Page 9 of Hometown Heart

"Yep. We fired up the backup generator, and he spent the whole morning serving coffee and keeping spirits up. Even taught Mrs. Henderson's grandson some hockey moves using sugar packets on the counter as players. That's just who Ziggy is—always thinking about how to make someone else's day better."

"Wow, a nice guy."

"Yeah," I winked at Jack, "he taught another kid how to do a proper wrist shot with a stirring straw."

Cody turned to Jack. "Papa, can we go to the carnival? Please? I want to see everything and meet Ziggy!"

Jack hesitated, and I found myself holding my breath. "Well..." he started.

"You really should come," I heard myself say. "It's one of Whistleport's best traditions. The ice sculpture competition alone is worth it."

"Papa,please?" Cody tugged at Jack's sleeve. "We have to go!"

Jack's expression softened as he looked at his son. "Alright. We'll go."

The pure joy on Cody's face was infectious. "Yes! Can we practice more this week? I want my celebration move to be perfect!"

"We'll figure something out," Jack assured him. Then, to me: "Thanks for the invitation. It'll be nice to experience some Whistleport traditions."

"Thank you for accepting," I replied and immediately felt foolish. Who talks like that? But Jack smiled that smile again, and I decided maybe a little foolishness wasn't the worst thing in the world.

As they headed for their car, I heard Cody asking Jack if they could look up videos of Ziggy playing hockey. Jack's warm laugh wrapped around me like a favorite sweater.

It signaled trouble. The kind that starts with a single glance across a rink and ends with sleepless nights wondering if you're imagining the sparks… and, too often, a broken heart.

The walk back to Tidal Grounds usually cleared my head. Something about the salt air and the rhythm of waves against the seawall always put things in perspective. But today, my thoughts refused to settle, spinning like loose sugar in a mixing bowl.

I rounded the corner onto Main Street, the familiar creaky sign of Tidal Grounds swaying gently in the breeze. Through the front window, I saw Sarah—my new morning shift lead—reorganizing the pastry case. The normalcy of it should have been comforting.

Instead, I reminded myself of all the little changes I'd made without thinking about them. My hockey puck-shaped cookies had become a regular feature. I now carefully timed my weekend morning baking so Jack's coffee would be ready right when he and Cody came in before practice.

The bell chimed as I pushed through the door, and the familiar embrace of coffee-scented air wrapped around me. Sarah looked up from the display case.

"Everything set for the carnival?" she asked, straightening a row of muffins.

"Yeah, mostly." I headed behind the counter, grabbing my apron from its hook. "Though I should probably start on those marshmallows for the hot chocolate station."

My hands moved on autopilot, gathering sugar, gelatin, and vanilla ingredients. The precise measurements of candy-making usually centered me, but today each step felt charged with new meaning.

I found myself reaching for the small hockey stick mold I ordered last week—ostensibly for the carnival, but if I was honest with myself...

"Really?" Sarah's amused voice broke into my thoughts. She watched me carefully pipe the marshmallow mixture into the mold.

"What?" I tried for casual. "Kids love themed treats."

"Uh-huh." She raised an eyebrow. "And this has nothing to do with a certain new regular and his hockey-obsessed son?"

Heat crept up the back of my neck. "It's good business," I muttered, focusing intently on the marshmallow shapes. "Customer satisfaction. Community engagement. That kind of thing."

"Right." Sarah's tone made it clear she wasn't buying it. "And I suppose the new coffee blend you special-ordered—the one that's perfect with a splash of cream—that's only business, too?"

I looked down at my hands, suddenly aware I was tracing the edge of the mold with unnecessary precision. "Don't you have tables to wipe down or something?"

Her laugh followed me as I retreated to the walk-in cooler, supposedly to check inventory. In reality, I needed the cold air to fade the color of my flushed face.

Through the cooler window, I stared at a slice of the harbor. A lobster boat was heading out, cutting a clean line through water that sparkled like scattered diamonds in the morning sun. Simple. Predictable. Everything my life had been until Jack St. Pierre walked into my café with his quiet smile and his hockey-loving kid.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. "You're being ridiculous," I told my reflection. "This is nothing. This is just... friendly. Normal."

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