It’s All Baked Inn - 2. Grease the Pan

The boy on the balcony glared at the stars like they’d personally offended him.

He was used to more light pollution — to skylines that drowned the sky out entirely — so the Milky Way spilling across Keysbridge felt less like wonder and more like mockery. Another reminder of how far he was from home.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel sunlight on his skin. Taste the salt and citrus in the air. Catch the faint echo of whispered encouragements.

Or maybe he had invented that part. He’d been young enough that some memories belonged more to photographs than to him.

He didn’t close his eyes.

Below him, the freshly manicured courtyard of the Keysbridge Inn by Ashton gleamed warm and golden, its hanging lights swaying just enough to look charming on a brochure. He let his gaze drift past it — to the water beyond the trees, leaves whispering in the wind — for exactly three seconds before he caught himself and looked away.

He tugged his coat tighter around his chest. The wool was expensive. It itched anyway.

“Is this hell?” he asked flatly. “Because it smells like nature and expectations. And they only sell cheap chocolate here.”

Violet snorted from her spot on the railing, sipping something warm from a teacup. “If it is, the cider is decent.”

He exhaled sharply, leaning forward onto his elbows. “I’m serious. This is exile. I’ve been dropped into a postcard town with busywork and a supervision clause.”

“And only one designer suit — a travesty.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“It’s called job training,” Violet offered, swirling the drink. Her lips twitched as he scoffed. “Normal people do it all the time.”

“Normal people don’t get quietly relocated to be ‘straightened out,’” he shot back — then stopped himself. His jaw tightened. He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned away from the railing, suddenly tired.

Violet followed him inside as he dropped onto a plush couch with exaggerated weight.

The small seating area overlooked the grand staircase — and beyond it, the full sweep of the lobby below. A massive stone fireplace crackled at its center, bathing the space in amber light. The glow caught one side of his face, leaving the rest in shadow — just enough for Violet to see the sadness he hadn’t bothered to hide.

“They don’t say it,” he added, more quietly. “They don’t have to. ‘Gain experience.’ ‘Lie low.’ ‘Be discreet.’” The final word came out flatter than the others. His mouth twisted. “Translation: stop being a liability.”

“You’re not,” she said firmly.

His laugh was immediate and empty. “The board’s media briefings were very reassuring on that point.”

She didn’t answer right away. When she finally moved, it was only to sit beside him and rest a hand briefly on his knee.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

He waved it off, but his shoulders stayed tight. “Don’t be. I’ve got a name tag now. That’s the dream, right?”

Violet huffed. “Grumpy assistant manager with a pressed suit dress code."

“Positively thrilling.” He folded his arms. “I’m just glad you’re here,” he admitted, the words escaping before he could sharpen them into a joke. “Otherwise I’d really have a problem.” A beat. “At least I’ll learn how to fold napkins into swans. That’ll really redeem me in the press.”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “Or you could use the time to breathe. Get out of the spotlight.” She gestured vaguely, then pointed at him. “I chose to come here, remember? Gave up my beach privileges and everything. It’s a sweet town. Let the place grow on you.”

He looked at her. Then past her.

“It won’t,” he answered.

But his voice didn’t quite believe it.

They sat in silence, broken only by the soft sputter of dying embers below and the steady chorus of crickets outside. The stars continued to glitter beyond the glass — quiet witnesses to everything left unsaid.

His phone vibrated against the table. He glanced at the screen, then turned it facedown.

Violet raised an eyebrow. “Ro?”

“He is in Milan — or possibly Paris by now,” he replied. “Whatever crisis he has manufactured can wait until morning.”

“He checks on you.”

“He sends blurry photographs of hotel carpeting and asks me to identify the chain.”

“That's Ro checking on you,” she argued, smiling softly.

He sighed, though some of the tension had left his shoulders. “Then his technique requires refinement.”

“They’ve isolated you enough.” She took another sip. “You don’t need to help them.”

He gave the facedown phone a brief, irritated glance but did not reach for it.

Violet let the matter rest. “And don’t think of this like a demotion. Think of it like a creativity break — they were working you to death anyway. Plus, you’re good at this. When you’re not being a prick.”

He didn’t answer. Just glanced through the French doors at the moon — a sharp crescent carving up the sky.

He much preferred the sun.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

Chase practiced his sunny smile as he walked, cycled through polite greetings, and mentally scrolled through baking techniques like he could manifest competence by sheer force of will.

It made him feel like an idiot.

And not the light, forgivable kind — like when he’d spelled stupid with an ‘e’ in Scrabble with Pru and Deacon the week before. No, this was the heavier kind. The kind that sat in his chest as he was minutes away from the Keysbridge Inn with nothing but hope, a prayer, and — sure — his good looks, like that helped… plus a box of cookies tucked under his arm.

He told himself not to think about what it would mean if this didn’t work.

He adjusted the container against his side, then brushed a faint smudge of flour from his collar — like that would somehow make him look more qualified to walk through the doors ahead of him — and crossed the old Key Bridge. Its arch curved into the distinctive shape of a keyhole, its railings crowded with rusted locks and key-shaped charms left behind by hopeful hands over the years.

The Keysbridge Inn — Keyhouse — sat just beyond it, at the edge of town beside Lantern Lake.

It was the first welcome to Keysbridge for outsiders. And the place you went when you had nowhere else to go.

Or at least… it used to be.

He hoped it still was.

The grounds were alive with motion when he arrived — gardeners planting bursts of color in freshly turned soil, contractors pacing and pointing as they surveyed final touches, painters passing by with smocks permanently stained. Chase had expected the renovations to be overwhelming, but instead the inn felt… familiar. Still cozy. Just shinier. More intentional.

And with a brand-new wing added.

Probably the bakery.

His stomach fluttered.

He bounded up the front steps and narrowly avoided a man swinging a ladder before pulling open the lobby doors.

Inside, the inn smelled like pinecones, acetone, and sawdust. Sunlight poured through tall windows, catching on polished wood and half-unpacked furniture. Despite the warmth, a chill crept up Chase’s spine — though he wasn’t sure if it came from the air, or from the sharp look leveled at him by the woman at the front desk.

“May I help you?” she asked, one brow lifting. Her presence was as precise as her makeup. She paused mid-note on a clipboard to look him over. “I’m afraid we’re not open yet.” Then, without missing a beat, she called over her shoulder to a passing electrician, “Remember to fix the short in room two-twenty-one!”

Chase scratched at his neck. “U-um— yeah. Sorry. I just kinda…” He winced. “Didn’t think this through.”

Her brows furrowed. He gulped.

“I—I’m here to apply for your baker position,” he rushed, then lifted the container like an offering. “…I brought cookies?”

Silence.

Then, a soft chuckle.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, smiling despite herself. “You’re a cute one.” Her gaze swept over him again — curious now. “A walk-in. That’s a little old-fashioned.” She turned on her heel and waved him forward. “Alright. Come with me.”

Okay. So far, so good.

He hadn’t been sure what he’d expected by waltzing in unannounced, but he was grateful for the warm reception. That was step one. Step two, he suspected, would be harder.

Interviews weren’t new to him — he’d sat through plenty, though most had involved judges, attorneys, caseworkers, or small gigs. This, however, was different. A baking interview. For a place tied to the Ashton brand.

A national hospitality chain. Five-star resorts. Reputation. Standards.

And Chase… well. Chase was not five-star anything. He was… solidly two-star. On a good day. But on his way to a three.

Maybe if he’d stuck with his high school dreams of being a pop star, he’d be five-star famous by now. Instead, he was here — flour on his collar, heart in his hands.

He followed closely behind the woman, eyes darting to take in the updates as they walked. “It’s coming along pretty coolio,” he offered, trying to make small talk.

She laughed. “We’re nearly ready to open. I’m Violet — General Manager.” She glanced back at him expectantly.

“Oh— uh— hi! I’m Chase.” He paused, then held out a hand. She shook it politely and kept walking.

“You’re a local?”

“Ah— yeah. I figured you weren’t from around here,” he answered, then immediately regretted it. “I mean— not that that’s bad! You’re just, uh… not exactly small-town energy.”

Nice going, Chasey.

Violet smirked. “Probably true. But I’d like to make this my home.”

Chase relaxed a fraction. “Yeah… we’re not super formal around here. But it’s peaceful.”

“You grew up here?” she asked, ushering him into an office with two desks that was only half unpacked — picture frames and awards leaned against the walls, waiting to be hung.

He took a seat and nodded. “And where I wanna stay. I love our town.”

Violet took the chair across from him and folded her hands neatly on the desk. “Are you going to school around here?”

There it was.

“Nope,” Chase replied. He smiled awkwardly, already bracing himself.

College, culinary school, trades — none of it had been an option. Not when time was scarce and every dollar mattered. Every penny he made went to keeping Pru and himself fed and clothed, and every second of free time was spent building blanket forts.

“If that’s, like, an issue—”

“Oh, not at all,” Violet assured. “I was just curious. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you.” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I went straight into working after high school. Things… changed pretty fast.”

Violet waited.

“…My parents… uh… passed away a few years ago,” he added, voice steady but distant. “So it’s just me and my sister now. She’s six.”

The silence stretched. Chase shifted, already uncomfortable with it.

“Anyway,” he continued, quick and practical, “that’s why I didn’t do a fancy pastry school or anything. I needed work and stuff. Still do.”

Violet’s expression softened. She offered a tissue. He declined it politely.

“I’m… sorry, Chase,” she consoled gently. “Still, this position does require experience with food preparation. Do you have a resume?”

“I do.” He straightened, handing over the slightly curled page. “It’s… mostly odd jobs. And I work as a stock boy at the grocery store, so I… technically work with food?”

She raised a brow at that, her eyes briefly flicking to the other desk in the room.

“And I can lift and organize things,” Chase continued. “But, uh, as for baking?” He swallowed. “Just what I learned at home.”

Violet opened her mouth to speak.

“But I’m good!” he blurted. “I sell cakes around town — birthdays, anniversaries, stuff like that. Mrs. Forenski says I’m the best in town and— um— here.” He slid the cookie box forward. “Please try these.”

Smooth.

He fidgeted, forcing a hopeful grin. He wasn’t confident in his resume — but he was confident in his baking. It was why he was here. Why the flyer hadn’t left him alone. Like it was calling him.

Violet’s gaze lingered on him, sharp and assessing — not unkind, but careful. Like she was weighing the cookie box against the reality of her opening deadline, her staffing chart, and the risk of a soft-hearted mistake.

Her mouth formed a straight line.

“Chase… This is a serious job. Unfortunately, we do require proper experience—”

“Just try one, please.” He pushed it closer. “My mom and I called them Orange Dreams. Chocolate-orange sandwich cookies — not too sweet. Black and orange and, like, perfect for Halloween season.”

“You’re very sweet, Chase, but—”

“I promise they’re good,” he pressed, too fast, too earnest. His fingers picked at a hangnail until it stung. “Please. Just try one. If you hate them, I’ll— I’ll leave. No weirdness.”

He held Violet’s gaze and tried to look like the kind of person who didn’t fall apart over cookies.

Because he couldn’t do half-hope. And he couldn’t leave without trying his best. Not when it came to Prunella. Not when it came to this.

But his smile stayed soft and sunny. He was good at that. A little extra sunshine, and people stopped asking what was wrong. Stopped looking too close.

Violet didn’t look fooled.

Her eyes tracked him like she was reading past the performance and straight into the part of him that had latched onto this chance and refused to let go. Chase felt it — that stubborn, aching grip in his chest — and hated that she could probably see it too.

Her mouth tightened, just slightly. Not in judgment.

In something closer to recognition. Not of him, exactly. Of something in what he’d said.

Finally, she sighed. A small surrender.

“Alright,” she said. “One.”

She opened the container.

The scent rose immediately — dark, rich chocolate chased by a bright hit of orange, a combo that belonged with plastic pumpkins and flour-dusted laughter. Chase’s stomach flipped; it was the same smell that used to cling to his kitchen as a kid.

Violet paused with the lid halfway open, inhaling. Her eyes flicked up to his for a fraction of a second, then away.

“Well,” she began, composing herself as she chose one, “they certainly smell good.”

Slowly, she lifted it… and took a bite.

Chase didn’t breathe.

Violet’s expression stayed neutral as she worked through the texture — the chew of the cookie, the softness of the filling. She swallowed thoughtfully, then looked at the cookie again like it had offended her.

By being better than expected.

She took another small bite. Then, finally, made a quiet sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a hum.

“Oh,” she murmured, and something in her face softened. “That’s… dangerously good.”

Chase’s shoulders loosened so suddenly he almost sagged.

“I could eat twelve,” she gushed, setting the remaining half on a tissue with the kind of deliberate care that felt like an unspoken compliment. “I’m saving that for lunch,” she added, as if she hadn’t just changed his whole day.

Chase’s face lit up. “Really? So—?”

Violet’s lips curled. “You’re very brave, Chase. And persistent.”

“That the nice way of saying I’m stubborn?” Chase cut in, half-joking and still in disbelief.

She shook her head, smiling wider despite herself. “Not unlike someone else I know, I fear. But I admire you standing up for yourself and trying. And you might just know your way around a kitchen, after all.”

Chase chuckled — the sound a little hollow. “Well, I try. Just, y’know, point me toward the oven and stuff, and I’m good to go.”

Violet’s smile lingered for half a second longer, then she sobered — the warmth clicking neatly into something more practical. She glanced down at his resume again, then back up.

“Alright. Moving on,” she decided. “A few quick things. We start early. Pre-dawn early on some days. Unfortunate but necessary. Can you do that?”

Chase nodded immediately. “Yep. I’m normally a night person, but I got used to being up before the sun. Not willingly, but— school drop-off and stuff. That whole… chaos package. So— yeah. That works.”

The corner of Violet’s mouth twitched. “Understandable. I’m the same way,” she deadpanned. “Tragic for our beauty sleep, but early mornings are the job.”

Chase huffed a small laugh. “I’ll add another undereye mask to my skin routine,” he assured, half-joking.

Violet clicked her pen, then pointed at him with it. “You’re required to share which brand you use.” Then, back to business, “Transportation?” She flipped a page on her clipboard. “Can you get here reliably?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated, then added, honest but light, “It’s not fancy, but it gets me where I need to go. And it’s maybe a fifteen, twenty minute walk otherwise?”

“And if Agatha wants you tomorrow,” Violet continued, crisp as a metronome, “can you start immediately?”

Chase swallowed, then smiled like it didn’t scare him. “Yeah,” he answered, and meant it. “Immediately. I can do immediately.”

That seemed to settle something in her. Violet stood.

“Come with me,” she directed, gesturing to the hallway. “I’ll introduce you to the bakery staff. We normally require experience, but we’re pre-opening and I can’t train from scratch unless the head baker wants to. If Agatha’s willing to trial you, I’ll approve it.”

Chase’s heart kicked hard against his ribs.

Then he nodded and followed her down the hall, nerves buzzing — but for the first time since he’d crossed the bridge, hope felt less like a risk… and more like a possibility. For new beginnings.

Wrapped in newer kitchens.

Violet ushered him past paint cans and stacks of moulding, cautioning him to watch his step — until they finally reached the bakery. Recently-finished. A world of gleaming tile and cold steel that smelled like vanilla and something faintly floral he couldn’t quite identify. Maybe orange blossom. Or lavender. Or just new.

Offset by a brick wall and an old, yellowed sign from the original Keysbridge Inn. It added just enough warmth to blend with the older hallways. Not enough to feel like his mom’s kitchen.

It was beautiful. But intimidating. Spotless in a way that made his palms itch.

Two women stood near the ovens. One had red hair pulled back in a messy bun, an apron dusted with glitter, and a hot-pink spatula gripped like a conductor’s baton as she passionately lectured the air about the emotional importance of lemon zest. The other — a little older than Chase, with pale skin and a calm, kind face — was slicing strawberries with careful, almost reverent precision.

Both turned at the sound of the door.

“Agatha, Silviana,” Violet announced smoothly, “I have a young man who’d like to interview with you. This is Chase.”

The glittery woman lit up instantly. “Oh! A walk-in!” She clapped her hands once. “How wonderful.” She leaned closer, eyes zeroing in on the container Chase was holding. “And you brought… something?”

He lifted it reflexively. “Uh— yeah. I did. Cookies.”

She gasped like he’d just offered her treasure. “Oh, I do love a treat. I’m Agatha — Aggie or Mrs. G, whatever suits you. This is Silvie.” She spun toward the other woman. “Silvie, be a dear and put on a kettle! Tea interview!”

Chase laughed awkwardly, setting the container on the counter with care. “You really don’t have to, Mrs. G— I don’t want to trouble anyone—”

“Nonsense!” she sang, arms lifting dramatically as if summoning the spirit of baked goods everywhere. “Won’t take a minute. There is always time for tea and sweets.”

Violet sighed fondly. Silvie smiled and moved to start the kettle.

“You’re from the Hollow family, right?” Silvie asked as she worked.

Chase’s face brightened. “Yeah! You’re local too?” He squinted at her — then it clicked. “Oh! You were a senior when I was a freshman, right? Mr. Statham’s daughter?”

She giggled. “Guilty as charged.”

“He judges the pumpkin pie contest with Coach Gary!” Chase beamed, delighted, then immediately realized he was rambling. “Um— Well— Nice to see a familiar face,” he added, quieter. Then sheepishly turned back to Violet and Mrs. G. “Not that— uh— not that there’s anything wrong with out-of-towners! I mean, obviously, it’s a hotel— sorry.”

Mrs. G blinked once. Then burst out laughing. “Oh, he’s a delight. I want to keep him already.”

Violet pressed her lips together, amused.

Mrs. G leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the counter — and then, without warning, took Chase’s hands in hers. “Tell me, dear. Do you love baking?”

Chase froze. Was this a trick question?

“And do you have experience?”

Her grip was warm, earnest. Not interrogating — interested. His nerves spiked anyway. Did he need a buzzer? Was this a lightning round?

He shuffled his feet, cheeks warm. Hardly anyone looked at him like this — like he was worth listening to. Except Deacon. Grandpa Ralph.

“…I do,” he said finally, soft but sure. Then, more confidently, “And I like to think baking is love.”

Mrs. G beamed, eyes glowing so bright that she almost sparkled. She released him, waving him toward a stool. “Sit, sit. Go on.”

Chase exhaled and laughed under his breath — then, once he started talking, the words spilled out easier than he expected.

“I sell cakes and stuff on the side. From home. I don’t have formal training, but baking is… it’s my thing. Used to be singing and dancing, but— well— not as much anymore.” His fingers brushed against his neck absently, then dropped to his lap. “Gotta be practical and all, y’know? And it’s important to me. I bake for my little sister.” He hesitated. “And before that, with my mom.”

Silence settled — gentle, not sharp.

“She used to say the secret ingredient in every good cookie was a little grief and a whole lotta love,” he added, then winced. “Which sounded way less depressing in my head.”

He rubbed his palms against his jeans, suddenly aware he was talking about things he usually kept tucked away. Silvie’s smile softened.

“I remember your mom,” she murmured quietly. “Oh! And she used to do numbers at the bake sales, Chase.”

Mrs. G tilted her head. “A family baking legacy. How lovely!” Then her eyes sharpened with professional curiosity. “Alright, Chase, before we let our taste buds do all the work on your magical creation — may I ask a few questions?”

He nodded immediately. “Totes! Anything.”

But she barrelled on anyway — as if his answer were an afterthought.

“What’s your process for testing a new cookie recipe? Weight or volume?”

Relief washed through him. This, he could talk about. Cookies, chemistry, the rhythm of a good bake.

“Weight,” he answered without hesitation. “And I start with a half-batch, in case it’s a stupid flop. If it spreads too much, I chill the dough. If it’s too cakey, I cut back on egg or baking powder. Mostly, though… I go by smell. If it smells like Mom’s kitchen, I know I’m wicked close.”

Mrs. G blinked. Then smiled wide. “That’s a good answer, dear!” She leaned on the counter, chin in her palm. “What’s your favorite thing to bake, and don’t say cookies just ‘cause they’re here.”

Chase perked up. “Gotta go with cakes, definitely. The more layers, the better! Like… try not to be leaning tower of cake-iza, y’know? I like the challenge. And you get to be totally creative with fillings and frostings and decorations and all that stuff. Plus, they’re… fun, y’know? Like a little party on a plate.”

“You decorate them?” Silvie asked.

“You know it!” Chase answered proudly. “I have these cool stencils or I freehand stuff. I did a rainbow unicorn last month. Lots of glitter. Very pega-yas.”

Mrs. G cackled. “Pegasus has wings, dear. But I love the enthusiasm! A man after my own heart!” She paused, eyes lighting up. “Oh, you would love the bird fountain I have at home — has a little pegasus on top!”

She waved her hands happily, then made a surprised sound. Chase could practically see the lightbulb go off over her head.

“What would you bake if I said: surprise tea party, fall theme, one hour, go!”

Chase blinked, then grinned. “Mini spiced apple pies. You can throw them together super fast, they don’t need to cool, they got a cozy flavor, and you can take them with you anywhere — easy for any setup.”

Violet exchanged an impressed look with Silvie.

“And what do you do when a bake goes… not so well, Chase?” Silvie asked gently.

Chase shrugged. “Eat it. I’m not wasting food. And nothing is worse than the time I tried to eat a three-month-old expired yogurt when I was ten. Gross.” He paused, nose scrunching up. “Anyway, then I’d figure out what went wrong and try again.”

Mrs. G clapped. “I like him.”

Chase barely had time to let the warmth of that land before a thin, shrill whistle cut through the kitchen — the kettle announcing itself like it had opinions.

Silvie moved toward the stove with practiced calm, but the sound seemed to cue something else, too. Like the room itself braced.

At the far end of the bakery, a man appeared in the doorway — moving silently and almost unnoticed, like a ghost avoiding haunting duties.

He paused there.

Just briefly.

Long enough, perhaps, to hear Chase enthusiastically explain the structural advantages of mini apple pies.

Then, as if remembering he had a reason to be there, he stepped inside, checked a stack of boxes, and made a few precise marks on his clipboard.

Chase’s stomach dropped so fast it felt like missing a step on the stairs.

No. Absolutely not.

It was the grocery store jerk.

Sharp uniform. Sharper posture. Like sarcasm had grown legs and discovered designer slacks. Chase had clocked him as an out-of-towner on sight at Willoughby’s; people like that always stood out in Keysbridge. But of course he hadn’t just been passing through.

Of course he worked here.

Just his luck.

The man finally glanced up. Paused — like he’d walked into the wrong room and was deciding whether it was worth acknowledging anyone at all. Then his gaze landed on Chase.

Flicked to the cookie container in his hands.

Back to Chase.

Slow. Deliberate. Like recognition had arrived a split second before he wanted it to.

Heat crawled up Chase’s neck, equal parts irritation and the deeply inconvenient fact that— fine. The man was annoyingly attractive, in a ‘brooding catalog model’ kind of way. Which would have been easier to ignore if he wasn’t also, apparently, allergic to basic decency.

Chase caught himself staring and immediately looked away.

Across the counter, one black sleeve shifted. The man smoothed an already-perfect cuff, then absently pushed a strand of hair back into place.

Violet noticed.

Her gaze dropped to his hand.

Then lifted slowly to his face.

He stopped touching his hair.

One of her brows rose. “Done with the vendor?”

“It was hardly a complicated meeting.”

“Mm.”

His eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Violet turned back to Chase.

Somehow, 'nothing' sounded incredibly smug.

Then the man's eyes met Chase's.

Chase drew in a breath, forcing his smile into place out of habit, ready to introduce himself—

The man beat him to it.

“Did we receive an application from you?” he deadpanned. “We need it online for the file. Elvis included.”

There it was.

Violet’s eyes flicked to the man again — quick, sharp, interested. “Elvis?”

“So he claims.”

Violet hummed, her gaze lingering on the man for one thoughtful beat.

He pulled out a business card and twirled it once between his fingers before extending it toward Chase. “Our website is on the card—”

Chase’s jaw tightened — immediate, instinctive. The bright, sunny part of him flickered, making room for something sharper. He opened his mouth, already halfway to a line he would absolutely regret later—

—and Mrs. G swatted the man’s arm with her wooden spoon, light but decisive.

“Manners, dear,” she sang.

Chase let out a startled, breathy snort he couldn’t quite swallow back. Then he snapped his mouth shut and covered it with his hand, shoulders shaking as he fought to contain a fuller laugh.

The man shot him a look.

“I’m not sure if that whistling is the kettle… or the steam coming from your ears,” Violet added dryly, nudging the man’s arm. “Unfurrow your brows, buddy.”

The man exhaled slowly through his nose, like patience was a limited resource he’d already overspent. “This is a professional kitchen,” he muttered, clipped, tucking the business card back into his pocket. “Not a bake sale.”

Chase lowered his hand from his mouth. His smile stayed soft.

His eyes didn’t.

“Sorry,” he said quickly — because he did not need to make enemies on day zero. Then his smile widened, sweet as frosting. “But a bake sale’s still baking. And if we’re handing out first impressions…” He tipped his head, polite enough to pass. “I’m pretty sure ‘hello, nice to meet you’ is the professional way to start. Right?”

He offered his hand. Held it there — steady, patient, like he could do this all day.

Silvie’s grin twitched as she busied herself with the kettle.

The man's gaze sharpened. Not angry, Chase thought. Interested. Like Chase had done something unexpected, and it irritated him that it worked. His eyes dropped to the hovering hand — then slid past it, as if the handshake were an optional feature he’d declined in settings.

“And you are?” he asked anyway, pointedly.

Chase let the silence stretch one beat longer. Then he lowered his arm, smooth and controlled, like he hadn’t been left hanging at all. He lifted his chin a fraction.

“Chase.” A pause. “Baker-adjacent menace.”

Something almost like a smirk tugged at the man’s mouth.

Almost.

It vanished before it could fully form.

He turned to Violet instead. “We don’t have time for this.”

She eyed him for a moment. Glanced at Chase. Then back to him.

“And yet,” Violet replied mildly, “here you are. Seems your calendar is all freed up.”

He scoffed. “I can pencil in carefree menaces that apply online. Per policy.”

Before Chase could decide whether to take that opening and swing, Violet angled herself between them like she’d done this before — not in a protective way, exactly. More like an amused referee.

She turned to Chase, voice lighter. “Okay, let’s keep this professional. Don’t worry — he’s nicer than he looks. He oversees front-of-house and events, so yes, he is management, but he isn’t the bakery's department lead. You'd report to Agatha.”

The man huffed and looked away, jaw tight like his title offended him almost as much as Chase did.

Silvie offered a gentle smile as she poured them all tea and set out dessert plates. “He does have a point, Chase,” she cut in kindly. “Do you… have a resume?”

“Uh… yeah,” Chase answered, pulling the slightly bent page from his bag. “But it’s not impressive.” He handed it over, then spoke quickly before the paper could do the talking for him. “I do a lot of odd jobs around town. Deliveries, yard work, part-time at the market… I make cakes and pies for events and sell them when I can, like I said. Oh — and these are chocolate-orange sandwich cookies.” He gestured to the box.

“Perfect for Halloween,” Violet added, then cast the man a look Chase suspected was meant to annoy him. “You love Halloween. Dark and mysterious is your whole persona.”

Silvie and Mrs. G leaned toward the container with interest.

The man in the button-down did not.

Chase crossed his arms. His tone shifted — less joking now, more honest edge beneath the humor. “Look,” he sighed, “I know I don’t seem like I walked out of Culinary School Monthly. But if you’ve got thirty seconds, can you judge me by my cookies? I promise they’re good.” He scratched his cheek. “Unless you’re allergic to fun. Or orange.”

That did it.

The man finally turned fully toward him.

“...I judge based on standards,” he replied evenly. “Ashtons require them.”

Chase snorted. “Cool. My cookies do, too. And I can fill out your fancy online application after this if you really need it.”

The man studied him for half a second, as if waiting for recognition that never came.

Mrs. G clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I do love this energy! It’s like watching a baking show fight episode.”

Silvie set her teacup down, calm and gentle. “Perhaps we should try the cookies?”

Chase inhaled once — steadying — then lifted the lid fully, letting the scent do the first round of persuasion. “I know I’m probably not your usual pick,” he added, softer but firm, eyes flicking briefly to Mrs. G and Silvie. “I didn’t go to fancy culinary school or anything. But I bake every day. I label ingredients, clean as I go. Cross-contamination’s no joke. I care about baking. And I’m good at it.” He paused, then couldn’t help himself: “Chase Everett — eat and savor it!”

The man in black sighed. “Am I meant to be eating you or the cookies?”

Chase flushed, mouth falling open.

For the smallest fraction of a second, the man seemed to realize what he had actually said.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the clipboard. Then he continued before Chase could respond.

“Free advice,” the man offered, gaze tracking to the box, “do consider a better catch phrase. And less food coloring.”

“Wha— It’s cool,” Chase snapped, folding his arms in a pout. “And they gotta sell the spooky vibe!”

“I’m not the expert,” Violet interjected smoothly, “but I will gladly eat your leftovers if you don’t want them. Just saying. But it is chocolate, A.”

The man in black glared at her.

Mrs. G raised her brows, eyes glinting with something impish. “Well, then! I’m curious. Time to dig in!”

Silvie nodded and set a cookie onto a plate for each of them, the ceramic clinking softly against the marble counter. The assistant manager stayed where he was, arms crossed, irritation still pinned neatly to his face — like it was part of his uniform. But he didn’t leave.

Chase didn’t blink.

Mrs. G lifted hers with both hands, turning it once like it deserved ceremony. It looked a little like a whoopie pie — dark, thick rounds pressed around pale frosting. But the cookie had that faint, soft give that meant chewy, not cakey.

She took a bite.

Chase knew exactly what she would taste: the soft pull of the cookie, dark chocolate giving way to airy buttercream, the orange bright enough to cut through both.

Across the island, the man’s gaze flicked to the cookie on his plate. He swallowed — then looked away quickly, like he hadn’t been watching at all.

Chase gripped the counter so hard his nails pressed into his palm. Every second dragged like molasses.

He had never cared this much about a cookie in his life.

Mrs. G chewed slowly, eyes closed, expression unreadable. Chase’s stomach pitched anyway. Was that pause because she was thinking… or because she was trying to be polite?

She swallowed.

A beat of nothing.

Then she hummed — soft, pleased, inevitable. “Ohhh,” she murmured. “That’s delicious.”

Chase’s lungs unlocked.

Silvie’s reaction was subtler, but no less telling — she’d already gone in for a second bite before she finished the first. Her eyes flicked to the box. Then to the cookie again, like she was clocking size and consistency. “How long do you usually bake these for—oh! And at what temperature?”

“Three-fifty, eight minutes,” Chase replied without missing a beat. “Turn the tray at four for a more even bake. Helps to chill the dough ahead of time to keep their shape.”

Silvie exchanged a subtle nod with Mrs. G.

The assistant manager gave in with an audible sigh and accepted a plate as well. He took the tiniest bite, like he expected to hate it.

Then paused.

The bright orange reached him first, cutting through the dark chocolate — and something in his expression slipped.

His brows pinched together, though not in disgust. In thought. As though the cookie had reminded him of something he couldn’t immediately place.

He swallowed.

“…They’re acceptable,” he decided at last.

Chase barked a laugh. “Acceptable?”

Violet’s gaze moved from the half-eaten cookie to the assistant manager's face. Something knowing flickered there, but she only smiled. “That’s high praise. Don’t let him fool you.”

Something warm tried to settle in Chase’s chest. He ignored it on principle. “Wow,” he murmured, pitching his voice light. “Should I alert the press?”

The man went still. Not dramatically — just a tiny interruption, breath caught somewhere behind his ribs. Then his gaze snapped to Chase, sharp enough to make the joke feel suddenly misplaced.

A second later, the reaction was gone. Smoothed into indifference.

“Don’t push it.”

“Or what?” Chase leaned in just a hair, curiosity pricking under the irritation. “You’ll be forced to admit you like it?”

A beat.

The man’s jaw flexed once, like he was swallowing whatever he actually wanted to say. When he spoke again, it was quieter.

“Your ratios are correct. Well-balanced.”

Chase went still. The words landed different — no sarcasm, no dismissal. Just… assessment. And something dangerously close to respect.

Before he could find his voice again, Violet cut in smoothly, as if translating for the room. “That means he likes it.”

The man cleared his throat immediately, and whatever softness had escaped him vanished — leaving behind only visible annoyance. Whether at Violet, Chase, or himself, Chase couldn’t tell. “If you’re going to be here,” he added, eyes flicking back to Chase, “don’t waste ingredients. Or time.”

“Well,” Chase murmured softly. “I’ll do my very best.”

A corner of the man’s mouth twitched despite himself.

Then it vanished, like he’d caught it happening and refused to allow it.

Violet elbowed Chase lightly, drawing him back to the actual point of all this before he could get stuck on the doorway and the jawline attached to it.

“Alright,” she said, business again — but kind. “I appreciate the initiative with the cookies. I think we can all admit they’re good.” She tipped her head, studying him. “But baking in a hotel kitchen’s different than doing it at home. We often work on tight schedules. How do you handle stress?”

Chase blinked once, forcing his focus back. “I mean… I’m used to chaos,” he answered with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “That’s, like, life.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I just try to focus on what I can control. And if something goes wrong, I adjust… and try not to freak out. Maybe vent and complain. But I always try to stay positive, find a solution, and get better.”

Mrs. G chuckled. “Good answer! There can be lots of stress in baking, especially for big events. We had a food fight in here last week. Just ask Silvie!”

Silvie sighed, sipping her tea like she hadn’t just been drafted into chaos. “Oh, yes. I still find spots of food dye on the walls—”

“It adds character!” Mrs. G proclaimed, flourishing her spatula like a wand.

Violet eyed them both, like she was uncertain whether the new kitchen she was partly responsible for would survive their chaos — let alone Chase’s.

“In jest, dear,” Mrs. G added, then turned back to Chase. “How are you with feedback?”

Chase shrugged. “Well, I like learning. How else will I get better, y’know? And if I mess up, I’d rather fix it than pretend I didn’t.”

“And if you and a coworker have… clashing ideas?” Silvie asked gently, voice soft but clearly testing for temperament.

Chase paused, rubbing his chin like he was genuinely considering it — which he was. “Well,” he decided, “we talk it out. Or taste-test it. May the best dough win!”

Violet chuckled, eyes flicking toward the assistant manager in a way that was absolutely on purpose. “Guess you better put your dough where your mouth is.”

That did it.

The assistant manager huffed — sharp and offended, like he’d been personally inconvenienced by humor — and turned away without another word.

Chase watched him go, because of course he did.

He almost missed the faint dusting of pink that crept into the man’s cheeks as he turned away.

Almost.

But he didn’t miss what vanished next. The cookie that had been sitting untouched on the edge of the assistant manager’s plate was gone.

Not eaten. Not left behind.

Taken.

Silence lingered in the space he left — the kind that made the room feel briefly rearranged.

Mrs. G leaned in, delighted, eyes sparkling like she’d just witnessed a scandal in the making. “Oh, he took one.”

Chase forced his attention away from the closed door. He smoothed his expression into something calm, something normal, even as his pulse insisted on doing the most. “Yeah,” he mumbled, voice too casual to be believable.

Silvie’s smile tugged a little wider as she gathered the plates, efficient and gentle in the way she moved through the kitchen. “Perhaps he’s a fan after all, Chase.”

Mrs. G, meanwhile, clutched her hot-pink spatula to her chest like it was a gossip microphone. “Yes, I do believe our resident grumpypants just approved,” she whispered theatrically.

Violet sighed — fond, long-suffering — and set her teacup down with a soft click. The moment of comedy faded into something quieter as her gaze shifted between Agatha and Silvie. Not secretive, exactly. Just… purposeful. Like she was taking stock. Like she’d seen what she needed to see.

Chase’s stomach tightened again.

He held the cookie box a little closer without realizing it, fingers pressing into the cardboard edge. He wished he could rewind ten minutes and not call himself a ‘baker-adjacent menace.’ Or maybe he wished he could rewind further and walk in with a résumé that didn’t look like a cry for help.

Violet’s attention returned to him. Her expression was composed, but not cold. Professional, yes — and still kind.

Then she gestured toward the door. “Come on. Let’s head back to my office. Give me a moment to talk to Agatha and Silviana.”

Chase nodded a little too quickly, as if enthusiasm could cover nerves. “Yeah— yeah, totally. Of course.”

Mrs. G shooed him with both hands as if sending him off to war. “Go on, dear. Breathe. We’ll confer like proper pastry witches.”

Silvie gave him a small, reassuring smile over her shoulder. “It was nice meeting you, Chase.”

“Nice meeting you too,” he returned, and he meant it — which only made the hope in his chest feel more dangerous.

He waved goodbye to Mrs. G and Silvie, his eyes lingering on the cookie box as he followed Violet out. The kitchen’s bright sterility fell away behind them, replaced by the muffled sounds of renovation — a distant drill, a thud of footsteps, voices echoing down the hall. Chase kept pace at Violet’s side, trying not to read too much into the fact that she hadn’t said anything yet.

He hoped it was enough.

That maybe — just maybe — a little grief and a lot of love really was the secret ingredient.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

A week later, the coffee shop bustled with its morning rush — half-drunk mugs, sugar packets scattered like confetti, the low hum of people determined to pretend they weren’t tired; all of them running on stubbornness, caffeine, and love in a cup… plus whatever secret ingredient Grandpa Ralph had smuggled into the air that morning.

Chase sat at the counter anyway, because routine was comfort.

And because Deacon occasionally had good advice.

Sunlight poured through the front windows and landed warm against his cheek, like the town itself was trying to reassure him. He sighed, wistful, and tapped his fingers against the laminate — one-two-three-four — until a familiar beep chimed from behind the bar.

A fresh pot of dark roast.

The scent rolled over him, deep and bitter and warm, and Chase lifted his mug without thinking. Not that he needed caffeine. He was already a wide-awake mess.

Because it turned out that love did go pretty far.

Far enough to get a foot in the door… and far enough to make your stomach feel like it was full of butterflies while you waited to see if the door slammed shut on your fingers.

Not that he’d know what that felt like.

And not that he’d ever tried it on Deacon when they were little.

“So today’s the first day at your shiny new gig?” Grandpa Ralph asked, leaning on the counter. He grabbed the pot and poured a fresh splash of coffee into Chase’s cup.

“First day of trial week,” Chase corrected automatically, repeating Violet’s words dutifully. He took his mug back and sipped. The heat grounded him for half a second. “Help prep, learn the ropes, test some recipes, clean up, and get the inn ready for the soft opening next week.”

Ralph made a thoughtful sound. “Son, most people forget about the free trial and end up subscribed for life. That’s why I’m still getting Steamy Barista Monthly,” he assured, winking like he’d just confessed to a scandal.

Deacon, wiping down the register, froze with a rag in hand. His mouth opened, closed, then he held up a palm without turning around. “I don’t want to know.”

“They’ve got great recipes in there!” Ralph hollered, already shuffling toward the back office with the confidence of a man who had never once considered shame. “Gave me the idea for the blueberry coconut paradise frappé!”

Deacon stared after him, then slowly dragged a hand down his face. “I’m begging you. Stop encouraging him.”

Chase smirked — small, barely there — and watched Ralph disappear through the swinging door with a booming laugh.

Deacon’s expression softened when he looked back at Chase. “Hey. Really, though. Good luck. You’ll do great.”

Chase rolled his eyes on instinct, because being earnest in front of Deacon felt as wrong as missing the newest Mistenwood movie in theaters. Or not ordering the special super-exclusive deluxe platinum edition of the latest Star Brigade album and swooning over Romeo Locke.

There were some things he just couldn’t do.

But he could tilt his mug and down half of it in one quick gulp to drown his nerves. And he did.

His grin wobbled anyway.

He shoved his free hand into his jacket pocket before Deacon could notice it shaking. “Me? Luck? I don’t need luck,” he denied, aiming for teasing and landing somewhere near honest. “I need a miracle.”

The laugh that followed was light enough to pass as a joke.

Bitter enough to taste like truth.

He waved goodbye before the counter could become a confessional. “See you after,” he called, voice bright.

Deacon nodded, letting him have the exit.

Chase made it all the way outside before he let his shoulders rise up around his ears.

And the jitters didn’t get better on the walk to the inn.

If anything, they got louder.

By the time he reached the staff entrance, his stomach had upgraded from butterflies to a full marching band. He breathed in, breathed out, and told himself — sternly — that he was not going to throw up in an Ashton property on day one.

That felt like bad form.

Inside, the corridors were cleaner than they’d been during renovations, but not fully settled — fresh paint smell lingering in corners, someone’s radio playing faintly from a supply room, the distant thud of a cart hitting a threshold.

Chase found himself fidgeting with the shiny brass name tag pinned to his apron like it might disappear if he blinked too hard.

‘CHASE HOLLOW
(Bakery Assistant)’

Bakery assistant.

He traced the edge of the letters with his thumb, swallowing hard.

If he did well — if he proved himself — they’d hire him full-time.

No pressure.

Except… it felt like pressure. It felt like everything.

Because if he got hired, the math of his life changed. The kind of math that actually mattered.

The pay and benefits were about the same as his usual take-home — except it would come from one job. One place. One predictable schedule. No more sprinting from odd job to odd job, no more scanning bulletin boards like they were treasure maps, no more praying someone needed their gutters cleaned the same week Pru outgrew her shoes again.

Less pressure from the court.

Less explaining. Less defending.

More stability.

He could still take side orders when he felt like it — birthday cakes, anniversary cupcakes, a last-minute batch of cookies for Mrs. Forenski’s bridge club — because he’d want to, not because he had to.

He could buy Pru better clothes instead of ‘good enough.’ Pay for her field trips without having to count coins. Put money aside as actual savings. The concept still felt unreal — savings, like something actual adults in commercials did.

And maybe — just maybe — if he didn’t get ahead of himself…

He could save enough for a down payment on a tiny storefront. A place with a display case and a chalkboard menu. A bell on the door. A bakery that smelled like chocolate and strawberries and home.

He forced the thought down before it could bloom into something that hurt.

Not yet, Chase.

This week first.

He’d gotten the week off from the market, and Coach Gary had slapped him on the shoulder so hard it nearly knocked him into a cereal display.

“If you don’t get the job,” Coach had said, grinning like a menace, “I’m making you run ten laps and do fifty push-ups.”

Chase had laughed, because Coach Gary said everything like it was a joke.

But Chase was at least forty percent sure the man meant it. In a supportive, community-spirited, ‘I will bully you into success’ kind of way. Probably.

He hadn’t told Pru about the trial week — not yet.

Not because he didn’t want her to know. Because he didn’t want her to hope.

Pru hoped with her whole body. With glitter pens and crayon drawings and dramatic declarations that he was “the most okayest big brother in the universe.” Which, for her, was very high praise. And if this fell through, she’d be crushed on his behalf, and he didn’t think he could handle that.

He would tell her soon, once he knew it was real.

Still, his biggest concern — his real, gnawing, keep-him-up-at-night concern — had nothing to do with the job.

It was the Halloween carnival.

He’d found the flyer in her backpack the night before, folded once and then folded again like she’d handled it carefully. Glittery bats. Bright orange pumpkins. A cartoon ghost wearing cat ears, hovering next to a group of trick-or-treaters like it could blend in.

And one event circled in purple marker so hard it nearly tore through the paper:

‘PUMPKINS AND PAPAS!’

There was a picture too — smiling dads crouched beside their kids, hands sticky with pumpkin guts, everyone laughing like family was a given.

He knew Pru would want to go. And of course he would take her — he could already see it: them picking out the perfect pumpkin, Pru insisting on one with ‘personality,’ Chase pretending to argue, her winning. The design she’d already doodled in crayon — he’d seen it on the fridge that morning: a lopsided jack-o’-lantern with heart-shaped eyes.

He wanted to give her that.

He wanted to give her every normal thing.

But he wasn’t her papa.

And he hated the thought of her standing next to the other kids while their parents chatted and laughed and asked polite questions that turned sharp without meaning to.

Where’s her dad?

Oh, you’re her brother?

You’re very young…

He could already hear the whispers. He’d heard them before — even from family. Too young, too poor, not really her father.

Not really anything, if you listened to the wrong people long enough.

Chase swallowed hard, forcing his jaw to unclench.

Maybe he could ask the school to change the name. Call it something else. Pumpkins and… Parents. Pumpkins and Grown-Ups. Pumpkins and People-Who-Love-You.

Or maybe he could show up and carve the best damn jack-o’-lantern in the whole parking lot and let the gossip burn like pumpkin guts in the sun.

Either way, he wouldn’t let Pru be the one who had to carry the awkwardness. He’d carry it. He always did.

A sharp beep cut through the hallway — somewhere deeper in the building, a timer going off, crisp and impatient.

Chase blinked, pulled back into his body.

Time didn’t care if you were spiraling.

Time just kept moving.

He straightened his apron, adjusted his name tag one more time like it might anchor him, and followed the sound.

The kitchen was already buzzing when Chase arrived — metal on metal, the hiss of steam, someone calling “More parchment!” like it was an emergency service. It was louder than he’d expected, brighter too; the new overheads bounced off marble and stainless steel until everything felt sharp-edged. Like the room could see through him.

He’d shown up half an hour early, too anxious to sit at Crafted Coffee and pretend he wasn’t counting down the minutes like a timer on a bomb. He didn’t want to be late. Didn’t want to mess up.

So, naturally, he tripped over the doorframe, dropped a twenty-pound bag of flour, and apologized to a mixing bowl like it was a person in the first twenty minutes.

It happened in that perfect domino sequence of humiliation: his foot caught on the threshold, his hip clipped the prep table, and the mixing bowl skated an inch with a sharp metallic screech — just enough to make his heart seize.

“Oh— sorry, buddy,” he blurted, grabbing the bowl with both hands like it might leap off and report him to management. “You’re fine. You’re fine. I’m fine.”

He was not fine.

The flour bag slipped from the crook of his arm and hit the tile with a soft whumph — not a crash, but somehow worse, because it sounded gentle. Forgivable. Like the flour was offering him mercy.

It was lying.

A pale cloud erupted up and out in slow motion, silky and thick, curling through the air like fog rolling off Lantern Lake. For one stunned second, Chase watched it bloom, watched it reach the overhead lights and glow. His stomach lurched.

Oh no.

He dropped to his knees automatically, hands flailing for the torn seam, trying to pinch it shut like he could undo physics with panic.

“Sorry— sorry— oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he sputtered — at the bag, at the floor, at the mixing bowl he’d just emotionally bonded with, at the entire concept of employment.

Footsteps approached.

Not the hurried kind. Not the friendly kind.

The kind that belonged to someone who didn’t rush for anything because the world was expected to move around them.

Chase looked up—

—and the flour chose that exact moment to drift sideways, as if it had found its target.

The white cloud washed over a sharp black suit like a curse.

It dusted the shoulder. The sleeve. The dark hair. It clung in delicate streaks along the lapel like frost.

The assistant manager stopped dead in the doorway, clipboard tucked under one arm, expression perfectly blank.

He didn’t blink.

Chase’s soul attempted to leave his body.

“I—” Chase choked, then tried again. “I’m— I didn’t— It just—”

The man’s gaze dropped to the flour on his jacket. Then to Chase on the floor, kneeling in a crime scene of powdered regret.

Slowly, the man brushed two fingers over his lapel, inspected the white smudge like it was evidence in a trial, then looked back at Chase.

Chase had the absurd thought that the flour on his hair looked kind of cute.

Judging by the way the man immediately tried to brush it out, he did not share that opinion.

“I believe I said not to waste ingredients,” he warned, voice low. His pen scratched once on the clipboard — sharp, decisive. “Don’t make me take stock before necessary.”

Chase’s apology made it halfway to his mouth before irritation got there first.

“Yeah, well—” He bit down on the rest.

Take stock of your life if you’re gonna be a jerk every time we talk.

He liked being employed.

“...I know. It was an accident. I'm sorry.”

The assistant manager’s brow lifted as he inspected the torn bag. “An expensive accident.”

Chase’s jaw tightened.

Probationary employee. Probationary employee.

“Could you maybe not be a jerk about it? I already said I’m sorry.”

The pen stilled.

Just for a beat.

Then the man’s eyes flicked over him — apron, name tag, floury hands — and away again, like he’d already categorized Chase and didn’t like the label.

“You’re blocking the walkway,” he added, as if that was the real offense. “And I am not being a ‘jerk.’ I am being efficient. It is not my fault if you fail to comprehend the difference.”

'Jerk' and 'efficient' were apparently synonyms in whatever dictionary this guy owned.

Chase’s brows furrowed, cheeks burning. “Right. Totally. My mistake.” Then, because he had no self-preservation, his face smoothed into a serene smile. “I guess that’s just the way the flour tumbles.”

The man stared.

Blinked.

Sighed — like Chase was a headache he’d been assigned by corporate.

“Clean this up.”

Chase scrambled back on his heels, raising a mock salute that was a little too eager to be respectful. “Right. Yep. Totally. Walkway. I’ll— I’ll fix it.”

The man walked past him with maddening calm, quiet as a ghost used to blending into the shadows — except now the flour made him visible. It left a faint trail of white dust in his wake, like a haunting.

Chase stared after him, simultaneously offended, worried he'd just torpedoed his trial week, and — annoyingly — warm under his collar, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that this man was a problem.

He lunged for the bag again, determined to fix it before anyone else witnessed the scene.

His knee slid.

His hand hit flour.

His other foot went out from under him like the universe had a personal grudge.

Chase slipped forward and landed chest-first in the powder with a muffled grunt, then popped his head up, hair dusted white like he’d been aged fifty years in ten seconds.

He spit, sputtered, and shouted to no one in particular, “if anyone asks, this is a new skincare treatment! Flour power shower!” He coughed. “Anti-wrinkle.”

From somewhere down the corridor — already distant — came a sound.

Not loud. Not even clear.

Just… a quick, strangled exhale, like someone had tried not to laugh and lost for half a second.

Chase froze.

He waited for it to happen again — but all he caught was kitchen noise and timers and the blood rushing in his ears.

Then Silvie chuckled behind him, broom already in hand.

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the hallway.

Her smile widened.

Chase narrowed his eyes. “Was that—”

“Here,” she said sweetly, pressing the broom into his grip. “You'll want this.”

She didn’t make a scene. Just offered him a knowing smile, like she’d seen plenty of first days and far worse disasters. No judgment. Just kindness.

Chase clung to that like a life raft.

“Don’t you worry,” she murmured. “You’re not the first.”

Chase swallowed hard, gaze flicking to the faint white shoeprints disappearing around the corner. “I might be the first to… speedrun becoming baking enemies with the assistant manager,” he whispered.

Silvie’s grin twitched. “He can’t fire you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Agatha handles bakery staffing.” Her voice softened. “He’s just a bit… tense. And quite out of sorts in Keysbridge. He’s… not always like this. Not really. Don’t let him get under your skin.”

Chase looked down at the flour coating his uniform. Then back toward the hallway.

Too late.

He already had.

A defeated sigh escaped him, and he flashed Silvie a grateful smile.

Silvie was sweet in a way that felt easy. The kind of person who didn’t make you feel like you had to perform to be liked. Mrs. G was sweet too, but in a sunshine-in-a-bottle way — big, bright, a little intimidating because she was also the boss and the head baker and seemed capable of smelling fear through walls. Silvie, though, was closer to Chase’s age, closer to his speed.

And she didn’t mind when he rambled.

Extra points for that.

After the flour was thoroughly swept up, Silvie and Mrs. G got him started with prep tasks — setting out ingredients, labeling bins, wiping down counters, learning where everything lived. Then Silvie looked at him over the rim of her tea mug and said, almost casually, “Want to handle the first batch of maple scones? We’re behind on prep, and they’re pretty simple.”

Chase tried not to look too relieved at the word simple, even though nothing in this kitchen felt simple. He just nodded like he wasn’t trembling inside his own apron.

And he managed. Mostly.

There was a minor cinnamon incident — meaning he’d sneezed mid-measure and accidentally turned one section of the counter into a warm brown dust storm. Silvie laughed again, wiped the edge of a bowl with a towel, and said, “Well. At least it’ll smell like fall!”

The bar was low. He could work with low.

Once the scones were in the oven, the maple glaze was whisked smooth, and the candied pecans cooled in a sugared heap on a sheet tray, Chase found himself with fifteen minutes to kill — and nowhere productive to put the heat crawling up his neck.

He needed air. Space. A corner of the world where no one could watch him mess up another ‘simple’ task and prove, in real time, that everyone’s doubts were right.

So he slipped out the side exit to the staff patio behind the inn.

Cold air kissed his cheeks and made his lungs expand like they’d been waiting all morning for permission. Beyond the railing, Lantern Lake lay half-hidden through the trees, slate-dark under the autumn sky. Wind tugged at the branches, shaking loose damp leaves that skittered over the patio stones, and the air carried that clean bite of water — sharp enough to rinse the kitchen out of his head.

It helped. A little.

Not enough to erase the image of flour fog, or the assistant manager’s expressionless stare, or the very distinct feeling that his soul had tried to exit his body… but enough that he didn’t actually scream into the lake.

He considered it, though. Quietly. Like a civilized person. So no one called security.

He made it three steps—

—and nearly walked straight into someone already leaning against the back railing.

“Whoa— easy there, muffin man,” a smooth voice cautioned, and Chase felt fingers catch him lightly by the elbow before he could stumble off the small step.

Chase blinked up — and his brain did a brief, unhelpful reboot.

Dark hair. Black slacks. Button-down rolled at the sleeves. A friendly grin with just enough charm to make Chase suspicious of it.

Not the brooding assistant manager.

But… adjacent. Like his face had gone to therapy and had a relaxing Hawaiian vacation. Less brow lines and more 'wannabe boy band' energy.

Something about the tilt of the smile, the narrowed eyes — similar bones, totally different energy. Looser. Friendlier. Like he actually wanted people to talk to him instead of silently filing them into categories.

“Sorry,” Chase muttered, steadying himself and tugging his elbow free a beat later than necessary.

“No harm, man. I’m Simon.” The guy offered a hand. “Restaurant side. Or… I will be. After training. Assuming I don’t drop a plate of pasta on some dude’s head during soft open.”

Chase shook his hand, trying to ignore the fact that his own palm was warm. From the ovens, of course. “Chase.”

Simon’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh, I’ve heard about you.”

Chase’s stomach did an uncomfortable little flip. “That… doesn’t sound promising.” He scratched his cheek, flashing a tiny smile. “Unless you’ve heard mega amazing things. Then, like, they’re all totally true.”

“Oh, it’s very promising.” Simon smirked. “You’re the one who showed up with cookies and got a job out of it. Bold move. You’re climbing the gossip ladder fast.”

Chase laughed, the sound escaping despite him, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah— it was a weird day. I wasn’t trying to be dramatic.”

“Sure.” Simon’s grin widened. “And I’m not trying to flirt.”

Chase’s smile faltered — not because he didn’t get it, but because he did, and Simon had the audacity to say it like it was a joke.

“I— uh.” Chase took a small step back on instinct, recalibrating. Simon didn’t follow. He just watched him with amused patience, like he could wait all day.

They stood in an awkward pocket of quiet, the kind that could go either way — uncomfortable or intimate — depending on who blinked first.

Chase looked out toward the trees instead. The midday sun made the leaves around Keysbridge glow even brighter — rich ambers and burgundies smudged across the hills. In the distance, he could just make out the town clock tower, already being draped with Halloween garland and string lights by a crew on ladders.

It made his mouth soften. Pru would love it. She’d probably ask to be a witch this year. Or a unicorn. Or a park ranger.

Or all three at once.

Simon broke the silence with a hum. “So,” he drawled, casual again, “is Keyhouse everything you were hoping for?”

Chase’s face went warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the sun. “It’s… a lot.”

“A lot good?” Simon’s gaze slid over him, quick and too assessing to be accidental. “Because it just got a bit better for me.”

Chase’s breath caught. His instincts — those hard-earned ones — prickled.

But before he could decide whether to joke, deflect, or run back inside and marry the oven, the back door clicked open.

Chase turned.

And there he was.

The assistant manager stepped out — sharp suit, sharp posture, clipboard tucked under one arm. Quiet-footed as ever, like sound was beneath him. He paused when he spotted them.

Chase went rigid instantly, guilt blooming in his chest for absolutely no reason.

The man’s eyes flicked from Chase, to Simon, and then settled on Chase again with a narrow, unreadable squint.

“Ten-minute breaks,” he reminded, voice flat, as if he were reciting a rule he’d written in blood.

Simon glanced at his watch. “We’ve been out here four minutes.”

“Then you have six remaining.”

“Thank God you found us.”

Chase bit down on a smile.

The assistant manager’s eyes narrowed, then flicked toward Chase. “Don’t forget a timer and burn something.”

Chase pressed a hand to his chest in exaggerated offense. The words popped out before he could stop them. “I don’t need a timer to hit you with a sick burn, dude.”

Silence.

Cool. Great. Insult management during trial week. Excellent career strategy.

The assistant manager blinked once.

Simon’s eyebrows shot up — then his mouth curved into a slow, delighted grin. “Oh, you’re funny.” He bumped his elbow onto Chase’s shoulder like they were already on the same team and pointed at him, looking past Chase to the assistant manager. “This guy’s a riot.”

The assistant manager’s eyes flicked to Simon — sharp, unimpressed, clearly translating to you’re also a problem — then settled back on Chase.

Chase straightened immediately, throat clearing. He didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him flinch — but he also didn’t want Violet hearing about the trial week baker starting a war on day one.

“Er— Sorry,” Chase added, too quick. “Just joking. On it.”

Simon lifted a lazy salute. “We’re wrapping up. Introductions. Team bonding.” He waved his hand as if quoting a nonexistent manual. “It’s in the Ashton handbook.”

“No, it is not,” the man replied, deadpan.

Chase blinked. “Wait. You know that?”

The assistant manager looked at him. “It’s the employee handbook.”

“Yeah, but, like…” Chase gestured vaguely. “You know what’s not in it?”

“Yes.”

Simon’s grin widened. “He memorized it.”

“I did not memorize it.”

“What’s page thirty-seven?”

“Workplace safety and incident reporting,” he responded — as if it were obvious.

Simon slowly looked at Chase.

Chase slowly looked at Simon.

The man's jaw tightened. “It is literally my job.”

Simon leaned close enough to murmur near Chase’s ear, “Super normal,” then sauntered off toward the restaurant wing with his hands in his pockets like he had nowhere else to be and all the confidence in the world.

The manager’s gaze lingered on Chase for half a second — no longer sharp. Just… thoughtful. Then something shuttered behind it, as if whatever conclusion he had reached was one he had no intention of sharing.

Then he gave a faint nod and walked past Chase without another word, already making notes on his clipboard.

Chase watched him for two steps.

Then three.

He told himself to let it go. To turn back to the kitchen. To focus on the scones and the timers and the fact that he was, allegedly, employed here.

Then, to his own annoyance, his feet moved anyway.

“Hey— wait.”

The man stopped. Didn’t turn around. His pen stilled above the paper, suspended like a warning. Then he exhaled slowly — like Chase was an interruption he’d been forced to budget for.

“Yes, little baker?”

Chase recoiled so fast his pride nearly tripped him. “Nope. We’re not doing that.”

The man’s shoulders remained rigid. “I’m rather busy, so if you—”

“My name is Chase.” He crossed his arms, mostly to keep his hands from fidgeting. He aimed for calm. Landed somewhere closer to defiant. “What’s yours?”

A beat.

A long one, stretched thin on purpose.

The man finally glanced back over his shoulder, brow faintly furrowed. “And why would you like to know that?”

Chase scoffed and shrugged like this wasn’t doing something weird to his pulse. “Because we work together and I should know what to call people, maybe? And I noticed you don’t wear a name tag.” He nodded toward the man’s pristine shirt, because it was obnoxiously pristine. “Kind of weird, considering literally everyone else does.”

The man’s jaw flexed once. The clipboard remained clutched tight in his hand, like the paper was the only thing keeping him from saying what he wanted.

Chase waited.

Nothing.

He exhaled through his nose, then tried again — quieter, but still stubborn. “Look. I’m not the paparazzi here to hound you or something, dude. I just… wanted to say hi.”

He offered a small, careful smile. The kind that usually made people soften.

It didn’t.

Instead, the man’s attention sharpened. And for one strange second, he looked less irritated than cornered. His grip shifted on the clipboard, thumb pressing hard enough against its edge to blanch.

Then the moment disappeared.

“Well done.”

Chase blinked. “What does that even—”

“Your ‘hi,’” the man clarified. “Congratulations.”

Chase huffed a laugh, because if he didn’t laugh, he was going to do something stupid. “What? Should I just start calling you Mister Tall, Dark, and Mysteriously Moody? I'm just asking your name."

Something flickered at the corner of the man’s mouth at tall.

Chase narrowed his eyes.

Oh, brother.

"C’mon, buddy—”

That did it.

The man turned fully.

And for a second, Chase forgot how to breathe.

Up close, it was worse — how much he noticed. The clean line of the man’s jaw. The faint crease between his brows like frowning was a habit. The sharp eyes, yes, but also the tiredness underneath, the kind that looked like it had been earned and never paid off.

He had the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers, if magazine covers looked like they hated you.

But he also looked like someone who expected disappointment and met it halfway, just to control where the collision happened.

“We are not buddies,” the man replied, clipped. “Or friends. Or amigos. Or any other word in your dictionary."

“Not amigos?”

“No.”

“Compadres?”

The assistant manager's eyes narrowed. “Especially not.”

“Besties?”

“Stop.”

Chase tilted his head. “Bosom buddies?”

“Acquaintances at most.”

Chase’s grin widened.

The assistant manager seemed to realize he'd just participated.

Then his mouth flattened.

“As you stated, we are coworkers.” He paused, letting the words land, then took a deep breath. “Let’s make this easy for ourselves and maintain proper work-life balance.”

Chase blinked, collecting himself. Then his smile returned — less sweet now. More pointed. “Okay,” he drawled. “But are you gonna tell me your name, buddy, or just glare until I turn to dust? I’m good at staring competitions.”

The man’s gaze sharpened.

Chase stared back.

Silence stretched.

Finally, Chase’s mouth curved wider, bright and unbothered — weaponized sunshine. “Right. Maybe I should just call you ‘Buddy,’ since you like it so much.”

The man’s jaw twitched again, and for half a second Chase thought, ‘ha, got you.’

Then it smoothed back into polished nothing.

“I am not your buddy,” Buddy argued.

“Well,” Chase replied, letting the name land anyway because he couldn’t help himself, “you haven’t given me another name to call you, Buddy.”

Buddy scoffed. “You are ridiculous.”

“I’m a lot of things!” Chase shot back, crossing his arms smugly.

Their eyes met.

Something flickered there — tiny, reluctant. Like a crack trying to form under all that control. And just as quickly, Buddy shut it down. He looked away, turning his attention toward the windowed side of the building where the lake lay flat and quiet, as if it understood restraint better than either of them.

“Go check on whatever you’re baking,” Buddy muttered, softer now, like the insult had cooled into something almost… practical. “We don’t serve hockey pucks to guests.”

Chase bristled. “They’re maple scones, actually—”

But Buddy was already moving.

He didn’t stomp or storm. He just walked off down the path with the same quiet precision he did everything else, like leaving was another item on his checklist. And Chase watched until he disappeared.

Rude.

Chase huffed and shook his head hard, as if he could dislodge the feeling Buddy left behind in the air. Then he ducked back inside.

The kitchen’s chill hit first — followed by the incessant beep of a timer.

He rushed to the oven window and, thankfully, saw the scones rising beautifully — gold edging in, tops set and crinkled. On the counter, the maple glaze sat whisked smooth, and the candied pecans cooled in a sticky heap.

Still… as he pulled the tray out, butter and maple-sweetness flooding the air, his eyes flicked once toward the staff door, half-expecting Buddy to be there — silent, judging.

But there was no sign of him.

Chase slammed the oven shut and stalked over to the counter, muttering, “Stupid hotel boogeyman and his stupid perfectly-styled hair.”

He set the tray down with more force than necessary and glared at it like it might explain his irritation. Or unknot the weird twist in his chest.

The scones stared back. Warm, tender, nicely browned at the edges. Not burnt, like Buddy had warned. Instead, they looked… right.

Across the kitchen, a timer beeped again — impatient, unforgiving — and he forced his focus back down into his hands. He picked up a brush and swept glaze over them, watching it sink into the cracks and catch the overhead lights like amber.

Slowly, he lost himself in the repetitive motion. The steady rhythm of mixers, pans, and voices. The familiar chaos. The work he could control.

A soft sigh escaped him as he nudged one scone in line with extra care — like these were the only things in the room that weren’t judging him.

Then Silvie drifted past, took one look, and made an appreciative sound — shaking Chase loose from his thoughts. “Oh, those look phenomenal,” she murmured, eyes crinkling. “Not bad for day one!”

Warm relief bloomed under Chase’s ribs. “Thank you,” he replied, trying not to sound like he needed that.

He totally needed that.

Silvie patted his shoulder and returned to finishing her muffins — because Mrs. G had declared that they needed a sugar sprinkle to “make the blueberries sparkle and look less sad.”

Chase’s mind, traitor that it was, served him a different shade of blue — tired eyes on the patio, sharp and cold, like Lantern Lake in October.

He blinked hard, like that would make the image go away, and reached for the first scone. A scone that was beautiful and proved that he belonged here. A scone that wasn’t as dark as Buddy’s stupid hair.

“Not hockey pucks,” he grumbled under his breath.

But then he flipped it to check the bottom.

He stared.

Then he stared harder.

Mercifully, they weren’t burnt — which meant, technically, he’d won.

The oven, however, was clearly running hot. That was a thing. A real thing ovens did. And this? This was… artisanal browning. Rustic. Intentional.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

But Chase refused to admit it.

Because then Buddy got to be right in the most irritating way possible: that maybe — just maybe — the scones were a little well-done.