Can I really just… touch him? Not an accidental brush of hands or a guiding press on my back, but a purposeful, steady contact? My cheeks flush with a heat that has nothing to do with the cold. I hope he mistakes it for the wind.
I swallow, my hand hovering for a second before I curl my fingers into the thick wool of his coat sleeve. The solid muscle of his arm is firm beneath my grip. The warmth growing on my cheeks drips down my body, settling in my gut. Any lower, and my feelings will become more dangerous.
We start down the steps and onto the sidewalk, our steps falling into a slow, synchronized rhythm. For a few blissful moments, it’s just us.
I sneak a glance at his profile, at the way the snow catches in his dark hair and on the shoulders of his impeccably tailored coat. Can a man really be this handsome in real life?
He pulls his phone from his pocket with his free hand, the screen lighting up his face. “Hungry?”
For this man? I’m starved. For food? “A bit peckish.”
Sniffing the air, I can already smell something mouthwatering. It’s something sweet, but also savory.
Looking behind us, I notice what looks like a bakery. Charles grunts as I tug at his arm. One little pull, and I’m guiding us toward Hope Peak Bakehouse.
“How about this?” Trying to sound nonchalant, I’m sure I completely failed at that with my eagerness. “Seems like there might be some goodies inside.”
A low chuckle rumbles from him, a sound so rich and warm it seems to melt the very snowflakes landing on his shoulders. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and the sight is a direct, piercing shot to my already traitorous heart.
Oh, you are such a fool, Ellie. A complete and utter fool for ever thinking you could fall out of love with this man.
“Lead the way,” he says, his voice laced with that same amusement, and he allows me to steer him toward the bakery’s cheery, frost-rimmed windows.
The moment we push the door open, the world outside ceases to exist. The scent hits us all at once—a physical, enveloping wave of warmth and sweetness. It’s the yeasty, honest smell of fresh-baked bread, tangled with the rich, buttery perfume of pastries and the spiced, fruity promise of pies.
The place is small and bustling, but there’s only one person running the show as far as I can see.
A young woman with a dark, messy bun and flour dusted on her apron perks up with the sound of the bell above us. She has dark blue eyes that sparkle with friendly exhaustion, and she offers us a genuine, welcoming smile that reaches them. “Welcome in! Let me know when you’re ready!”
My attention is immediately snatched by the displays. It’s a symphony of temptation. Gleaming fruit tarts, delicate croissants, iced gingerbread men, and loaves of bread so golden-brown they look like they’re lit from within. I drift toward the glass case, my eyes wide, trying to take in every perfect detail.
“Oh, look at the cinnamon rolls,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “They’re the size of my hand. And the mince pies… my grandmother used to make them…”
I’m lost in a sugar-fueled daydream, pointing out a wreath-shaped brioche, when the awareness of him prickles along my skin. I can feel his gaze on me, warm and focused. He’s not looking at the pastries. He’s watching me.
A fresh blush heats my cheeks, but this time, I don’t fight it. I don’t call him out. I let the warmth of his attention wash over me, a private, delicious secret in the crowded bakery.
That’s when I feel it. His touch.
It’s not on my arm or my back. His fingers, warm and surprisingly gentle, brush against my temple, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so intimate and tender all at once that all I can do is focus on his warmth and try to memorize it. My breath hitches, audibly.
His thumb grazes the shell of my ear, a fleeting, searing caress before his hand falls away. “You had a snowflake,” he murmurs, his voice husky, his eyes holding mine. “Melting.”
The explanation is simple. The act was not. It was slow. Purposeful. His gaze never wavers from mine, and I see the truth in their depths. There was no frantic snowflake. It was an excuse. A reason to touch me.
My knees feel dangerously weak, and my poor stomach is filling with butterflies instead of bread. Here I am, letting my mind run free. At this pace, I might start believing that a man in his position could feel something for someone like me.
He’s just being nice, Ellie. Stop overthinking everything.
Trying to sound casual, to pull the focus back to the safety of baked goods, I gesture vaguely at the case, my voice a trembling whisper. “So, what are you craving?”
His answer is immediate without a single missed beat. “Something sweet.”
The bell on the door jingles as another customer enters, the baker calls out a greeting, the ovens hum—but it all fades into a distant murmur. He isn’t looking at the cinnamon rolls or the fruit tarts. He’s looking directly at me, and the double meaning in his words hangs in the warm, sugared air between us, so potent I can almost taste it.
He’s making itreallyhard to believe I’m imagining things. Is he aware of what he’s doing? No, he must not be. He wouldn’t be going this far if he was.
Chewing on my lip, I point out the different desserts as I coward out. But the sensation of his touch still tingles against my skin.
