Page 21 of Embers in Autumn
I dusted shelves, straightened displays, rang up a few more customers, but my gaze kept wandering back. Should I text him? Would that make me look too eager? Would not texting at all make me seem ungrateful? The loop went round and round until I wanted to shake myself.
By three o’clock I flipped the sign to Closed. Saturdays had always been shorter hours, a compromise between work and letting myself breathe. I pulled on my coat, grabbed my bag, and stepped into the crisp afternoon.
At the corner market I bought flour, sugar, butter, and a jar of dark cherries swimming in syrup. My grandmother’s cherry pie recipe had been scribbled on a yellowed card, stained with years of use. It was one of those recipes that smelled like home, like comfort, like the one person who had always believed in me without question.
Back at the house, I set the groceries on the counter. Theflowers were still there, glowing in the late sunlight filtering through the window. I stood for a long moment, staring at them, heart beating a little too fast.
Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled out my phone. My fingers hovered, nerves buzzing, but I typed quickly:
Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful. They made my whole shop smell like autumn.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself. The little whoosh of the message leaving my phone felt like a stone dropping into a still pond.
Exhaling, I set the phone aside and pulled out the mixing bowl. Butter, flour, sugar, and salt went in first, my hands working the dough until it came together soft and pliable. As the crust chilled, I stirred the cherries on the stove, their syrup thickening and turning glossy.
Soon the kitchen filled with the scent of pastry and fruit, warm and sweet, wrapping around me like a blanket.
The pie had just gone into the oven when my phone buzzed on the counter. My pulse jumped, ridiculous as that was, and I reached for it with hands still dusted in flour.
Dean:Your shop already smells like autumn. Must be all those dangerous candles you insist on burning next to all that flammable paper.
A smile tugged at my lips. I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel—a white cotton square patterned with golden leaves—and typed back.
Amber:You sound like a man who’s deeply traumatized byBath & Body Works.
It only took a moment before the reply came.
Dean:I’m a man who knows fire when he sees it. And I saw a lot of it lined up on your counter.
I snorted, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven at my back.
Amber:Relax. The candles are out. The shop’s closed. My house smells like pie now, not wax.
A pause, just long enough for me to feel it.
Dean:What kind of pie?
Amber:Cherry.
Dean:…Save me a slice?
My cheeks warmed. I tucked the phone closer, thumbs flying before my brain could protest.
Amber:I don’t know, firefighter. Are you cleared for sugar intake? You seemed very concerned about hazards last time.
Dean:Oh, I can handle heat. Question is, can you handle me showing up for dessert?
The words punched straight through me, low and slow. My breath caught.
Amber:Bold. Aren’t you supposed to be exhausted after three days of storms?
Dean:I am. But the right company tends to wake me up.
My fingers stilled over the keys. The room felt smaller, warmer. I glanced toward the oven, the ticking of the timer loud in the quiet kitchen.
Amber:You’re very sure of yourself.
Dean:Comes with the job. When I want something, I don’t waste time pretending otherwise.
