I hand him the latte and he pulls out his phone to pay. That’s when I notice: no ring. But his hands look like they’ve seen real work, not the soft hands of someone who’s never had to struggle for anything.
I shake my head. “I meant it when I said it’s on the house.” Then I nod toward the cupcake display. “My way to thank you. Take two, if there’s someone else you’d like to share with.”
A girlfriend? A wife? Someone who’d make him off-limits and harmless to my heart.
“There’s no one else. It’s just me.” He scans the options and picks the cinnamon chai cupcake.
So he’s single and handy? Okay, I have to know—how is he still on the market? “Good choice. One of my favorites.”
“So I should have high expectations?” he asks.
“I meant it’s awful,” I deadpan. “Total disaster. You’ll hate it.”
He laughs and it changes his whole demeanor. “You know, for someone who makes the best cupcakes in town, you’re really bad at selling them.”
“Who says they’re the best in town?”
“The line at the cafe this morning. The way people’s faces lit up when you offered free ones. The fact that even Regina George’s twin cameherefirst.” His eyes hold mine. “You don’t have to hide how good these are, you know.”
I look away, wiping down the counter again. He probably thinks I’m a germaphobe based on the way I’ve been scrubbing it. It’s just a compliment. But it’s been so long since a guy said something nice without wanting something in return that I’ve forgotten how to just accept it. My ex had been controlling in ways that made me feel small and stupid. It started out with his “suggestions” of what I should wear and who I should be friends with, making me feel guilty for having a life outside of him. Nate was a master at making his control feel like caring, his jealousy like protection. By the end, I was asking permission for things that should have been my choice.
The worst part wasn’t even the relationship itself—it’s how it messed with my ability to trust my own judgment. If I couldn’t see the red flags with him, how can I trust myself to recognize them with anyone else?
“Thank you,” I concede finally. “It was good to meet you, Lucian. And welcome to Maple Falls.”
“You too, Neesha.”
The bell on the door jingles as he leaves, and just like that, the cafe is quiet again. I let out a long breath, my heart still galloping in my chest like a runaway horse.
I glance toward the register…and freeze.
Sitting at the top of the tip jar, folded neatly and impossible to miss, is a crisp, hundred-dollar bill.
For a moment, I just stare at it.A hundred dollars.That’s money for my bakery, or a tiny chunk toward my mom’s leftover medical bills, or it could be a small reminder that kindness costs nothing. Maybe this is what he meant when he said that when things break, it’s just a chance to learn how they work.
Perhaps this is how things start working again in my life.
I touch my bracelet, the tiny metallic cupcake charm smooth against my fingers, and let myself wonder if this fall might smell like something new after all. Even if it shows up wearing flannel and waving every red flag my heart has warned me against.
Outside, a single crimson leaf twirls in slow circles before drifting to the ground.
“Okay, Fall. You win. You can have the weather, the pumpkin spice, the men in flannel. But you’re not getting my heart.”
CHAPTER 2
LUCIAN
Ikill a solid hour or two downtown—coffee in hand, checking out the stores, the market, and what might be the world’s tiniest hardware store. By the time I roll up to the gray Craftsman house I’ve rented for the season, the neighbor is in the middle of watering her mums and giving me the classic small-town side-eye. I recognize her as one of the older women from the Falling for Books Cafe this morning. I’ve been in town since last week for our first team practice, crashing at the Regent’s Hotel until this rental was finally ready.
“Hi, I’m Lucian,” I say, walking over to meet her. “Guess we’re going to be neighbors for a few months.” I extend my hand.
She eyes it suspiciously before giving it a quick, businesslike shake. “Mrs. Nelson. Retired English teacher and head of the Maple Falls Historical Society.” She doesn’t offer her first name, which somehow doesn’t surprise me. “You must be the one renting Mimi Roberts’ place.”
“That’s right,” I say with a nod. “I’m fixing it up for her while I stay there.”
“Well, I hope you won’t be working on the house past eightat night. I need my beauty rest.” She says it with a completely straight face, despite being old enough to be my grandmother. “It’s bad enough that the girl who rents my upstairs apartment makes so much noise. People in this neighborhood don’t appreciate disruption.”
“Don’t worry,” I say with a slight grin, “the most scandalous thing I do is drink coffee after six p.m.”
