Page 19 of Rescued In The Storm

"Connor, I can't just abandon—" Sarah begins.

"It's not abandoning," I counter. "It's delegating. And it's only for an hour."

Maya nods enthusiastically. "Go, Sarah. Enjoy being on the other side of the table for once. I've got this covered."

Sarah hesitates, her sense of responsibility warring with temptation. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Maya insists, already gently nudging Sarah out from behind the table. "Consider it market research. See what the competition is up to."

"There's no competition for your cinnamon rolls," I assure her, offering my arm in a half-joking gesture. "Shall we?"

To my surprise, Sarah actually takes it, her fingers light on my forearm. "I suppose I could use a break," she concedes, though the eager look in her eyes belies her reluctant tone.

"One hour," Maya calls after us as we step away from the stall. "And don't you dare come back with any pastries from other vendors!"

The market feels different walking through it with Sarah. The place is more alive somehow, as if seeing it through her eyes enhances the colors, the sounds, the energy of it. She moves with a kind of restrained excitement, her steps quickening as we approach the first row of produce stalls.

"I've been eyeing Mrs. Wilson's strawberries for weeks," she confesses, leading me toward a table piled with ruby red berries. "They always sell out before I can get away from our stall."

"Then strawberries it is," I say, following her lead.

Mrs. Wilson's face lights up at the sight of Sarah. "Well, if it isn't the baker herself! Finally stepping out from behind your own table?"

"Connor talked me into a temporary reprieve," Sarah explains, picking up a carton of strawberries and inhaling their sweet scent.

"Good for him." Mrs. Wilson gives me an approving nod. "You work too hard, dear. Always have."

We continue through the market, Sarah stopping at nearly every stall, examining produce with expert hands, greeting vendors by name. I find myself carrying an increasingly heavy collection of purchases—herbs, tomatoes, a wedge of cheese from the dairy farm outside town. But I don't mind. There's something satisfying about watching her enjoy this simple pleasure she rarely gets to experience.

"Admit it," she says as we pause by a display of local honey. "You're using those famous survival skills right now, aren't you?"

"How so?"

"Carrying all this without complaint." She gestures to the bags looped over my arm. "Probably using some special wilderness guide technique for weight distribution."

I laugh. "Yes, it's a very advanced skill. They teach it in Mountain Man 101."

"I knew it." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Next you'll be fashioning a backpack out of market tablecloths and string."

"Only in emergencies," I deadpan.

"And what about last night? Was that your advanced plumbing course in action?"

The reminder of the water main brings back the bone-deep fatigue I'd momentarily forgotten. "That was more like hands-on learning. Liam and I figured it out as we went."

"Instead of calling a professional," she observes.

"The nearest plumber is an hour away in the city. We couldn't leave the guests without water that long."

As we move toward the next stall, I spot a familiar figure examining a display of local jams. Lauren, dressed in casual weekend clothes rather than her usual office attire, looks different outside the lodge setting—more relaxed, less like the woman whose presence has been making my brother tense for weeks.

She glances up, noticing us, and for a moment looks like she might turn and walk in the opposite direction. But then she squares her shoulders and approaches.

"Connor," she greets me with a small smile before turning to Sarah. "And you must be Sarah Miller. I've heard a lot about you."

"Lauren," I nod. "Sarah, this is Lauren Abbott. She's the lodge's new bookkeeper."

"And Liam's ex-wife," Lauren adds, an edge to her smile. "Might as well get that out in the open."

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