Page 66 of Rise
Her eyes flicked down past Hazel’s bare face, to the oversized sweater she wore with the sleeves rolled and slipping anyway. There was a visible pause in her as her gaze swept over it.
“You’re a couple months in now and that quaint little bakery of yours is still the talk of the town. How wonderful for you.”
Hazel felt her words like a pin pressed to her collarbone.
Quaint.The kind of word people used when they couldn’t quite bring themselves to saysmallorbasicorless than.
But she didn’t flinch. Instead, she smiled in that way of hers, all soft and deliberate. The kind her grandmother once taught her to wear when someone was trying to rattle her. The kind that showed she wasn’t easily thrown off center.
“Thank you,” she said, lifting her chin just a touch. “It’s small, but we’re steady. People seem to like it.”
And that,she didn’t say,matters more than your approval.
Imogen didn’t reply. She turned instead, her movements as sharp as a page turn. As she moved, her scent settled over Hazel’s senses; she smelled faintly of sandalwood and something citrusy, expensive and cold, like a minimalist candle in a house no one lived in.
Her eyes landed on Iris and Hazel could feel the drop in temperature. Whatever was there, between them, held history. History she would have to grill Iris on, just as soon as Imogen stepped away.
“Hi, Iris.” Her smile went tight, no longer pretending, and her voice slipped lower, dipping into something saccharine and razor-edged. “Surprised to see you here without a soiled apron on. Not working today? Business slowing down?”
Hazel had just reached for her cup of water but she froze mid-sip, the glass cool against her fingertips. Her eyes darted to Iris, searching for a reaction.
But Iris didn’t shrink, she didn’t even blink. Instead, she tilted her head, that familiar smile curling at the corners of her lips— sweet as jam, with something bitter hidden underneath.
“No apron today,” she replied, voice as smooth as honey on a knife. “But don’t worry, Imogen, I still brought the dirt.”
Hazel choked on her water, eyes wide.
At her side, one of Imogen’s hands twitched— her long, slender fingers curling up into her palm in a fist.
“Well,” Imogen said, her voice crisp, already turning away. “Enjoy your brunch, ladies.”
And then, to a passing server, barely audible but unmistakably clipped, she said, “Table four’s still waiting on water. Get to it.”
Her heels punctuated the air as she disappeared, sharp and steady and utterly unbothered, at least on the surface.
Silence fell like a curtain in her wake.
Hazel blinked once, then again, feeling her heart start to settle in her chest. Her pulse had picked up during that exchange. There was something about Imogen that unnerved her. Not because of her power or her polish, but because of how quickly she wielded both as weapons. How effortless it was for her to fold people under her thumb, like it was just part of the choreography.
ButIris.Iris had held the line like it was nothing, like she’d done it before.
Hazel turned just as Iris reached across the table and picked up Hazel’s fork, holding it delicately between two fingers.
“Do you think she polishes her soul with the same microfiber cloth she uses on this cutlery?”
Hazel laughed. Full and startled andtrue.
And just like that, the warmth returned.
Not all at once. But enough to hold onto.
“I’m going to need every detail on your history with her. Immediately.”
The bell above the door gave a low chime as Hazel stepped inside Bar Harbor’s oldest bookstore, the sound muffled by the thick air of the shop— warm, slightly dry, the scent of paper and something faintly spiced, like old cinnamon sticks tucked between forgotten pages.
The Captain’s Rest hadn’t changed much since she was a kid.
The floorboards still creaked in familiar spots, worn smooth from decades of soft-soled shoes and the shuffle of stories being carried home. Light filtered in through the low windows, golden and slanted, catching on dust motes that hung like lazy snowflakes in the quiet. The shelves rose high and narrow around her, built from dark, reclaimed wood and packed with spines of every color. There were hardbacks and paperbacks, some so worn the titles had faded into their covers. It smelled like history and safety, like a place that held secrets gently.
