"Mhmm," Emma hums, already bagging up an apple cinnamon muffin that's bigger than a Saint Bernard's paw. "A volunteer whose last name happens to be Scott?"
"I hate all of you," I grumble, snatching the bag.
Their laughter follows me out the door. They know me too well, these women who've held me together for eight years.
And they're right. I'm absolutely not thinking about Ryder Scott.
Not even a little bit.
I shove the muffin into my overflowing tote bag and slam the café door behind me. The blast of winter air feels good against my heated cheeks. My ancient Honda sits in the parking lot, covered in a fresh dusting of snow that makes it look almost respectable. Almost.
"Just another Tuesday," I mutter, fumbling with my keys. "Nothing special about today."
The key sticks in the frozen lock. I jiggle it, curse under my breath, and slam my hip against the door until it finally gives way with a rusty groan.
"That's my girl," I pat the dashboard affectionately. "Just you and me against the world, Bessie."
I turn the key in the ignition. The old girl coughs, splutters, and then backfires with a sound like a shotgun blast that echoes across the pristine winter landscape of Iron Ridge. Several birds take flight from a nearby tree, and an older couple walking by jump in unison.
"Sorry!" I call out the window, waving apologetically. "She's just... enthusiastic!"
The engine settles into its familiar asthmatic rumble as I crank the heat. The radio crackles to life, static giving way to Alanis Morissette's "You Oughta Know." Because of course the universe would choosethatsong right now.
"Nope." I jab the preset buttons until I find something less accusatory. A Backstreet Boys ballad fills the car instead. "Not much better."
I reach for my coffee in the cup holder, which is perpetually sticky despite my best cleaning efforts.
The town slides by outside my window—the hardware store where Mr. Wilson is already sweeping the sidewalk, the library with its "Winter Reading Challenge" banner, the ice cream shop that somehow stays in business even during the coldest months. Everything exactly where it's been my entire life.
"You're a grown woman with a career and a purpose," I tell my reflection in the rearview mirror. "You don't have time for... whatever this is."
This. This being the way my stomach flips every time I think about Ryder standing in my shelter, holding those stupid muffins, looking at me like I'm something he lost and just found again.
"Just because your teenage hormone demon of a crush grew into a 6'2 hockey superstar with a jawline that could cut glass doesn't mean you're in trouble," I say to my coffee cup. "And yes, talking to inanimate objects is totally normal."
The coffee cup, wisely, says nothing.
I brake at a stop sign and watch as a group of kids trudge to school, hockey sticks strapped to their backpacks. One wears an Icehawks jersey with SCOTT emblazoned across the back.
"Seriously?" I glare at the universe.
A car honks behind me. I realize I've been sitting at the stop sign too long, lost in thoughts I shouldn't be having.
"Eight years," I remind myself, accelerating too quickly. Bessie protests with a wheeze. "Eight years he was gone. Not a call, not a text. Nothing. And now he thinks he can just walk back into my life with his perfect hair and his mother's delicious muffins?"
The shelter comes into view, and I grip the steering wheel tighter to steer gently over the black ice on the road.
"You built this life without him. You're fine on your own. You've always been fine on your own, Mia. Just. Keep. Going."
I pull into the Tails & Paws parking lot, where my designated spot sits empty beneath the crooked "Director" sign Hank from the hardware store made me last Christmas. The faded red building stands against the winter sky like a defiant splash of color in Iron Ridge's landscape.
"Home sweet home," I whisper, taking in the peeling paint, the slightly askew adoption drive banner from last summer, and the flower boxes now filled with snow instead of petunias.
This building, this converted fire station with its quirks and creaks… is the first thing I've ever truly owned. Well, technically the town owns it, but every bent downspout and worn floorboard feels like an extension of myself.
From inside, I can already hear the morning chorus.
Dogs barking their breakfast demands, cats meowing for attention, and somewhere, the distinctive chatter of Bandit the raccoon plotting his next escape.
