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ChapterTwo

Jace

Holding up a sign to tell the tattooed god in the bakery window I wasn’t threatening him probably hadn’t been my best idea, but since he’d laughed my brain considered me off the hook.

When I’d first started wandering around Swallow Hill in the early hours, I’d never expected to see anyone else so seeing the bakery lights on had startled me at first. And then I’d found myself needing to have a closer look.

I’d walked past Toasty before, during more socially acceptable hours when it had been open, but every time I’d gone in, they’d been getting ready to close and the man I’d seen in the window hadn’t been there. Which made sense if he was on the early shift, because I assumed he spent afternoons at home winding down before bed.

It was almost nice knowing someone else in town has as fucked-up a sleep pattern as me.

Insomnia had been a part of my life since I was nineteen, and fifteen years later I’d almost adapted to it. It came and went, sometimes with the seasons, sometimes with deadlines, sometimes for no discernible reason. I’d tried medication—which doctors had refused to let me stay on long term because of the risks—therapy, gummies, changing my routine and the layout of my room, and various relaxation techniques, although I drew the line at some of the ridiculous “lifestyle changes” I’d seen floating around online that were largely just used to sell fake supplements. Now, I mostly just dealt with it. And went for many a long walk around the streets of Swallow Hill when sleep evaded me.

I pulled my coat further around me as I walked, looking up at the clear sky above me. It reminded me of a swathe of dark velvet sprinkled with glitter, the moon a glowing, silvery slither as if someone had left it to be polite instead of just taking the last piece. My heavy winter boots clumped on the pavement, echoing in the darkness as I turned onto the empty high street.

Exercise had often helped me sleep, but there was no such thing as a twenty-four-hour gym here so I’d had to take matters into my own hands by walking three or four miles around town in the dark. It wasn’t inconveniencing anyone, and it gave me time to think. It was the one good thing about being single with a freelance career—I could live life very much on my own timeline, and that suited me just fine.

There were a few overnight lights on in the windows of some of the shops, which ranged from small boutiques to typical high street chains with fancier façades. Swallow Hill was one of those places that looked a bit like a Christmas card, or something straight out of a travel magazine for the quintessential English market town, with its honey coloured listed buildings, old-fashioned shop fronts, cobbled side streets, rows of pretty cottages, cosy pubs, and a couple of classical churches alongside a few enormous houses, at least one of which had now been turned into a luxury hotel.

It was one of those places where I hadn’t been sure I belonged, and even now, six months later, I couldn’t quite put my finger on what had drawn me to it. All I knew was I’d been looking for somewhere to live after my lease in Bristol had been up, and a friend, who’d been visiting here for the weekend, encouraged me to swing by for a drink. Three weeks later I’d been moving into a tiny flat, in what had once been an old mill, overlooking the small river that wound its way through town.

I stopped in front of a small, independent bookshop with a deep green front with golden lettering that shone in the glow of the nearby streetlight. There was a display of romance novels in the window for Valentine’s Day, and I smiled to myself because I’d read and translated quite a few of them in the past couple of years.

I’d never expected to make a career out of translating romance books into German, and it had been more of a happy accident than anything else, but now I couldn’t imagine doing another job.

“Oooh, you’re next on my list,” I said as I looked at the display, seeing the latest release from Noah Reynolds about two rival hockey players forced to be teammates during the winter Olympics. “And I’ve had an email about you.” I pointed at a series at the back, which had apparently grown in popularity over the past few years, and the publisher was looking to get all three done as a bundle. I didn’t know much about them beyond the fact that the three female protagonists were all sisters, so maybe I’d pop back during the day and have a look at them.

My stomach rumbled loudly, making me startle and look around to see if anyone else had heard it. But the streets were still empty and cold, and there was nobody around to hear me except for any rodents or foxes out looking for food. I tried to remember when I’d last had something to eat, fairly convinced it had been dinner last night… except I’d been engrossed in the chapter I was translating and all I’d done was make some cheese on toast while pacing up and down my kitchen trying to put words together.

Food would be my first port of call when I got in then.

Although I should try going back to sleep, at least for a few hours.

It was only five, and if I got home soon, I could try sleeping until at least half-eight or nine, which would throw me into some sort of “normal” routine, although I hated that word. Everyone’s normal was different, and I wished the world accepted that.

I kept walking and turned at the end of the high street, heading back towards the river and my flat.

Sleep, food, then back to work, and maybe later I’d watch another few episodes of the K-drama I was currently binging.

Now I’d thought about food, I really wished Toasty magically opened at five instead of eight, so I could buy, and eat, my entire weight in croissants and fresh bread. I was sure they tasted amazing, and I wished there was a way for me to stand outside and watch the gorgeous baker at work, because the whole process looked fascinating.

After the first night, when I’d seen him putting a tray of croissants into an oven, I’d gone home and found a YouTube video about how they were made, which had only made me hungrier. Maybe one day I’d be in the right place at the right time and I’d get some.

And maybe tomorrow I’d make sure I put a pen and notebook in my coat pocket, in case I needed to write more messages to the beautiful man who made them.

The next morning, I managed to sleep all the way until half-four, which was probably because I’d stayed up until nearly midnight in the hope it would nudge my usual wake-up forward by an hour or two. Instead of getting up, I laid in bed and read fanfiction on my phone until six, then got up and took a long shower before making myself some tea.

My plan was to leave about quarter to eight so I could be at Toasty when it opened, then I’d be able to get the croissants I desperately wanted. And I’d be able to see the baker again, even if it was just through the window.

I wished I knew his name. Calling him “the baker” felt dismissive, but I didn’t know what else to go with. For a while, I was tempted to call him Basil after Basil of Baker Street from that Disney movie, but I didn’t want to have to explain that if we ever actually talked.

In hindsight, creating some kind of elaborate conversations in my head with a man I’d only spoken to through a window was ridiculous, but he hadn’t told me to fuck off, he’d laughed at my message, and he’d even written one back. The vampire comment told me he had a sense of humour, at least.

I took far too long picking out a jumper to wear with my jeans, even though there was virtually no chance he was going to see it, and by the time I’d checked the way my hair looked under my beanie for the twelfth time, it was nearly eight. Rushing out the door, I nearly tripped over the little lip and stumbled forward, flailing my arms like some sort of ungraceful penguin.

One day I’d watch where I put my feet, but not today. Not when there were bread and croissants waiting for me.

And a gorgeous baker with muscular tattooed arms and shaggy blonde hair.