He takes a step closer, close enough that I can smell the faint pine scent that always clings to him. "And why did you want to capture that?"

"Because—" I swallow hard, caught between the urge to flee and the desperate need to finally say what I've kept locked away for so long. "Because sometimes I think I'm the only one who sees it."

Connor's eyes darken, and he draws in a breath like he's about to say something important. His hand moves, fingers just brushing against mine, the contact sending sparks up my arm even though it's barely a touch.

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