The warm scent of baking bread filled the shop as Lena arranged her display trays. It wasn't perfect yet—some of the signage needed repainting, the back counter still creaked, and her espresso machine hissed like an angry cat—but it was hers. And it was open.
Well, sort of.
She'd put out a quiet notice on the town's community board: Soft opening—this Saturday. Come by for something sweet. No advertising, no big announcements. Just her, the oven, and a hope that a few people would remember how much they'd loved her dad's baking.
Saturday arrived faster than she expected. The bell over the door jingled as her first customer walked in—a white-haired woman Lena recognized immediately.
"Mrs. Whitmore," Lena said, smiling. "You still live on Chestnut?"
The woman's eyes sparkled. "And you're still the only person who ever got my croissant order right."
They shared a laugh, and Lena handed over a warm, flaky croissant. More people trickled in—Mr. Garrison from the hardware store, the Donovan twins, even old Coach Morgan who claimed her blueberry muffins were the only reason he still went for morning walks.
Lena's nerves eased with every pastry sold, every familiar face that lit up at the first bite. For a few hours, the bakery buzzed with life again.
And then, as if summoned by fate, Walker walked in.
He wore jeans and a black button-down, sleeves rolled up like always, sunglasses perched on his head. He looked more like a movie star than a corporate mogul, and more than a few heads turned as he entered.
Lena tried not to let her heart react. She failed.
"You're early," she said, sliding a tray of oatmeal cookies onto the counter.
"You said ten," he said with a grin. "And I take bakery invitations seriously."
"I didn't invite you."
"You put up a sign."
"Not for you."
"Too bad." He picked up a cookie. "Are these the ones with sea salt?"
"Try it and find out."
He took a bite, closed his eyes dramatically, and let out a groan. "Okay, I've decided. You're not allowed to leave this town ever again."
She smirked. "Pretty sure I already made that decision."
They fell into an easy rhythm, chatting in between customers. Walker didn't hover, but he stayed. He refilled the napkin holders, wiped crumbs off a table, handed a donut to a shy kid too nervous to speak.
"You know," Lena said after the last customer left, "you're not half-bad at this."
"Don't tell my shareholders," he said with a wink.
They leaned against the counter, both sipping coffee, the late morning sun filtering through the windows. The quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable—it was full of questions neither of them had the courage to ask.
Finally, Walker set down his cup. "This place suits you."
"I think it always did," she admitted.
"You suit this place."
She met his gaze, heart caught somewhere between fear and hope.
"We'll see," she said, voice low.
Walker nodded, like he understood the layers beneath those two words.
Then, with a gentle smile, he pushed off the counter. "I'll let you clean up. But if you're handing out cookies like this every day, I might just make it a morning tradition."
"Guess I'd better start baking double," she said softly.
He left with a wave, and Lena turned back to her counter.
The bakery had always been about comfort. Warmth. Home.
And somehow, Walker Harper was beginning to feel like all of that, too.