The smell of bread had already soaked into Abbie’s hair by the time the morning rush began.
The bakery was small, tucked between a dry cleaner and a florist, the kind of place locals loved because it felt like a secret.
She moved quickly behind the counter, flour dusting her sleeves, her body remembering what her mind didn’t need to think about.
Knead. Fold. Serve. Smile. Repeat.
It was the kind of rhythm that didn’t leave room for ghosts.
Until the doorbell chimed.
She looked up, and every muscle in her body went still.
Keith Billings stood in the doorway, brushing snow off his coat like he had all the time in the world.
He didn’t look like someone who belonged in a neighborhood bakery. He looked like someone who belonged on the cover of a business magazine, sharp suit, leather gl
