Page 11 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
Chapter Five
Paige
The pub is noticeably louder now. A couple of servers weave between tables with full trays, and the clink of pint glasses carries over the music. I glance toward the bar, where a handful of people are already lined up, waiting on drinks.
“Don’t they need you here?” I ask, tilting my head toward the growing crowd.
Ben follows my gaze, then shrugs like it’s no big deal. “They’ll be fine for a while without me.” He lifts a hand toward the bar, catching the eye of a tall guy wiping down the counter. The man gives a quick nod, like they’ve done this routine a hundred times before.
Ben turns back to me, gesturing toward the door. “Shall we?”
I stand, sliding my bag onto my shoulder, and follow him toward the entrance, feeling an odd flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with the fact that I now officially have my own bakery space.
Ben holds the door for me, and the rush of cooler evening air washes over my face, cutting through the warmth and noise of the pub.
Outside, the light is softer now, the sun sliding lower toward the horizon, tinting the street in gold and rose. The pub’s chatter fades behind us, replaced by the sound of passing cars and the voices of tourists still on the street.
I sneak a glance at him as we step onto the sidewalk. Up close, outside of the busy Wandering Pint, he somehow seems… taller. Broader. The rolled sleeves of his shirt hug his forearms, the faint pull of fabric across his shoulders hinting at muscle. A lot of muscle. His jeans are worn but not sloppy, the dark denim fitting just right, and there’s an ease and confidence in the way he walks—as if he belongs to this street, this building, this town.
I’m not sure if it’s his presence or the memory of recognizing him that has my stomach doing this weird flip. It’s not like I didn’t know I’d be seeing him at some point, but knowing and experiencing are two different things entirely.
I’ve spent years pushing Ben Hoffman into the mental category of “people I used to know.” Now he’s walking next to me, closeenough that our arms could brush if either of us leaned an inch toward the other.
We pass the bakery’s big window, and I can’t help but glance inside again. It looks different now. Not because anything has changed, but because this time it’s mine. Mine to do with what I please.
The excitement and nerves in my gut war with each other and make me feel a little sick.
Ben’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “So,” he says casually, “this is where you’ll be spending most of your waking hours soon.”
I smile faintly. “Guess so. Feels different looking at it now.”
He gives a short nod and gestures to the door.
I’m confused for a moment before I remember I have the key.
“Oh, right,” I say, digging through my bag, hoping he can’t see the redness spreading across my cheeks in the dying light of the sun.
I hold it out for him, but he just nods at me to open it.
The key is cool in my palm as I fit it into the lock. It turns with a faint click, the sound oddly loud despite the lively street behind me. I push the door open, and the scent of dust and disuse drifts out to meet us. The air inside the empty space is cool.
Ben steps in behind me, his footsteps loud on the dusty hardwood. The soft scrape of the door swinging shut echoes off the walls. “Lights are just behind the counter there,” he says, his voice low but carrying easily in the emptiness.
He walks behind the counter and flicks the lights on. The overheads hum to life, flooding the space with a flat, yellow glow that somehow makes every scuff, scratch, and worn patch on the floor stand out more. It’s not pretty yet—but it’s mine.
Though I was already here with Kelly a week ago, it all feels different now that I actually have the key in my hand.
Ben’s already walking the length of the room, his hands in his pockets, like he’s checking it over for himself. In the glow, the definition in his shoulders and back is even more noticeable, and my eyes linger a beat too long before I force them away.
“This’ll clean up nicely,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at me. There’s something in his gaze, like he’s assessing me, but it’s not unfriendly. Just… stiff.
Well, Kelly did warn me about it.
“You’ve got good bones to work with here,” he continues.
I step in farther, my shoes tapping softly on the floorboards, and look around in anticipation and anxiety. “Good bones,” I repeat, trying to sound casual. “Guess that’s better than bad bones.”
Immediately, I regret it. What a stupid thing to say. What the hell does that even mean? Bad bones?
