Chapter 1
Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever get used to the quiet of the mornings before Harry unlocks the bakery doors. The aroma of fresh dough and cinnamon is my first greeting—warm, sweet, and steady. It’s been my anchor since I moved into the little apartment above the shop, when the world outside felt too large and uncertain. At twenty, I have made a habit of solitude. It’s easier to stay small, invisible, when you’ve learned not to expect anyone to stay. Orphaned at birth, I’ve been through more foster homes than I can count, the faces and places blurring together in memory. At eighteen, when my latest family decided I was no longer their responsibility, I packed my meager belongings and started over in Acorn Bay, this small town, working every hour I could behind the counter of Harry’s Bakery.
Harry, with his gentle eyes and gruff laugh, took a chance on me. He offered me the apartment upstairs for almost nothing, always making sure I had enough to eat and that I was getting by. He’s the closest thing to family I’ve ever known. Most days, I wake before dawn, kneading dough and lining pastry trays while the world is still dark. After the morning rush, I steal an hour for my online courses—accounting, of all things. Numbers, at least, are dependable. They add up. They make sense, even on days when nothing else does.
I keep my head down. I don’t have friends; I wouldn’t know how to make them. I don’t date, either. I tell myself I’m too busy, but the truth is, I’m afraid of letting anyone in—afraid of the ache of losing them. My life is a steady rhythm: work, study, sleep, repeat. Until Joey Tate walks into the bakery one late September morning.
He stands out, tall and striking, with tanned skin and deep dark brown hair, almost black. His eyes are a vivid blue, so bright they seem to catch the morning light and hold it. There are a few silver threads in his dark hair and eyes that seem to linger on mine a beat too long. He orders a black coffee and a cherry Danish, and his voice is warm, the kind that wraps around you. At first, I just chalk it up to politeness, but then he comes back the next day, and the next. Always early, when the bakery is quiet and the only sounds are the hum of the espresso machine and the gentle music Harry likes to play on the old radio.
Our conversations start out simple—weather, pastries, books. I notice the way he smiles at my awkward jokes, or how he always remembers to ask about my classes. I try to hide how much I look forward to his visits, but I’m sure Harry sees it. He’s always watching from behind the counter, a knowing twinkle in his eye. I find myself humming as I work, glancing at the door each morning, heart skipping when Joey finally appears.
One afternoon, as the bakery empties and the sunlight softens through the window, Joey asks if I’d like to have dinner with him. I freeze, my instinct to say no—a reflex built from years of keeping walls up. “I’m not sure I should,” I begin, but Harry cuts in before I can finish. He shakes his head, dusting flour from his hands, and tells me that all I do is work and study, that I deserve a little joy. “I’ll close up tonight,” he insists, shooing me towards the stairs. “Joey, you come by at six. She’ll be ready.”
Upstairs, I change into my only nice dress, hands trembling. I catch my reflection—fair skin, hair the color of autumn leaves, hazel eyes wide with nerves. It’s been so long since I let myself hope for anything like this. At six, I find Joey waiting by the door, looking almost as nervous as I feel. We walk together into the evening, Acorn Bay bathed in gold, leaves skipping along the sidewalk at our feet.
Dinner is at a little Italian place I’ve walked past a hundred times but never entered. The conversation comes easy, he tells me about growing up in the city, about his job working remotely as a writer, and how he moved here for a change of pace after a rough year. I share a little of my story, and for once, I don’t feel the urge to shrink from it. The meal stretches into laughter and stories, gradually emptying around us.
When Joey walks me back to the bakery, the night is cool and quiet. He pauses at the door, searching my face as if for permission. “Laurie, I hope this isn’t the last time,” he says softly. Hope stirs in my chest, sweet and fragile. I smile—a real, wide, unguarded smile—and for the first time in years, I feel seen.
Back in my little apartment, I lean against the door, heart fluttering. Maybe, just maybe, life has more in store for me than I ever dared to imagine. And maybe tomorrow, I’ll wake up looking forward to more than just the scent of cinnamon and bread rising in the oven. Maybe tomorrow, there will be love, waiting just on the other side of the bakery door.
