LUCIAN
It’s been over a week since Neesha climbed my fence and shared coffee in my kitchen, and honestly? I can’t stop wondering where I’ll see her next. Tonight at the hockey bash, I turned intothatguy—you know, the one who keeps checking his phone and watching the door like I hadn’t already seen her at the Falling for Books Cafe this morning.
Surrounded by the low hum of conversation, I found myself scanning the crowd for dark hair fanning across a woman’s shoulders, feeling disappointed each time I realized it wasn’t Neesha. The cupcakes were there—evidence of her talent—but she never showed up. And somehow that made the whole evening feel incomplete, like the most important person was missing from the party.
Her cupcakes, however, were the hit of the night—each one looking as good as it tasted, with perfect swirls of deep-blue and white frosting, topped with the Ice Breakers logo rendered in edible silver that caught the light. They were works of art and gone in twenty minutes. I’d grabbed one early in the evening, hoping to catch a glimpse of her when she delivered them, but Emmy had handled the drop-off and cleanup, leaving me to wonder where Neesha was.
Did she have a date?I try to push down the uncomfortable feeling that thought creates. Emmy had said she wasn’t ready, but maybe she just needed the right person to help her feel safe again—someone who wasn’t a hockey player. I couldn’t blame her for that, not after what she’d been through.
I take off my suit coat and slump onto the couch, turning on the TV to distract myself.
The taste of her vanilla cupcake lingers in my mouth, especially the buttercream frosting, so light it practically melted on my tongue. As I’d eaten it, even standing in a crowd of teammates, all I could think about was the woman who’d made them and how she’d looked this morning in Falling for Books as she concentrated on filling my coffee order. I imagined her with that same look as she piped frosting, every swirl perfect and every decoration a masterpiece.
I had made no headway with her since our impromptu coffee date in my kitchen. It didn’t help that I kept stopping by the bookstore cafe, buying more cupcakes than any reasonable person should consume, while hoping for another chance to talk to her beyond the polite small talk she offered all her customers. She was friendly but guarded, like she’d built invisible walls that I couldn’t quite figure out how to get past.
Some women were like that. They kept everything closed off, afraid of getting hurt again—all because of one guy who broke their trust.
I open the window in the living room, letting in the cool night air, and that’s when I smell smoke from somewhere nearby. Pulling back the curtain, I see smoke drifting from my neighbor’s upstairs window—the same window where I would occasionally glimpse movement and wonder if I was being spied on by my nosy neighbor.
My first instinct is to just call the fire department, but who knows how long it will take them to get here. And smoke from the upstairs of a home can only mean one thing.
I hurry over, pounding on the front door, but nobodyanswers. Looking through a first-floor window, I don’t see smoke, so I decide to head upstairs.
I run around the house to the back stairs leading to a second-floor exterior door. Inside, I can hear a dog barking and the screech of a smoke alarm. Someone might be home, but I can’t tell because there’s so much commotion.
I wiggle the door handle and notice the door is one of those cheap ones—the kind that can easily be kicked open.
“At least my hockey skills are useful for breaking and entering,” I mutter, stepping back so I can get a running start. I only hope Mrs. Nelson doesn’t call the cops on me.
I ram into it like I’m bodychecking a guy on the ice, my shoulder taking the brunt of the hit.
Because the door is cheap and old, it gives way easily, and I stumble into a smoke-filled apartment.
A dog rushes over and jumps on me like he’s already my friend. “Henry?” I say with a frown.
Suddenly, through a cloud of smoke, I see a woman standing on a chair, waving a dish towel near the raging smoke alarm. In all the chaos, she hasn’t noticed that I just busted down her door. Or that I’m standing in her very small studio apartment. And for a moment I’m transfixed.
It’s the girl I’ve been looking for all night. She’s wearing a loose, cropped t-shirt and shorts that look like cut-off sweatpants.
“Neesha?” I ask.
She does a double take and then just freezes, like she’s seen a ghost. “Lucian, what are you…” Then she coughs, unable to get the rest of her question out, thanks to the thick cover of smoke filling the room.
A million questions fly through my mind, but now is not the time to ask, not with that ear-deafening screech.
I rush over to where she’s uselessly waving a towel at the alarm. “Let me try.”
I pull off the smoke alarm cover and yank the batteries out ofthe unit, and the shrill beeping blessedly dies.
“What’s on fire?” I ask, turning toward the small kitchen in her studio apartment. Two pans of coal-black cupcakes sit on top of the stove in a kitchen the size of a postage stamp.This is where she bakes dozens of cupcakes—here?You can’t run a baking business in a kitchen this size. I’m not even sure it’s legal.
I cross the apartment in two steps and dump the cupcakes in the trash before yanking the entire bag out of the can.
“Wait!” she calls as I head outside to dispose of the garbage bag.
When I return, she’s standing in the kitchen, eyes wide. Her glance grazes over me for a fraction of a second, taking in the open collar of my white dress shirt, before landing on the sleeves I’ve rolled up. I’m still in dress pants, my tie unknotted and hanging uselessly around my neck.
She steps toward me. “I can explain everything.”
