Page 7 of Midnight Lessons
Chapter 3
Willow
“Willow, those sugar cookies need frosting!” Carol calls from the back.
“Got it!”
As I pipe orange icing onto pumpkin-shaped cookies, I can’t shake the odd feeling creeping up my spine again. I’ve been on edge for the last few days as if someone is walking over my grave.
Glancing up, I catch snippets of hushed conversations. There are an unusual amount of men inThe Bewitched Bakerytoday, heads ducked together, eyes darting my way before quickly skimming away. Men are weird.
“Have a nice day, Willow,” one of them calls out with a smirk as he leaves.
I narrow my eyes at the other customers as unease settles heavier in my stomach. Whatever’s going on, it’s not sitting right with me.
But my troubled thoughts scatter as the bell above the bakery door jingles again, and a man I haven’t seen for six long years strides in.
I blink.
Twice.
Owen Callahan was gorgeous in high school, but now he’s downright devastating. Ugh, why couldn’t he have lost all his hair and gained a hundred pounds?
Instead, he's grown into his looks in a way that seems almost unfair. He’s taller and broader, with an effortless confidence that radiates from every inch of his well-built frame. His dark hair is slightly longer than I remember, curling at the nape of his neck in a way that gives him an air of casual dishevelment. And he has a beard now, neatly trimmed to shape hisdefined jawline. It suits him. Of course it does. He looks as if he woke up like this—perfectly rugged.
And those eyes. Damn, those eyes. They’re still the same piercing shade of blue, like a clear sky on a crisp autumn day, holding a depth and intensity that made my knees weak when I was eighteen and apparently still do.
He’s dressed casually, but everything about him screams polished city life—a fitted leather jacket over a simple black t-shirt, dark jeans that hug him in all the right places, and boots that look expensive and well-worn at the same time. He carries himself with an ease I’ve only ever seen in people who’ve found their place in the world.
He sweeps the bakery with a glance, and for a second, our eyes lock. My heart lurches in my chest, caught between a sprint and a freefall. For a moment, the bakery and everyone in it fade away, leaving the two of us standing on opposite sides of an unbridgeable chasm.
I swallow hard, trying to remember how to breathe, how to move, how to speak. But my mouth goes dry, and all I can do is stare.
Owen Callahan, the boy who shattered my heart and took off for the city, is back. And he looks better than ever. Damn him.
“Hi, Owen,” I say, keeping my voice steady and my customer service persona firmly in place despite the fierce fluttering in my chest.
“Hey, Low, how are you?”
Four words and the nickname he gave me when I was ten uttered in that deep timbre, and my knees threaten to buckle.
Hold firm, knees! He doesn’t get to waltz in here and turn you to butter, no matter how stunning he is.
“I’m good. I didn’t know you were back in town,” I reply, pleased at how steady my voice sounds.
“Yeah, got in a few days ago,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine. “I heard this place makes the best cookies this side of the Mississippi. Figured I'd stop by and see for myself. What do you recommend?”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore my racing pulse. “Depends on what you’re in the mood for. We’ve got classic chocolate chip, or if you’refeeling adventurous, there’s the new pumpkin spice Snickerdoodle. Perfect for fall.”
Damn, are we really having a conversation about cookies after all these years?
Owen glances around, taking in the familiar surroundings. “The place looks great. You’ve made your dream a reality.”
“Thanks,” I say, a bit more clipped than I intended. He doesn't get to compliment the bakery and pretend he didn't leave me behind without so much as a backward glance.
He gives me a small, almost hesitant smile. “You always did know how to make the best cookies.”
His words hang in the air, a subtle reminder of the times he sat in Mom and Dad’s kitchen sampling whatever I whipped up.