Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(68)

“I can’t believe she’s still asleep.” Isaac’s voice reaches me from across the space between the cabin and the embankment I’m sitting on. On slow and steady feet he walks to me, two coffee mugs in his grip.

He settles beside me and extends a mug, the steam swirling up into the air. I take it with a grateful smile and wrap my hands around it, letting the warmth sink into my hands. It’s practically summer, but the mountains haven’t received the memo.

Taking a sip, I say “I snuck out of our room on tiptoe. She needs her rest after staying up so late last night.”

“You don’t have to sleep with her, you know.” Isaac rubs his shoulder against mine.

My heel pushes into the wet-looking pebbles that start just beyond where we’re sitting. “Isaac—”

“I’m just saying.” He stares out at the water and sips from his mug.

It would be so easy to stay with him. To sleep, our arms intertwined, our legs tangled. To wake up to the stubble that appears on his chin every morning. Would he kiss me awake?

We finish our coffee without saying anything more. It’s not uncomfortable, our silence, but it’s not without tension. I know what Isaac wants. I just can’t give it to him.

“You know what?” I stand and brush off the seat of my jeans. “I think Claire would really like to wake up to some blueberry muffins. I’m going to that bakery Mrs. Iams mentioned. Do you mind?”

Isaac gets to his feet. “I can run there.”

“Are you afraid to let me drive your truck? I promise not to change the radio station.” I elbow his ribs lightly.

He chuckles, places his hand on the small of my back, and guides me to the cabin. When we get inside, he reaches for the keys he left on the kitchen counter.

“Just wait. You’re going to be a cowgirl before you know it.” He drops the keys into my outstretched palm.

I smirk and turn my attention to jamming my feet in my shoes.

“Aubrey?”

“Hmm?” I straighten and look at him.

He’s suddenly right next to me, hands on either side of my face. He kisses me until there’s no air left in my lungs.

“What was that for?” I ask when he lets me go.

“No reason. I just wanted to kiss you.”

“But,” I cough, trying to regain my composure, “I don’t have time for an hour with you right now.” As though my stomach can understand me, it lets out a loud growl.

Isaac stares at me for a long moment. Finally, he says, “That wasn’t what I was after.”

“Oh. OK.” Embarrassed, I hurry through the front door and to the truck. It takes me a minute to figure out how to adjust the seat to fit me. Carefully, I back up. He’s probably watching me. While I retrace yesterday’s drive, my brain mulls over this morning with Isaac.

We didn’t actually talk about it, but the agreement seemed unspoken, the parameters set up by our behavior.

We had hours.

And outside of those hours, we were co-parents.

I rub my eyes. I can’t think about it anymore.

And it doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m here. I pull the truck into an open spot a couple businesses down from the bakery and climb out.

I really hope this place makes more than just blueberry muffins.

Folks. That’s what I would call the people in the bakery. I’ve never used that word in my life, but these people seem like people that should be referred to as folks.

The smells of the bakery assault me in the very best way. Sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, swarming into an aroma that makes my mouth moist and my stomach yell.

Two glass cases flank the cash register. Inside are muffins in every flavor, chocolate croissants, bagels, cookies, cupcakes, baklava, and more.

Are there enough people in this town to eat all this food? It would appear so, because every seat in this place is taken.

I’m the third person in line. The man in front of me talks to his wife about going somewhere to get a paper. She tells him they can’t spend all day at Hatcher’s, because she has gardening to do before the sun is beating down on her.

I try to tune them out, but it’s hard because they’re loud talkers.

“Jane here today?” The man asks the young girl at the register when it’s his turn to order.

I bristle automatically at the name. Like blueberry muffins, the name Jane sends up a flare in my brain.

“Of course,” the girls says, pulling their order from the case. “She’s finishing up the final batch of muffins in the back.”

They finish their transaction, and I step up to the counter.

“Hi. What can I get for you?” The girl asks, her voice chipper.

“Hello.” I smile. She has bad acne but a very warm smile. “I’d like four blueberry and two spice. Muffins, I mean.”

“Sure.” She grabs a white paper bag and moves to the case on the left. “I’ve never seen you before. Are you visiting?” She ducks down, pulls the muffins from the case, and places them in the bag.

“We’re renting a little cabin for the weekend.” I pull cash from my wallet and hand it to her.

“The Lost Place?” She asks, at the same time the swinging door leading to the back opens. Her eyes are on her hands as she pulls my change from her drawer.