Page 23 of Rescued In The Storm

The morning rush keeps us both busy after that, a steady stream of customers that doesn't leave much time for thinking about Connor Callahan or his absence. It's almost a relief, losing myself in the familiar rhythm of the bakery.

But as the crowd thins and noon approaches, I find myself glancing at the door with increasing frequency. Maybe he's just running late. Maybe there was an emergency at the lodge. Maybe he's taking a group of hikers up to Lookout Point.

Maybe he regrets kissing me.

The thought lands like a stone in my stomach, heavy and cold.

By closing time, I've convinced myself that yesterday was a mistake. The walk, the conversation, the kiss—a momentary lapse in judgment that he's now trying to politely forget. Why else would he disappear after weeks of consistent visits?

"You want me to lock up?" Maya asks, already wiping down the last table.

"I've got it," I say. "Go on home."

She hesitates. "You sure you're okay?"

"Absolutely," I say. "Just tired."

* * *

"You need to get out of that bakery before you murder another batch of innocent dough," Maya had insisted after we closed up shop two days later. "Come to the Coffee Loft with me. Kathryn's testing new summer drink recipes and needs guinea pigs."

Which is how I find myself sitting at a corner table in The Coffee Loft at seven in the evening, nursing a lavender honey iced latte that's admittedly delicious. The coffee shop is quiet for a Monday night—just a few students from the community college huddled over laptops, and a couple in the far corner sharing a slice of pie.

"What do you think?" Kathryn asks, sliding into the chair across from me. "Too floral? Not sweet enough?"

"It's perfect," I say, taking another sip. "You could bottle this and sell it by the gallon."

"High praise from Elk Ridge's premiere baker." She smiles, but her eyes are assessing me carefully. "Maya says you've been in a mood."

I shoot a glare toward the counter where Maya is helping Nolan restock pastries—my pastries, ironically enough. "Maya talks too much."

"She's worried about you. We both are." Kathryn leans forward, lowering her voice. "Does this have something to do with Connor?"

The sound of his name sends an unwelcome jolt through me. "Why would it?"

"Because Nolan mentioned he's been holed up at the lodge for two days straight, barely talking to anyone. And you're here stress-drinking my experimental lattes instead of at home baking, which is your usual coping mechanism."

"I'm not coping with anything," I insist. "And Connor's personal schedule is none of my business."

Kathryn gives me a look that says she isn't buying it for a second. "Sarah?—"

The bell above the door chimes, interrupting whatever she was about to say. And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, Connor Callahan walks in.

My heart performs a complicated gymnastic routine in my chest, equal parts hope and dread. He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, his hair messier than usual as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. His gaze sweeps the shop, and for a moment, I think about ducking behind Kathryn or making a break for the restroom.

But then his eyes find mine, and it's too late.

I straighten in my chair, bracing myself. For what, I'm not exactly sure. An explanation? An apology? A casual greeting that pretends nothing happened between us?

What I don't expect is the hesitation.

He stops just inside the doorway, a flash of surprise crossing his face, before his expression shutters. And then, as if forcing himself, he takes a step toward me, and another, his movements stiff in a way Connor Callahan never is.

It's the hesitation that does it. That brief moment where I can see him calculating, deciding whether to approach or retreat.

If I meant anything to him—anything at all—there wouldn't be that pause, that momentary weighing of options. He wouldn't look at me like I'm a problem to solve rather than a person he wanted to kiss just two days ago.

Before he can reach our table, I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my drink.

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