Page 21 of Our Bay Will Come

"And safer than falling again," Fox says quietly.

The accuracy of his assessment stings. "Exactly."

His shoulder brushes mine, and this time, I don't pull away. "For what it's worth," he says, "I think being cautious is smart. But being closed off..." He shakes his head. "That just lets assholes like Alan win twice."

I turn to look at him fully, struck by the simplicity of his words. The morning breeze ruffles his hair, and I fight the urge to reach up and smooth it back.

"When did construction guys get so wise?" I ask, trying to lighten the moment.

Fox grins, and something warm unfurls in my chest. "Right around the time interior designers got so guarded."

I laugh, surprised by how good it feels. "Touché."

He stands, offering his hand. "Come on. There's a bakery up the street that's supposed to have incredible cinnamon rolls. And I promise not to read too much into it if you share one with me."

I look at his outstretched hand, feeling the weight of my caution against the pull of possibility. After a moment's hesitation, I take it, letting him pull me to my feet.

"One cinnamon roll," I agree. "But I make no promises about what that means."

His smile is slow and sure. "I wouldn't dare assume."

As we walk toward town, he doesn't let go of my hand, and I find, to my surprise, that I don't want him to. The bakery is cozy and warm, with a line that stretches nearly to the door. The scent of butter and cinnamon wraps around us like a blanket, and my stomach growls embarrassingly loud.

"Hungry?" Fox asks, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Starving," I admit. "I was too nervous this morning to eat much."

His eyebrows lift. "Nervous? About me?"

I roll my eyes to hide the fact that he's exactly right. "Don't let it go to your head. I get nervous before all my... outings."

"Is that what this is? An outing?"

"What would you call it?"

Fox considers this as we shuffle forward in line. "I'd call it the best morning I've had in a long time."

The simple honesty in his voice catches me off guard. I'm used to clever wordplay and men who construct elaborate compliments designed to get them what they want. Fox just says things—real things.

"Me too," I find myself saying. "It's nice to just... be."

We reach the counter and Fox orders one massive cinnamon roll and two coffees. When I reach for my wallet, he shakes his head.

"My treat," he says. "My sister always says never to trust a man who won't buy you pastry."

"Wise woman, your sister."

"Don't tell her that. It'll go straight to her head."

We find a tiny table by the window, our knees bumping underneath. With surgical precision, Fox splits the cinnamon roll, steam rising as he pulls it apart.

"So," I say, taking a bite that nearly makes me moan, "what about you? Any relationship horror stories I should know about?"

Fox's expression shifts, a cloud passing over the sun. "One. College girlfriend. We were together three years."

"What happened?"

He stares into his coffee. "Sarah wanted someone more ambitious. Said she couldn't see a future with a guy who was content being a 'small-town nobody.'" The bitterness in his voice tells me he's quoting her directly.

---