“Well, he . . .” I think back to that moment, playing it over in my mind. I watch Oliver swoop in out of nowhere and rescue the little ballerina from her broom. I’d been so caught up in Sophie’s safety, the discoing skeletons, and screaming teenagers that I didn’t take a second to question how the broom stopped flying. “I don’t know.”
“And he helped with the skeletons, too, right? He was already on the float when I arrived.”
Brows furrowing, I remember one of the skeletons lying in a lifeless heap at his feet before I’d even gotten the moon-soaked salt from Lucy. “Yeah, he did.”
Lucy jumps to her feet, forgetting her toy on the table, and I follow close on her heels as she saunters toward the front of the store. She leans against the frame of the bay window overlooking Main Street, crossing her arms with a smirk. I follow her gaze to the bakery storefront across the way, where a banner hangs, proclaiming:Grand Opening Friday!
Through the windows, I watch Oliver walk through the bakery, wiping down tables. His white T-shirt hugs his brawny frame, and the sleeves wrap around his thick arms as he flips another chair over, situating it around one of the small white tables left behind by Miss Laura’s retirement.
“What are you thinking?” I ask her, reading the gleam behind those devious eyes.
“I’m thinking the new guy might know more about what’s going on than he’s letting on.” Lucy waggles her eyebrows at me. “And I think it’s up toyou,as sponsor, to figure out what it is.”
“Me?” I squeal, indignant. “I’ve already planned everything, and I’m hosting. Why don’tyoufigure out what it is?”
“Because I’m not the one who was flirting with him at the parade last night.”
“We were not flirting. We were just . . . talking.”
Lucy dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “Psh. As sponsor and host, I think it’s up to you to ensure the new guy gets a good tour of . . . What event is tonight?”
I cock my hip and give her my best exasperated glare. “The market—which you very well know.”
“Ah, yes. The Witch’s Market. The perfect place to show someone around, introduce them to the town, pry into their personal life . . .” Her mischievous grin is so wide that even her eyes sparkle.
I worry at my lip and narrow my eyes at her, trying to think of any way out of this. “And if he doesn’t go to the market tonight?”
“Oh, we certainly can’t have that. You’ll have to go over and invite him.”
I roll my eyes and push a sigh through my nose. She isn’t going to let up; it isn’t the Lucy way. “Fine, but you have to keep the coffee bar open late tonight like you promised. You can’t just pretend you have no idea how to make a latte after five.”
“Deal!” she chirps before turning away and heading for the espresso maker. “Don’t forget to ask about the fritters.”
I scowl at her retreating back, and I push through the front door before I can talk myself out of it. The bell overhead happily announces my exit.
Despite the cool autumn day, shoppers and tourists crowd the sidewalks, studying the seasonally decorated storefronts beneath turning leaves and unlit lampposts that will give Main Street a mythical glow come sundown. I hurry across the street, pulling the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands when a brisk gust of wind bites through the weave. It lifts not only my dark hair and hem of my skirt, but the fallen leaves that scatter across the brick road with a hiss too.
Pausing before the glass bakery door, I search for Oliver in the shadows. Instinctively, my fingers find the cuff of my sweater, worrying at the strands with every passing second.When I don’t find him, I lift my hand to knock on the wooden frame, and pause, rethinking everything in my life that’s led to this moment.
Since when did I become this girl? The one who boldly invites the new man in town out on a date when we’re barely on a first-name basis. Something urges me on, like a rope tied around my waist pulling me in, and I remind myself that this is for the good of the town. Our festivals and holiday celebrations are what bring people to our little corner of the world, and if our biggest event of the year goes south, it could risk more than just my pride.
So, I suck it up and knock my knuckles against the door, rattling the seasonal wreath hanging on it.
A burly form pops out from the backroom, and Oliver smiles at me from behind the counter, making my heart flutter.
I motion for him to unlock the door, trying to ignore how his T-shirt strains against his broad shoulders or how large his hands are as he wipes them off with a towel.
He smirks at me through the crack in the door, leaning against the frame with his forearm. “I don’t have any apple fritters yet.”
I chuckle. “No, it’s not that, though Lucy told me to ask about those. Actually”—I shiver, hugging myself against the cold—“do you mind if I come in? It’s a little brisk out.”
“Oh, of course.” He stands back, waving me inside before closing the door with a clatter.
The bakery is exactly as I remember. The floor shines with polished black and white tiles beneath an array of tables, their white paint chipped with age and wear. The bench seat against the far wall is still piled high with cushions and pillows, the same deep green they’ve always been. For some reason, the familiarity shocks me. I realize that part of me expected it to be completelydifferent now that it’s under new ownership for the first time in my life, even though I was here weeks ago.
Miss Laura owned this bakery for nearly her entire life, having purchased it from the family that originally opened it. Looking around, I’m flooded with a warm wave of nostalgia as sweet as the sugar cookies she used to sell. I can clearly picture Lucy and me huddled in the corner every Wednesday afternoon after school, claiming to do homework while we devoured croissants. The phantom taste of cocoa and sugar coats my tongue at the memory of all the times Grandma brought me here after a breakup, telling me that brownies were the best way to heal a broken heart.
“Are you okay?” Oliver asks gently, a soft hand on my elbow.
