Page 13 of Tee the Season
“Better than what I usually have.” He takes another sip of coffee. “My mornings are usually grabbing whatever’s fastest—protein bar, banana, bagel from the clubhouse.”
“The glamorous life of a pro caddy,” I say, but there’s no bite to it.
“Something like that.” He looks at me over the rim of his mug. “Though I have to admit, this beats hotel coffee by a mile.”
The warmth in his voice makes something flutter in my chest. “Glad you approve.” I glance out the window. “Speaking of Aunt Mae, I need to check on my aunt this morning, after breakfast.”
“In this?” He look incredulous.
“She’s eighty-two and lives alone.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, defensive. “I’m not leaving her to fend for herself during a nor’easter. It’s only a few blocks.”
“I’m not saying don’t go.” He carefully sets down his mug. “I’m saying wait until after my call with Hays, so I can go with you.”
My arms cross automatically. “I’ll be fine. I can certainly handle trudging through some snow.”
I’ve been handling things myself for seven years. Since before Aunt Mae’s stroke, really. Since my parents died, and it became just the two of us.
“I’m sure you can.” There’s no condescension in his voice, just certainty. “But there’s no reason to go alone when I’m here.”
“Your call—”
“I’ll push it back.” The words are immediate, decisive. “We can go first thing.”
Something in my chest loosens. I study him for a long moment, this man who fixed my cabinet without being asked, who’s offering to trudge through a blizzard for an old woman he barely knows, who keeps showing up in ways I didn’t know I needed.
It would be so easy to let him in. To stop bracing for the inevitable goodbye. But that’s exactly why I can’t.
“After your call will work,” I say finally, my shoulders relaxing. “I checked on her yesterday on my way to Leah’s for dinner.”
“Deal.”
The timer dings. I pull out the rolls, the smell of cinnamon and brown sugar filling the small kitchen. The glaze has caramelized perfectly.
I plate one for each of us and grab some sliced fruit from the fridge. We slide onto the stools at the counter, close but not touching, comfortable in a way that terrifies me.
“These are incredible,” Rory says after his first bite, genuine appreciation in his voice. “Seriously. I can’t remember the last time I had a real homemade breakfast.”
The compliment warms me more than it should. “Well, I’m glad you’re getting to enjoy it then. Protein bars and bananas don’t really compare.”
“Not even close.” He’s already reaching for his second roll. “This is… This is really nice. Thank you.”
There’s something in his tone, something almost wistful, that tightens my throat. As if he’s tasting more than just cinnamon rolls. As if he’s tasting what a real home feels like.
“Family recipe,” I say, keeping my voice light even as my chest aches. “Aunt Mae taught me when I was twelve. After my parents died, baking together became our thing. That and the bookstore, of course.”
I don’t know why I added that last part. Don’t know why I’m offering a glimpse at my past to a man who didn’t ask.
He’s looking at me with that unmistakable intensity again, as if he’s trying to figure something out. As if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve. I break eye contact first, taking another bite of my roll, though my appetite has vanished, and reach for the old peg game I often play by myself while I eat.
He’s temporary, I remind myself firmly.Don’t get attached. Don’t start imagining what it would be like if he stayed. Because he won’t. Globetrotters like Rory don’t choose small towns and bookstores and women who can’t leave. They just don’t.
Chapter seven
Tabitha
Nearly an hour later, I’m showered, dressed, and halfway to the door, ready to head downstairs during Rory’s scheduled meeting with Hays, when his laptop chimes with the incoming video call.
He’s set up at my small kitchen table, and I freeze at the sound, my fingers tightening on the brass doorknob.
