Page 21 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
The big front windows face the street, and every time my eyes slide past it, I can’t help but take a peek next door. The bakery’s dark at night, but tonight the lights are on, spilling across the sidewalk.
Paige is in there.
I’ve been seeing her all week, flitting in and out during the day. Sometimes she’s got boxes balanced in her arms, sometimes she’s alone with a clipboard, sometimes she’s got that look like she’s talking to herself to remember a dozen things at once.
I don’t know what it is she’s doing exactly—painting, rearranging, stocking—but I know I’ve been watching.
Not that I’ve gone over. Not after the last couple of times we’ve been close. Breakfast with her family last week nearly knocked me off my axis, and every accidental brush of her arm or thigh lit up places in my brain and body that have no business reacting to Jason’s little sister.
I’m half-listening to a guy at the bar talk about his fishing trip, nodding in the right places, but I’m angled just enough to see a shadow move across the light on the sidewalk.
I saw her earlier, so I can picture her now. Her hair is pulled up tonight, the messy kind of bun that leaves her neck bare, her sleeves shoved up like she’s been working hard.
I grip the edge of the bar a little tighter than necessary.
It’s been years since she lived here, years of me hardly thinking of her at all, except in passing at the little girl with a harmless crush on me.
And now she’s right next door, close enough that I can hear the faint thud of something heavy being set down if the noise in here dips.
Close enough that if I wanted, I could step outside, walk twenty steps, and see her.
Which is exactly why I haven’t.
Because that crush isn’t quite so harmless anymore.
The last glass clinks into the rack, the smell of sanitizer stinging in the air. My shoulders ache from hauling kegs, running orders, keeping the chaos in check. Mark and Charlotte bailed half an hour ago, and now it’s just me and a quiet bar.
I wipe down the last section of bar, hang the rag over the sink, and fish my keys from my pocket. The front door gives a satisfying click as I turn the lock, the street outside cool and still.
I glance next door to see that the lights are still on. They’ve been on all night.
Maybe she’s not there. Maybe she left them on accidentally?
But no, I see a shadow cross the window a moment later.
I check my phone. 1:03 a.m.
What the hell is Paige still doing in there?
I stand on the curb for a moment, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets, eyes fixed on the front window. From here, I can’t see her. The windows are covered in some sort of brown paper, but there’s definitely a shadow moving behind it.
I should just go home. It’s none of my business. She’s a grown woman, capable of locking up her own damn place without me barging in like some overprotective neighbor.
But my feet don’t move toward my car.
Instead, I lean against the locked door of the Pint, watching the still-lit window. Maybe she lost track of time. Maybe she’s finishing something important. Maybe she’s exhausted and could use a hand.
Or maybe I just want an excuse to see her.
I rub a hand over my jaw, telling myself to get in the car and drive away. But I’m already stepping in that direction, closing the distance between us.
By the time I’m standing in front of the bakery door, I can hear faint sounds inside—a muffled thump, the scrape of something heavy sliding across the floor.
I hesitate, palm resting against the cool glass. My reflection stares back, and for a second, I consider turning around.
But then I raise my hand and knock.
There’s a pause inside—no more scraping, no more movement.
