Page 5

I PARKED IN front of the grocery store, shutting off the truck with a sigh.

Mom’s list was crumpled in my hand, a collection of three random things that didn’t make much sense.

Why she needed them right now, I had no idea.

But I had an hour to kill before heading back to the farm, and I’d promised Haider I’d drop off another bottle of the Stonebridge maple syrup.

Stocks were running low, which was a good thing—not that Haider wouldn’t make it sound like a crisis when I told him.

The store wasn’t busy, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing above as I grabbed a basket and headed toward the baking aisle.

I wasn’t in any hurry, but as I turned the corner, I spotted someone standing a little too still in front of the shelves, a list in hand.

Ben.

I stopped in my tracks, watching him before he noticed me.

He looked… a long way past tired.

Shadows had gathered under his eyes, and his frame was slim—too slim—as though he’d been carrying more than just himself for a while.

He was gorgeous, from the curve of his jaw to his hair tousled by the cold winds outside, but there was something in the way he stood, uncertain, scanning the shelves, lost in more ways than one.

Vulnerable. Needy.

Cute .

My chest tightened, and before I could stop myself, I took a step closer.

He glanced up, his eyes meeting mine, and a flush crept up his neck, coloring his cheeks.

“Oh, hi,” he said, flustered.

“Hey,” I said, my voice lower than I intended.

I nodded toward him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, though his hand rose to touch his forehead, where the faint scar from the accident was still visible.

“How’s your head?”

“I’m good. Didn’t leave a mark. Well, not much of one, anyway.”

Ben smiled, but his eyes darted back to the shelves, and his shoulders slumped.

“You look lost,” I said, stepping a little closer.

He exhaled a laugh, holding up his list. “I can’t find…” He squinted at the paper.

“Something called cream of tartar. Whatever that is.”

I smirked.

“Baking aisle’s the right place.” I reached toward the shelves where I’d spotted it earlier, pointing it out.

“It’s there.”

As I moved to grab it, so did Ben, and for a brief moment, our hands brushed.

It was nothing—just skin against skin—but it sent a jolt straight through me, and his fingers were warm despite the cold.

He froze; his eyes wide.

“Sorry,” he murmured, pulling back quickly, his cheeks pink again.

“No worries,” I said, my voice quieter now.

I picked up the small container and handed it to him.

“Here. Cream of tartar.”

“Thanks,” he said, his voice shy.

I found myself lingering, my hand brushing against the shelf for no reason other than to give me an excuse to stay close.

I picked up the baking powder Mom needed and then glanced at his list. “If you’ve got more on there, I can help. Not much of a shopper, but I know where things are in this place.”

“I just… back in Boston… I didn’t shop much,” Ben said, his words halting as though he was trying to explain without sounding defensive.

“Takeouts, company meals, that kind of thing. I mean, I can cook.” He rolled his eyes, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“As long as you like mac and cheese.”

“Who doesn’t like mac and cheese?” I scoffed, grinning.

“Psychopaths. That’s who.”

That earned a laugh from him, and the sound warmed something in my chest.

“What’s next on your list?” I asked, nodding toward the scrap of paper in his hand.

He glanced down at it, then frowned.

“Coriander seeds? I think that’s what it says. Do they even sell that here?”

“Yeah, they should. Tiny little glass jars, probably buried somewhere on the spice rack.”

We walked together to the next aisle, and it took some searching.

Ben crouched down to peer at the lower shelves, and I found myself glancing at his list while pretending to scan for the coriander seeds.

I still had my own random item to find—frosting bags.

Mom had insisted they were “absolutely necessary” for some baking project she was helping with for the school fundraiser.

“You can’t use just any old Ziploc bag,” she’d said.

“Found it,” Ben muttered, standing up and holding a small jar of coriander seeds between his fingers.

“This must be the smallest thing I’ve ever bought. Feels like a scam.”

I smirked, holding up the pack of frosting bags I’d just grabbed.

“I’ll trade you for these. Also overpriced and ridiculous.”

He smiled faintly, slipping the seeds into his basket.

“What’s next on your list?”

“Vanilla extract,” I said.

“You?”

Ben checked his paper.

“Some yeast. Active dry yeast, I think?”

“Same aisle,” I said, leading the way.

We found the vanilla extract easily, but the yeast, tucked away on a bottom shelf near the flour, was trickier.

Ben bent down to grab it, his fingers brushing the packet, and I couldn’t help but notice the tension in his movements, as if even this simple task felt heavier than it should.

He probably ached from the accident, but I stopped myself from asking.

“Big plans for all this baking?” I asked, trying for small talk.

“This isn’t for me,” he said, straightening.

“Harriet mentioned a recipe and said this was all super-important.” He nodded but didn’t say more, his focus shifting to his list.

I tried again, changing the subject.

“So, Boston. You follow any of the sports teams?”

He shook his head, glancing at me with a wry smile.

“I never had time to watch sports. My company had a box at Fenway, but I never went.” The humor slipped from his face.

“I um…” His voice faltered, and he shut down, the walls going up so fast it made my head spin.

He barely looked at me before turning toward the tills.

“I should be going.”

I stood there for a moment, my hand tightening around the handle of my basket.

“Right,” I said, but he was already walking away.

I followed, making a big show of examining the back of a packet of frosting bags while he checked out and left.

Only when the door swung shut behind him did I let myself relax.

That was such an insane one-eighty I had no idea what to think.

“Joker!” A big hand slapped my back hard enough to make me stagger forward into a precariously stacked display of canned soup.

I caught myself just in time, steadying the nearest tower before it toppled.

“Jesus, Ryan,” I muttered, turning to glare at him.

“You trying to break my spine?”

Ryan grinned unapologetically, the usual layer of sawdust clinging to his flannel shirt.

“Not my fault you’re built like a twig.” He held up a bag of dill pickle chips like they were trophies.

“Supply run.”

“Exciting stuff,” I deadpanned, glancing at the cash desk.

“I thought you bought in bulk.”

“Normally do,” he said with a shrug.

“But I ran out mid-project, and you know how it is. Can’t finish shit without some dill pickle chips.”

We fell into easy conversation as we moved toward the registers, shooting the breeze.

By the time we stepped out into the parking lot, the lunchtime sun was peeking through the clouds, and it felt as though the warmth was trying to beat back the frosty air.

Not that it was working yet.

Ryan stopped near his truck, tossing his bag inside before leaning against the door with a sigh.

“I’m worried about Haider,” he said abruptly, his tone quieter than usual.

I raised an eyebrow, dropping my basket into the bed of my truck.

“Why? Is it one of the guys he’s hired? Issues with Crocus?”

Haider had a big heart and an even bigger streak of stubborn optimism, so he gave jobs to ex-cons at his shop.

I admired him for it—hell, I’d done the same during harvest when I could—but I knew the risks too.

Crocus was his main man.

As far as I’d seen, he was rough around the edges but reliable enough.

A good guy.

Ryan shook his head.

“No, not Crocus. It’s…” He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck.

“Haider mentioned something about money. He said he was worried. I mean, he wasn’t saying it to me—he was doing that thing where he talks to himself, you know? Getting all up in his head and mumbling.”

I frowned.

“Yeah, that sounds like Haider. You think it’s serious?”

Ryan shrugged, but his expression didn’t lighten.

“Don’t know. I just—he works so damn hard, you know? And he won’t ask for help unless it’s too late, and I tried to talk to him directly, but he said he was fine, and I thought you could try…”

I nodded, understanding what he meant.

“I’m heading over there next with a delivery. I’ll see if I can figure out what’s going on.”

“Don’t tell him I told you anything,” Ryan said quickly, giving me a pointed look.

“Or be super-obvious.”

I smirked.

“I can do careful.”

He chuckled, hauling me in for a quick bro-hug.

When I stepped back, I realized I had sawdust clinging to my jacket.

“Hazard of being best friends with a woodworker,” I muttered, brushing it off.

Ryan grinned and climbed into his truck, giving me a casual wave as he pulled out of the lot.

I dumped my purchases in the back of my truck and climbed in, thinking about what I’d say when I got to Harmony Chocolates.

If Haider was struggling, there was no way I was letting him deal with it alone.

The scent of chocolate hit me the second I stepped through the door.

Rich and warm, it wrapped around me like a comforting hug.

Harmony Chocolates was quieter than usual, and the faint hum of the display coolers was the only sound in the shop.

Behind the counter, Crocus was restocking a tray of delicately iced white chocolate squares, each one tiny and perfect, handled with the utmost care in his gloved hands.

His focus was intense, but when he noticed me, he smiled.

“Hey,” I said, nodding to him.

“Hey, Sam,” he replied, his voice calm and steady.

“You looking for Haider?”

I held up the bottle of syrup I’d brought.

“I have this.”

Crocus’s smile widened just a little.

“He’s in the kitchen. Staring.”

We exchanged glances and shared a nod.

That meant Haider was in one of his thinking moods, caught up in whatever project was churning through his mind.

“Thanks,” I said, stepping past the counter and into the back.

The kitchen was almost too warm, with hints of chocolate and sugar.

It was immaculate, with stainless steel surfaces gleaming under bright overhead lights.

And there, in the middle of it all, was Haider.

He stood still, staring at nothing, his hands tucked under his armpits.

His green apron was crisp and spotless, the Harmony Chocolates logo neatly embroidered on the chest. His dark curls were pushed under a hat, but a few strands had escaped, framing the deep frown on his face.

“Haider,” I said, leaning against the doorframe.

He didn’t move at first, too wrapped up in whatever thoughts were swirling in his head.

I cleared my throat, tapping the syrup bottle to get his attention.

“Earth to Haider,” I said, keeping my tone light.

He blinked, focused on me, and his frown eased.

“Sam,” he said, as if surprised anyone was in here with him.

“Hey.”

“Got your syrup,” I said, stepping further into the kitchen and setting the bottle on the counter.

He sighed, the sound heavy, and I could see the weight in his shoulders, the way he looked down at the syrup as if it might hold the answer to all his problems. Something was wrong, and I wasn’t leaving until I figured out what.

Haider ran a hand over the counter’s edge.

“It’s these ingredients,” he said, nodding toward two small containers sitting side by side—one labeled sumac and the other smoked sea salt .

I raised an eyebrow.

“What about them?”

He gestured vaguely, his hands moving as if shaping the air would help him explain.

“I’ve been working on this new recipe—sumac caramel with a smoked sea salt finish. It’s all the rage in the city right now, but I’m not sure if it works here.”

I leaned against the counter, folding my arms. “What do you mean? Like it’s too fancy for Caldwell Crossing?”

“No, not fancy.” He frowned, tapping the containers lightly.

“It’s the reaction. Sumac has this tartness, almost lemony but earthy too, and when you combine that with the smokiness of the salt, it creates this… unexpected contrast. It hits your tongue in layers, like sweet, tangy, smoky, and then—bam—it all blends.”

“Sounds good,” I said, shrugging.

“What’s the problem?”

He lowered his voice as if he didn’t want the town to hear.

“The problem is, I don’t know if people here will like it,” he admitted, growing more animated.

“In the city, they eat this kind of thing up—unexpected pairings, bold flavors. But here?” He threw his hands up.

“Do people in Caldwell Crossing even want their caramel to be anything other than sweet and buttery? I mean, you remember what Byron said.”

I stiffened.

“We said we’d never mention his name again.”

“But he was all ‘try something new, Haider, make better candy, Haider, that’s not how we do it in the city, Haider.’”

“His opinion never mattered.”

“But what if it did, even though he was an asshole?”

“Fuck’s sake, Haider. He was a serial cheater who was married, had three different men in one county, and worst of all fucked one of your best friends over, remember?” I pressed a thumb to my chest. “Me. He fucked over me.”

Haider dipped his gaze as his tirade about what he should and shouldn’t do stopped dead.

“Shit, sorry, Sam.” He blinked back into the room and stared.

“We promised we wouldn’t mention his name again.”

I shook my head.

“As I just reminded you.”

“I’m the asshole.” He hugged me, then placed his sticky hands on my cheeks and pressed them so I likely resembled a chipmunk.

“Forget him. He was no good for you.”

“I have forgotten him.”

“He broke your heart.”

“He did not,” I said with a sigh.

He had, but it hadn’t lasted long when I’d realized what an asshole he was, and then broken-heartedness had turned to anger fast.

“Well, his grand big-city ideas…” Haider stepped back, his hand squelching as it unstuck from my cheek.

“I’m poo-pooing them.”

“Good.”

He clapped his hands.

“There, poo-pooed.” Then, he grew serious.

“I’m looking for a way to make… no… I’m overthinking this, aren’t I?”

I smirked.

“Maybe a little. You’ve never been afraid to push boundaries before. What’s different now?”

He sighed again, his shoulders slumping.

“It’s different because… I don’t know. Maybe because this place matters. I want to get it right. Not just for me, but for the guys working here and for my Mamie.”

There he was, the Haider I knew—big-hearted, passionate, and overthinking everything because he cared so damn much.

I shook my head, pushing off the counter and clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve got this. Trust your gut. And if you’re worried, let me try it. I’m no city snob, but I know good candy when I taste it.”

That earned me a small smile, the tension in his face easing.

“You’d better be honest,” he said, picking up the containers and setting them aside.

“I’m not wasting a batch of caramel on fake praise.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, crossing my arms again.

“So, how are things? Selling lots?”

“Business is booming,” he deadpanned.

“Cool.”

There were a lot of unspoken comments in that exchange.

It wasn’t me asking Haider outright if he had money worries—that wasn’t how we worked—but I offered my support.

He knew I was here, no matter what, and I hoped that was enough for now.

I glanced at the clock on the wall and winced.

“I wish I could stay and watch,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck.

“I’ve got to get back to the farm. There’s sap to check on, and I promised Dad I’d help with the lines today.”

He waved a hand at me as though it was no big deal.

“No worries. Come back later. I’ll have a finished sample for you to try.”

“Looking forward to it,” I said, pausing before I turned toward the door.

“Hey… really… is everything okay? Business good?”

Haider smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, the kind of smile that told me he was holding something back.

“Yeah, sure,” he said.

“It’s all good.”

I frowned but didn’t press.

If he wasn’t ready to talk, I wouldn’t force it.

Haider was stubborn as hell, and pushing him now would make him dig his heels in.

“All right,” I said instead, keeping my tone light.

“I’ll see you later. Don’t burn the caramel.”

He rolled his eyes at that, but the smile on his face softened.

“Go check your sap, farmer boy.”

I snorted, shaking my head as I headed for the door.

“Sam?”

I turned back.

“I’m sorry I mentioned he who should not be named.”

“It’s all good.”

But as I stepped out into the cold air, the scent of chocolate still clinging to me, I wasn’t thinking about my wannabee cheating big-city ex.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off with Haider, who wasn’t okay, no matter what he said.

Sooner or later, he’d have to tell one of us.

Then, as I drove back, somehow, Ben had crept into my thoughts—how he met my gaze with that mix of uncertainty and quiet strength.

Something about his vulnerability stuck with me, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake him from my mind.

God damn it.

I wasn’t doing this big-city, small-town thing again. No. Way.