Page 9 of His Big Holiday Firefighter
“It’s not. You’re overworking it.”
“I think I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” His voice had that edge again, like a sugar coating about to crack. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to force something that doesn’t need fixing.”
I cranked the mixer speed up, ignoring his warning look. The motor whined in protest, and suddenly everything happened at once. The bowl slipped from the base, sending flour and dough flying in a white explosion. I reached for it instinctively, knocking over the bottle of expensive vanilla extract. It shattered on the floor, filling the air with its sweet scent. The same vanilla that had always followed my grandmother, the same scent that meant home.
“Damn it!” I kneeled to clean up the mess, but Noah was already there, too close, making my heart race. The vanilla rose between us like a memory or a promise.
“Here, let me?—”
“I’ve got it.”
We both reached for the same piece of glass. His hand closed over mine, warm and steady, and for a moment neither of us moved. I could feel his pulse in his fingertips, or maybe it was my own heart beating too fast.
“James—”
“Don’t.” I pulled away, standing too quickly. Papers fluttered from the counter, landing at his feet.
The sale contract. The one Sarah had sent over this morning with its stark legal language laying out in black and white how to dismantle a legacy.
Noah picked it up slowly. I watched his expression change as he read. “Tomorrow.” His voice was very quiet, like the moment before a storm breaks. “You’re signing the papers tomorrow?”
“Noah—”
“Were you even going to tell me?” He looked up, and the hurt in his eyes filled me with a sharp, hollow regret. “Or were youjust planning to disappear after the competition? Like none of this meant anything?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?” I heard the emotion bleeding through his careful control. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve already decided this place—this town, these people, me—isn’t worth fighting for.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.” He took a step forward, and I saw the muscle working in his jaw, read the tension in every line of his body. “Look, I know we’ve just met and you don’t actually owe me an explanation, but I’m curious why you’re so determined to run away from something good.”
“Because good things don’t last!” The words burst out of me before I could stop them, raw and honest. “Everything changes, everything ends—” I stopped, breathing hard. “I can’t stay here and watch this place become something else. Watch it change into something I don’t recognize.”
“Like you did?” His voice was quiet again, but it cut deeper than his anger. “You’re so afraid of things changing that you won’t let anything grow. Won’t let anyone in.”
“That’s not?—”
“Isn’t it?” He paused, a carefully considered beat before continuing. “You know what your grandmother told me once? She said love is like baking—you have to be willing to make mistakes, to try new things, to risk failure. Otherwise, you’re just going through the motions, making something that looks perfect but has no heart.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the old windows like they were trying to speak. The scent of spilled vanilla hung in the air between us, sweet and accusatory.
“I should go,” Noah said finally, defeat threading through his voice. “I took Mike’s early shift tomorrow.” He gathered his coat, his movements sharp with suppressed emotion. At the door to the shop, he paused. “You know what else your grandmother used to say? Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stay.”
The bell jingled as he left, and I stood in the wreckage of our baking attempt, surrounded by spilled flour and broken glass and all the things I hadn’t said. The vanilla scent was fading, taking with it the last traces of warmth from the kitchen.
My phone buzzed again. Sarah, probably, with more paperwork. I stared at the contract, then at the mess on the floor, then at the door where Noah had disappeared into the snow.
A week had seemed like such a simple plan. Now it felt like a sentence, and I wasn’t sure anymore who was being punished.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I satat the old desk in the back of the bakery, thinking that despite the success I’d achieved in Seattle, none of it filled me with the same sense of purpose as this worn wooden desk and the kitchen beyond it.
This place, where my grandmother had first taught me to fold butter into dough, where years of flour dust had settled into every groove of the floorboards, where her handwritten recipe cards still lived in their weathered tin box—this was real.
