Page 21 of Rescued In The Storm

"You really don't have to walk me home," Sarah says as I take the heavier of her bags. "It's just a few blocks."

"I know," I reply, falling into step beside her. After our market walk earlier—and her question that's been echoing in my mind all day—I found myself lingering as she and Maya closed down their stall, offering to help without quite knowing why. Except that's not entirely true. I do know why. "I want to."

Her smile is small but genuine. "Well, since you insisted on helping break down the stall, I suppose I can accept the escort service too."

"At your service," I say with a mock bow that makes her laugh.

"Evie raised you boys right." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The simple gesture draws my attention to the curve of her neck, the light freckles dusting her skin that I've somehow never noticed before.

The strawberries she bought are nestled in one of the bags, their sweet scent rising in the afternoon heat. I imagine her in her kitchen later, transforming them into something delicious—tarts or scones or whatever magic she works in that bakery of hers.

"What will you make with these?" I ask, lifting the bag slightly.

"Hmm." She considers for a moment. "Probably a galette. Simple, rustic. Lets the berries speak for themselves."

"I don't know what a galette is, but it sounds good."

She laughs. "It's like a free-form pie. No fuss, no fancy crimping. Just good ingredients handled with care."

"Like most worthwhile things," I say, the words coming out more serious than I intended.

Her steps slow slightly, her eyes finding mine with that perceptive look that seems to see straight through all my defenses. For a moment, I think she might revisit her earlier question, press on that tender spot she uncovered at the market. But she just nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

We reach her house, the small cottage behind her bakery with its cheerful blue door and window boxes spilling over with summer blooms. The porch is just big enough for two rocking chairs and a small table, a cozy space that somehow suits her perfectly.

"This is me," she says unnecessarily, climbing the three steps to her porch. "Thank you for the escort home. And for the market adventure."

I follow her up, setting the bags carefully on the small table. "Thanks for the company."

We stand there on her porch, the afternoon stretching golden around us. A light breeze carries the scent of her flowers—lavender and something else I can't name—mingling with the lingering sweetness of strawberries. In the distance, a wind chime sings softly from a neighbor's yard.

Neither of us moves to leave. Neither of us seems to know what to say next. The silence between us grows, not uncomfortable but charged with something I've been trying not to name.

Sarah tilts her head slightly, her eyes never leaving mine. The sunlight catches in her hair, turning the brown to amber and gold. "Are you going to overthink this," she asks, her voice soft but steady, "or are you going to kiss me?"

The world stills. For a heartbeat, I can't move, can't breathe. Her words hang in the air between us, direct and unambiguous. No room for misinterpretation, no way to retreat behind careful distance or practiced detachment.

"Sarah—" My voice is rough, foreign to my own ears.

"Because you've been looking at me like you want to," she continues, something vulnerable flickering beneath her boldness. "For days now. Maybe longer."

She's right. Of course she's right. This woman who sees everything, who captures moments others miss, who asked the one question no one's ever thought to ask me. Of course she's seen this too, the pull I've been fighting since that day on the mountain.

I exhale sharply, decision made. In two steps, I close the distance between us.

My hands find her face, cradling her cheeks with a gentleness that contradicts the thunder of my heartbeat. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips, soft in a way I've imagined but never let myself dwell on. For a moment, I just look at her—her eyes wide and clear, her lips slightly parted, the dusting of freckles across her nose that most people never get close enough to notice.

Then I lower my head and press my lips to hers.

The first touch is soft, tentative. It’s a question rather than a declaration. Her lips are warm and taste faintly of strawberries, sweet and sun-ripe. The scent of her surrounds me—vanilla and flour and something uniquely Sarah that I've caught hints of in the bakery but never this close, this undiluted.

She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, her hands coming up to grip the front of my shirt, and something breaks loose inside me. Years of carefully maintained distance, of not noticing, of pretending she was just the baker who made my favorite scones—all of it dissolves in the warmth of her mouth against mine.

I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through the soft hair at the base of her braid. She responds immediately, rising slightly on her toes, her body fitting against mine as if we've done this a thousand times before. As if this was always where we were meant to end up.

The world narrows to just this. The softness of her lips, the gentle pressure of her hands against my chest, the mingled taste of strawberries and possibility. For once, I'm not thinking ahead, not planning, not calculating risks. Just feeling.

When she finally pulls back, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright. Her smile spreads slowly, full of mischief and something that looks suspiciously like triumph. "Took you long enough," she murmurs, her breath warm against my lips.

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