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"I think feeding people helps with that," I corrected. "There's something about nourishing others that reminds you why life'sworth living. Liv says it's my way of processing, turning pain into something that feeds people instead of hurts them."

Kit was quiet again, but this time it felt contemplative rather than withdrawn. I rang up her order, charging her exactly half of what I should have, and she didn't protest when I handed over the overstuffed bag.

"Micah?" she said as I was making change. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"What's Jonah's story? With Charlie's mom, I mean." She flushed slightly. "I don't mean to gossip, it's just... Charlie mentioned she died, and I didn't want to say the wrong thing."

The question was innocent enough, but I caught the undercurrent of real concern. Kit wasn't asking out of idle curiosity. She was asking because she cared about not hurting that little girl.

"Sarah was local," I said carefully. "Sweet woman, a school teacher. She moved to Portland with Jonah so they could look after his Mom when she was sick. Cancer took Sarah when Charlie was four, fast and brutal, the kind that doesn't give you time to prepare."

Kit's face crumpled slightly. "That's awful."

"It was. Jonah barely held it together the first year. If it wasn't for Charlie needing him, I'm not sure he would have." I leaned against the counter, studying her face. "But he's good people, Kit. Steady. The kind of man who shows up when he says he will."

"Unlike some people," she murmured, so quietly I almost didn't catch it.

There it was. The piece of her past that had sent her running to a small town where nobody knew her name.

"Want to talk about it?" I offered.

Kit shook her head, but there was gratitude in her expression. "Rain check on that too?"

"Any time." I meant it. There was something about this woman that called to every protective instinct I possessed, every urge to shelter and care for that Laura used to roll her eyes at. "Kit?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever you're running from, you don't have to face it alone. This town, we take care of our own."

Her eyes went suspiciously bright. "I'm not really anyone's 'own' anymore."

Oh, sweetheart. The urge to round the counter and pull her into my arms was almost overwhelming. Instead, I kept my voice steady and sure.

"You are now."

The simple declaration seemed to hit her like a physical blow. She clutched the bakery bag tighter, her scent shifting toward something warmer, more hopeful.

"I should go," she said, but she didn't move toward the door. "Let you get back to work."

"I'm not exactly rushed," I said, gesturing around the empty bakery. "Saturday afternoons are pretty quiet."

As if summoned by my words, the bell chimed again, and Reed strolled in with his usual easy confidence. His dark hair was mussed, his flannel shirt rolled up to reveal forearms that were somehow both elegant and strong, and he smelled like motor oil and sunshine.

Perfect timing, as always.

"Micah," he said with a grin, then spotted Kit and his expression shifted to something warmer, more interested. "Well, hello there, neighbor."

"Hi," Kit said, and I didn't miss the way her cheeks flushed slightly. Reed had that effect on people, all charm and mischiefwrapped up in a package that looked like trouble but usually turned out to be worth it.

"Reed Thornton," he said, extending a hand that was clean despite the motor oil scent. "Officially met yesterday, but I don't think we got properly introduced."

"Erm, hi." She shook his hand, and I caught the subtle way Reed's nostrils flared, taking in her scent. "You're the handyman, right?"

"Among other things." Reed's grin widened. "Just finished checking on Mrs. Carrington's chimney. Thought I'd grab some fuel for the drive home."

"Let me guess," I said dryly. "Coffee and whatever has the most sugar."