The drive home from the meeting definitely felt longer and unending, I couldn't wait to crawl into the comfort of my bed and process all that had happened tonight. My mind couldn't wait till I got home, I found myself replaying Adrian's calm, controlled expression. The way he had glanced at me across the table, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth when our eyes met. I am still irritated at myself for giving him so much power over me, like I could help it.
At home, the familiar creak of the door greeted me, and for a brief moment, the world felt lighter. Aunt Phylis was in the kitchen, humming under her breath as she prepared a late dinner. I nodded to her and retreated to my room, leaning against the doorframe and letting out a long exhale. I briefly answered "fine" "fine" to all her questions, too exhausted to go into the details of the subject i knew she was curious about.
Even the thought of the bakery left me feeling unsettled, so many memories tied to that place, both comforting and tormenting. Was it a trap? Was asking me to come manage it till the whole sale was completed, a calculated attempt to get me to fall in love with this place and all that it came with again? I did not know when I drifted off to sleep and slowly came back to reality at noon, with the house empty.
By the time I got to the bakery later that afternoon, the winter sun was beginning to dip behind the rooftops. I let my hands glide over the cool countertop, kneading dough almost without thinking. Baking had always been my refuge, and now, even after years away, it felt like a tether to the life I once left behind.
"Hey, Isla! Over here!" A familiar voice broke through my reverie. I looked up and saw Claire, one of my childhood friends and a volunteer for the festival, waving from across the room. "Need help with the pastries?"
I smiled, a small, almost guilty smile. "Always," I said, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. I had not seen Clair for quite a long time, we used to be pretty close. This was an opportunity to catch up.Claire and a few other townsfolk hovered nearby. We were all chatting about the upcoming festival, the cold weather, and some minor mishaps with the wine deliveries. Their easy camaraderie reminded me of why I had missed this town again.But even as their chatter filled the room, I felt the old tension return, a pull toward something or someone I had tried so hard to forget.
I was setting down the last tray of pastries when the bell above the door jingled. My stomach dropped, and a shiver not from the cold ran down my spine simply because I already knew who it was.
We were supposed to meet again today, just the two of us to fine-tune things. Everything I'd done today was in anticipation and apprehension about this meeting.
He stepped inside, boots crunching softly on the floor, coat dusted with snow. His eyes scanned the bakery briefly before landing on me, and I felt a familiar, disarming warmth. He was here, and yet, for all the anticipation, he moved with a deliberate calm that made my pulse spike.
"Afternoon, Isla," he said, voice steady but low, carrying that undertone that always made my chest flutter.
I questioned my decision to return to town after all these years,again. What was I thinking, that we would barely run into each other? That the flames between us were extinguished? All the years of hard work to get over my heartbreak were undone already.
"Adrian," I managed, "Afternoon" acknowledging his presence with my voice suddenly smaller than I wanted. I turned back to the dough, kneading as if it could anchor me against the storm of memories and emotions stirring inside.
He moved closer, not overbearing, but deliberate, and I caught myself noticing the faint scent of cedar and winter in his coat. Every little detail, the way his boots scuffed lightly against the floor, the slight crease of his brow as he looked at the trays squinting his eyes felt familiar, grounding, and yet painfully charged.
"So… Almost ready? He asked, leaning slightly over the counter to examine my work, but I could feel him watching me more than the pastries.
"Yes," I said, my hands brushing the dough. "Everything's on schedule. Volunteers seem to know what they're doing." My words were measured, professional, but my pulse was betraying me.
He smirked faintly, a hint of amusement in his gaze. "Good. Someone has to keep it all from falling apart."
I felt a flicker of warmth, a spark of recognition in that simple acknowledgment. He always noticed the little things, even when I thought he didn't, but where was this part of him before I left? I'm forced to remind myself.
The warmth of the ovens, the familiar rhythm of my hands kneading, the subtle banter with old friends, Claire and a few others checking trays, teasing me about my perfectionist streak, all of it should have calmed me, as the afternoon passed with light conversations and laughter from some of the customers. Nothing heavy, nothing about the past, just the work at hand and the subtle electricity between us. And yet, beneath it all, something unspoken hummed an ember waiting to flare. I caught myself imagining a brush of his fingers across mine, a glance that lingered too long, a moment that would change everything. Fix all the past mistakes and hurt.
"Careful with the frosting," Claire called from across the room. I laughed lightly, distracted, and Adrian's eyes flicked to me. Just a glance but the way it held me, steady and unflinching, made my stomach twist. I bit my lip, forcing myself to focus, to remember that today was about the festival prep, not the past. Not yet.
Adrian lingered near the counter, ostensibly looking over volunteer assignments. His presence was quiet but charged, like the static before a storm. His movements were precise yet relaxed, telling me he was aware of me, aware of every flutter of my gaze. "I thought we could also go over the volunteer schedule for the festival," he said, glancing at the papers I had left ready. "Dessert assignments, timing, that sort of thing."
I nodded, setting down the tray. "Yes… that works." My voice did not sound like mine, and i cursed myself silently.
We bent over the schedule together, shoulders brushing lightly, hands occasionally reaching for the same clipboard. Each brush of his fingers sent a spark through me. My stomach clenched, my breath caught. Years of memory pressed together, the laughter, the quiet nights, the warmth of being seen and cared for.
"Your team's handling the morning shifts?" he asked, eyes scanning the page.
"Yes," I said, my tone steady now. "But I want to make sure dessert rotations don't conflict with your wine tasting sessions. I know you have to keep everything timed perfectly."
He leaned in slightly, ostensibly to point at a note on the schedule, and my chest tightened again. The faint scent of his winter coat, his smell hit me. My pulse went rogue. My mind shouted Step back, remember why you ran, but my body betrayed me, leaning closer despite myself.
A brush of my face against his, our lips almost touching, just a fleeting touch as we both bent over the clipboard. Not a kiss, not yet but enough to make my knees threaten to buckle. My chest tightened, and I swallowed hard.
"Careful," I whispered
He smirked faintly, teasing, almost imperceptibly. "I always am," he said, voice casual.. But I felt the vibration in the words, and a subtle heat prickled down my spine.
I forced my attention back to the schedule. "Then we're both on the same page on afternoon shifts?" I said, my fingers brushing his lightly as I reached for the paper again.
"Yes," he replied, steady, calm, but the look in his eyes made it clear he was aware of everything between us
I pressed my palm to the counter, grounding myself. He hadn't changed. The intensity in his eyes, the way he moved, the deliberate calm, it was all still there. And still, despite everything, I wanted him. My heart ached, my pulse quickened, and guilt coiled around the desire like a vice. I left him. There was a reason I disappeared on him. How can I feel this way?
"You're thorough," he said quietly, almost a compliment, almost a challenge. His eyes flicked up at me, and I felt exposed in a way that both thrilled and terrified me.
I nodded. "Someone has to be. The volunteers rely on me."
"Yes," he said, soft but approving. "I can see that."
As we finalized volunteer assignments and delivery times, my mind wavered between admiration and guilt. He's busy, always busy, but he's here, showing up for the festival, for the town… and maybe, for me, I dare to think.
He finally said his goodbyes and made his way out. While I was wiping my hands on a towel, the vain thought that he had made time, to come here, just for the town… and maybe, quietly, for me shamelessly surfaced.