Page 11 of Embers in Autumn

I stood frozen, holding the bouquet against me like a shield, but it was her words that truly held me. I had never seen Carol this way before—stripped of her armor of wit and poise, even for just a moment.

“I never knew that about you,” I whispered.

Her smile returned, sly again, though her eyes still carried the shadow of memory. “How could you? We only met four months ago, when you finally started stocking smut. Hardly the place for tragic confessions.”

The laugh tore out of me before I could stop it. Not a polite chuckle. A real laugh. The kind that pulled from the stomach, that startled me with its brightness.

“There. That’s better. You sound alive again.”

Carol finally settled on a small picture book with a fox in a scarf, the cover painted in warm autumn tones.

“For my granddaughter,” she said briskly, tucking it under her arm as though she hadn’t just peeled back a piece of her own history moments ago.

“Something wholesome for once. Don’t tell anyone or it will ruin my reputation. ”

I rang her up, still smiling from our laughter. The bell jingled as she left, her perfume lingering in the air long after she was gone.

The shop quieted again, but the flowers on the counter refused to let me slip into routine.

Every time I passed by, their colors caught my eye—the deep wine-red roses, the golden marigolds, the wheat that looked as though it had been pulled straight from a sunlit field.

And every time, my thoughts circled back to the little card tucked inside.

His number. His hand reaching out in the simplest, most honest way.

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. The flowers 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 by Bath & 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.

I bit my lip, hard enough to sting, as the weight of that line settled deep. My hands trembled slightly as I typed.

Amber: And what exactly do you want right now?

Seconds stretched. Then the buzz again.

Dean: A slice of cherry pie. And maybe to see you while I eat it.

The room tilted. My heart was pounding against my ribs so hard I thought it might bruise.

Amber: Lana’s with you, isn’t she?

Dean: Not tonight. She’s staying with my sister. Sleepover with her cousins.

The meaning behind it sent heat coursing through me. My lip was caught so tight between my teeth it almost hurt. I stared at the words, my pulse hammering, my skin prickling with the awareness of what I was about to do.

My thumbs moved before I could second-guess.

Amber : Well. I made the pie. If you want to bring the ice cream… about an hour.

The message whooshed out. My stomach dropped.

“Oh my God,” I whispered into the empty kitchen. “Did I just invite him over?”

I stared at the phone like it might laugh at me. My heart raced, my palms damp. There was no taking it back. And somewhere deep down, past the panic, something dangerous and sweet stirred, daring me to hope.