Page 28 of Rescued In The Storm

"These are better," he says, handing me a cluster of lavender and something with delicate white flowers. "Sarah prefers the spring varieties. The ones you were looking at won't bloom for another few weeks."

I stare at him. "How do you know what Sarah prefers?"

Rowan shrugs. "She comes by for cuttings sometimes. For her window boxes."

"And you two talk about flowers?"

"Not everyone communicates exclusively in grunts and weather forecasts, Connor." Declan picks up a spray bottle, misting the arrangement in my hands. "Some of us actually have conversations with women."

"I talk to Sarah," I protest.

"About what? Coffee orders and trail conditions?" Declan shakes his head. "When's the last time you asked about her photography?"

The question hits uncomfortably close to home. "How do you know about her photography?"

"Because Declan asked," Rowan says simply. He rummages through a drawer and produces twine, carefully wrapping it around the stems. "She showed us some of her work. She's talented."

Another realization I've come to too late. "I'm screwing this up, aren't I?"

"Impressively so," Declan confirms. "But at least you're trying to fix it. Though I'm not sure flowers are going to cut it after the disappearing act you pulled."

Rowan finishes tying off the arrangement and hands it back to me. "It's a start."

ChapterEleven

Sarah

I've never been a confrontational person. Bakers rarely are. We're the ones who smooth things over, who make everything a little sweeter, a little easier to digest. It's practically in the job description.

But I'm done waiting.

The drive up to Mountain Laurel Lodge takes exactly twelve minutes from town. I know because I've counted every second, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles have gone white. Each turn in the winding mountain road brings me closer to either closure or heartbreak—maybe both—and the butterflies in my stomach have evolved into something more like angry hornets.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter to myself as the lodge comes into view, its familiar rustic elegance normally comforting but now intimidating. "You're a grown woman. Act like it."

I park in the visitor lot, ignoring the voice in my head telling me to turn around, to drive back to town, to the safety of my bakery where flour and sugar follow predictable rules and nothing ever breaks your heart if you follow the recipe.

The morning air is crisp despite the summer warmth, the scent of pine sharp in my lungs as I stride toward the main building. A few guests lounge on the wide porch, enjoying coffee and the mountain view, but I barely notice them. My focus narrows to a single purpose. Finding Connor.

I don't have to look far.

He's emerging from his cabin, one of several set apart from the main lodge for family use. He's freshly showered, his hair still damp.

For a moment, I just watch him. He looks nervous, determined, nothing like the confident mountain guide I'm used to seeing. He hasn't noticed me yet, his attention focused on whatever thoughts are running through his head, his expression more vulnerable than I've ever seen it.

Not like he usually is.

Not like he was with me.

"Connor."

He turns at the sound of my voice, surprise flashing across his face before something else replaces it—wariness, maybe. Or guilt. He stands quickly, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Sarah." My name sounds careful on his lips, like he's testing the waters. "I was just about to?—"

"Were you?" I cut him off, the anger I've been nursing for days finally finding its voice. "Because from where I'm standing, you've had plenty of time to do whatever you were 'just about to' do."

He takes a step toward me, then seems to think better of it. "I know," he says quietly. "I should have come to the bakery. I was planning to this morning."

---