The laugh that escapes me is surprised, genuine. "If I'd known what I was missing, I might have moved faster."
"Better late than never." Her fingers trace a pattern on my chest, just above my heart. "Though you've got some catching up to do."
"I'm a quick study," I promise, reluctant to release her but aware we're standing in full view of anyone who might pass by.
Sarah steps back, her smile softening into something more private. "I should get these inside," she says, gesturing to the bags of produce. "Before the strawberries go bad in this heat."
"Right." I clear my throat, hands suddenly empty and uncertain.
She picks up her bags, then pauses at her door, key in hand. "For the record," she says, looking back over her shoulder, "that was worth the wait."
ChapterNine
Sarah
The bell above the door chimes, and my head snaps up from the dough I'm kneading, heart skipping with anticipation. But it's just Mrs. Peterson coming in for her usual morning coffee and scone.
Not Connor.
"Morning, dear," she says, unwinding her scarf despite the warmth of the summer day. "Those cinnamon rolls smell divine."
"Thanks," I say, forcing a smile. "They'll be ready in about twenty minutes if you'd like to wait."
"I'll stick with my usual today. These old bones are meeting the church committee at nine."
I nod, wiping flour from my hands before moving to pour her coffee. The clock on the wall reads 7:15. Connor usually comes by around 6:30, sometimes earlier. Not that I'm keeping track.
"You alright, Sarah?" Mrs. Peterson asks, her eyes sharp behind her bifocals. "You seem distracted this morning."
"Tired," I lie. "Busy weekend with the market."
She doesn't look convinced but accepts her coffee and scone with a nod. "Don't work too hard, dear. The world won't end if you take a day off once in a while."
After she leaves, I return to my dough, kneading with more force than necessary. It's fine that Connor isn't here. Normal, even. Until recently, he only came on Tuesdays. One kiss doesn't change a routine.
Except it wasn't just a kiss. It was the way he looked at me afterward, like he'd discovered something precious and unexpected. The way his hands felt on my face, gentle despite their strength. The way he tasted of sunshine and possibility.
And now, silence.
"You're overthinking this," I mutter to the dough.
"Talking to the bread again?" Maya asks, coming through the back door with fresh eggs from her father's farm.
"Giving it some encouragement," I reply, shaping the dough with quick, practiced movements. "How were the chickens?"
"Judgmental, as always." She sets the egg cartons on the counter, then pauses, studying me. "You okay? You're massacring that poor dough."
I ease up on my kneading, embarrassed to be so transparent. "I'm fine."
"Uh-huh." She removes her jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door. "This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain mountain man who's mysteriously absent this morning, would it?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." She ties her apron with a knowing look. "And I didn't see you two making heart eyes at each other all day yesterday at the market."
"We were not making—" I stop, catching myself. "It doesn't matter. Connor's busy. He has an actual job that doesn't revolve around my bakery."
Maya holds up her hands in surrender. "Whatever you say, boss."