Page 5 of Embers in Autumn

Amber

My Sunday mornings always belonged to the farmers’ market.

I tugged my knit hat a little lower over my ears, the chill dampness of early fog clinging to my coat. The streets were quiet, cobblestones slick and shining, and for once I didn’t mind walking. One of the best things about living here was that I didn’t need a car. Not anymore.

Back in the city, with Mark, I drove everywhere—office, grocery store, endless errands—but when I left, I sold the car.

Every dollar went into the bookstore. My fresh start.

And here? In this town? I could walk to almost everything that mattered.

When I couldn’t, or when the weather turned bitter, there was always the little shuttle bus that made its loop every hour.

The market spread out across the square like a quilt of colors and smells.

Wooden stalls lined with pumpkins and squash, pyramids of glossy apples, jars of honey catching the pale morning light.

The air was thick with the scent of baked bread and mulled cider, voices calling, laughter drifting between the rows.

A fiddler played off to the side, his case open for coins, the notes bright against the mist.

I paused at a stall overflowing with root vegetables, picking up a bundle of carrots still dusted with earth. Into my basket they went, along with a loaf of sourdough, a wedge of sharp cheddar, and a jar of wildflower honey.

“Best apples you’ll find this season!” a woman called, holding up a crimson orb like it was treasure. “Hey, book girl! Come on, take a bite!”

I laughed under my breath, shaking my head as I waved her off. Book girl. I supposed it fit.

Besides, with my hair tucked into my hat, my glasses fogged slightly from the morning chill, and my bare face, I probably looked younger than I was. Almost like the summers I used to spend here as a kid, running these same cobblestones with grass-stained knees.

Those summers at Grandma’s house—making cookies in her old kitchen, watching her move through recipes without needing to check a single card. At fifteen, I’d thought it wasn’t “cool” anymore, that the world outside this sleepy village had so much more to offer.

God, how I missed those days.

The thought pressed against me, sudden and sharp, and my chest tightened. My pulse skipped. I missed her.

I stopped at a flower stall, the buckets bursting with marigolds, chrysanthemums, asters. My fingers trailed over a bundle of deep golden mums, and I added them to my basket. I’d pass by her grave on the way home. Leave the flowers, just to say I was still here. Still remembering.

As I reached for my wallet, a voice cut through the fog of my thoughts.

“Women shouldn’t have to buy themselves flowers.”

I rolled my eyes before I even turned. The kind of line that begged for a sarcastic reply.

But when I faced him, sarcasm caught in my throat.

It was him. The man from the bookshop.

He stood a few feet away, taller than I remembered in the morning mist, his jacket zipped against the cold. His eyes found mine instantly, steady and unflinching, and for the briefest moment, the market noise seemed to fall away.

My fingers tightened around the chrysanthemums, their stems cool and damp against my palm. The words caught in my throat, the old wariness pressing in like fog.

“You came in with your daughter the other day,” I said finally, my voice careful. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

I extended my hand. “Amber.”

He took it, his grip steady, grounding. “Dean.”

We held on a moment longer than necessary, and for the briefest second, warmth chased off the morning chill. Then his eyes dropped to the flowers in my basket.

“Let me pay for those.”

I shook my head quickly, a rush of something sharp rising in my chest. “No. They’re for my grandmother… well, for her grave. It wouldn’t feel right to let a stranger pay for them.”

Understanding flickered across his face, quiet and respectful. He slid his wallet back into his jacket.

“All right. Then how about coffee instead?” His voice softened, almost teasing. “Don’t get me wrong, the one you gave me the other day was good. But I know a place that does it better.”

My pulse stuttered. I pressed the flowers tighter against me, as if they could shield me. “Do they serve pumpkin spice latte?”

That smile. It was unguarded and impossibly warm, cutting straight through my defenses. “Yes. One of the best around.”

I swallowed hard. “And… is Lana’s mother going to mind if I join you?”

The question slipped out before I could cage it. Maybe it was safer to ask that than to admit I wanted to say yes.

His lips curved into an ironic smile, and his eyes held mine with a spark I hadn’t expected.

“Is that your way of asking if I’m single?

” He let the silence stretch just enough for my cheeks to heat.

Then, steady and direct, he added, “If so, yes. And if you’re really concerned about Lana’s mom, you don’t have to be.

She’s been out of the picture for a long time now. ”

The words settled between us, firm and certain. And just like that, something in me eased. Not gone. Not healed. But eased, as though a door I had locked tight was daring me to reach for the key.

“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Coffee sounds good.”

The fog seemed to lift a little as we walked, the market behind us humming with the pleasant burr of voices and clinking jars, the fiddle still stitching brisk notes through the morning.

Dean carried himself with an ease that made space for me without crowding me.

He kept a step to the street side, hand close enough that if I slipped on the damp cobbles he could catch me, yet far enough that it never felt presumptuous.

Gentlemanly. The word rose in my mind, dusty from disuse, and surprised me with how right it felt.

He led me along the square to a narrow street rimmed with brick facades and weathered signs.

The cafe sat on the corner like a warm pocket of light.

Paned windows fogged from the heat inside.

Dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks strung into garlands around the doorway.

A chalkboard out front announced the seasonal menu in looping script: apple crumble latte, maple pecan cappuccino, hot chai with cardamom. I read them and felt instantly warmer.

Dean opened the door and held it for me.

The bell chimed. The smell hit first, a layered sweetness of roasted beans, vanilla syrup, a little nutmeg.

A jazz record crackled from an old speaker near the pastry case.

On the wall, copper sconces threw amber pools of light along shelves lined with ceramic mugs and small potted ferns.

The counter was a smooth slab of oak, worn soft by years of elbows and conversations.

People sat in nooks with newspapers and half-finished croissants, cheeks pink from the cold, hands wrapped around steaming cups like talismans.

“This place is perfect,” I said, the words slipping out before my guard could catch them.

He looked pleased, the corner of his mouth tipping up. “Pumpkin spice latte,” he said, like a promise. “You grab a table. I’ll order.”

I hesitated, because old habits die hard. He must have read it in my face, because he added, “My treat. Unless you would rather…” He shrugged, not pushing. It was such a small thing, that easy respect, but it lay over my nerves like a warm blanket.

“Your treat,” I said. “Thank you.”

There was a two-top near the window, half-hidden by a display of pumpkins painted with constellations.

The glass misted and cleared with each drift of warmth from the espresso machine.

I set my flowers beside me, their gold heads bright against the tabletop.

Outside, the fog thinned to a silvery veil and the square blurred into soft shapes and moving color, the kind of view that makes you feel safely tucked away.

Dean returned with two mugs that smelled like October distilled.

Foam peaked in gentle swirls. Cinnamon dusted the tops like first snow.

He set mine in front of me with care, as if there were something ceremonial about it.

His hands were large and nicked, a faint white line crossing the inside of his wrist. I wanted to ask about it, then told myself not to reach for anything that was not offered.

“One pumpkin spice latte,” he said. “One black coffee for me or I will end up too sweet to do my job.”

“You think sugar could do what fire has not,” I said lightly.

He laughed, low and warm, the sound blooming in my chest. He pulled out my chair just a little so I could tuck in closer, then took his seat opposite. It felt old-fashioned and right.

I lifted the cup. The first sip was velvet.

Pumpkin and spice, milk laid thick as cream across my tongue, espresso grounding it all with a dark, comforting bite.

I closed my eyes without meaning to. A small sound escaped me, somewhere between a sigh and a hum.

When I opened them again he was watching me with an amused softness that made my stomach dip.

“Good?” he asked.

“Dangerously,” I said. “You might have created a problem.”

“Happy to be an enabler in this one instance.”

We sat like that for a minute, both of us letting the warmth work its way in.

He shrugged out of his jacket and the cafe light slid across his forearms where his sleeves were pushed back.

There was a steadiness to him that felt rare.

At the same time something coiled and alert, like a spring held by a practiced hand.

When he looked at me he really looked. Not in a way that stripped me bare, but in a way that suggested he was attentive to what he saw.

“So,” he said. “Tell me about your shop. And the house. And why you insist on surrounding paper with open flames.”

I groaned, smiling despite myself. “You will never let me live that down.”

“Probably not.”