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It was August by the time Casey finally found herself driving up to the large powder-blue house with a matching sign hanging out front.
She had told herself—and Lee, and Geller, and anyone else who asked—that she was too busy running the camp during the busy summer season to make it out to Route 216. But the truth was that she had been avoiding the visit for as long as she could stand it.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Ben—far from it. It was that she wanted to not want to see him. She wanted to be over him, plain and simple. That way it wouldn’t bother her one way or another what he did. The business could flop and he could leave. Or the business could be so wildly successful that he’d want to expand...and then leave. Any number of factors might cause him to close up shop and watch this sleepy mountain town vanish in his rear-view mirror as he skidded back south.
No matter how emphatically Ben insisted he was staying, it was impossible for Casey to believe that might be true.
But knowing he was just down the road made it unbearable to stay away. She was restless at night and agitated during the day. No matter how much she swam or how hard she rowed out into the lake, she never used up all the energy burning inside her that she wanted to give over to him. She avoided climbing Mt. Bonnet and the ridge beside it because the sights reminded her of Ben. But even when she drove out to the farther peaks and took in the views, she still couldn’t shake his presence. The whole mountain range seemed to taunt her with memories of him.
Nights were even worse. She’d wake up with her hands pressed between her legs, her whole body pulsing, and know she’d been dreaming of him. Her every thought betrayed her. She had no choice. She had to go.
She parked along the side of the road. There’d been nothing to draw anyone to this intersection before and it was strange to see so many cars there now. She recognized Ben’s black SUV in the grass behind the house. The small excuse for a gravel driveway was already filled with cars, so most of the vehicles had done what Casey did and simply pulled on the shoulder. Even for late morning on a Saturday, she couldn’t believe how many people were there.
She’d driven by the old house plenty of times in the past but never thought twice about. As a renovated café, though, it was perfect. A big, squat two-story structure with a balcony all around the second floor and an expansive porch out front, it had the sprawl of a mansion laid to waste. The powder-blue paint was peeling, as was the white along the trim, but the effect was welcoming rather than rundown. It came across as old yet cozy, inviting you into its charms. To paint it would have been a mistake.
But the inside had clearly been remodeled. Ben must have bought it for a song and then used the money from his apartment sale to renovate the first floor. Walls had been knocked down to create a wide-open main room with a counter along the side that opened into a work area in the back. Diners could see the floured table for rolling out dough and the metal trays for storing and heating baked goods. The ovens were tucked around the corner, just out of view.
The wood floor had been updated and polished, but it retained the creaky give and take of the structure. Ben had kept much of the original detail in the wainscoting around the base of the walls and the crown molding that flared below the ceiling. Everything was bright and fresh with a new coat of white paint along the trim and pale-blue walls to match the outside.
The tables were round and light wood, with a row of stools in front of a narrow high counter that ran around the front. The windows were tall to let in the light. The high ceilings made the space seem even more open, while an overhead fan spun lazily above to offset the heat from the ovens. Along the wall across from the counter were T-shirts with the logo printed on the front, little coffee-table books and knick-knacks, artisanal pickles and chocolates from nearby towns—the kinds of small presents people might pick up on their way home from a family trip.
But the counter—oh, the counter. Casey walked up to an enormous spread of every kind of pastry she could imagine. There was a lemon poppy seed cake that seemed to float off its platter, and individual chocolate Bundt cakes drizzled with dark chocolate sauce. Berry pies oozed with juices, while individual galettes made tight packages for people to take home. A handwritten sign announced roasted artichoke hearts and leeks with a Kalamata olive spread, and another one stuffed with red pepper, fennel, and roasted sweet potato. It seemed impossible for anyone to choose.
He made his own bread, too. There were baguettes with thinly sliced prosciutto, arugula, and red onion, and others with green apple, creamy brie, and local honey. A chalkboard behind the counter explained that the selection rotated daily and offered fluffy fresh-herb omelets until three p.m. There was soup with fresh sweet corn, potatoes, scallions, and cream—another seasonal selection—and cookies larger than an outstretched palm, loaded with chunky pieces of chocolate, toasted walnuts, and clusters of oats. How did Ben have time for it all?
The hiss of the espresso machine played over the gentle hum of conversation from the tables. There was nothing like this for miles, Casey knew. But it wasn’t just the food that drew people in. It was everything—the building, the brightness, the warmth of the space. It was somewhere you wanted to be.
She looked around at the mix of people, from locals who’d come in for coffee to tourists stopping for breakfast or to stock up on baked goods for a weekend of camping. Couples and families and some single silhouettes, sipping lattes while absorbed in their phones or a book. It was exactly the kind of place that invited them to linger.
Casey slid into a tall seat by the window and looked out at the street, trying to collect herself. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.
This was professional, for one thing. There was a sizeable staff, from the woman working the register to several people in the back kneading dough and preparing the desserts. There must have been a chef, too, making the pancakes, waffles, omelets, and soup. Plus, someone had to monitor the ovens. It seemed shocking that Ben had put all this together. But, she reasoned, he’d been working on it for months, and this was what he’d always wanted to do.
Still, she’d come in expecting to find a kid playing at restaurant, before he had to succumb to reality and go crawling home, back to his proper training at another, better, more established place. He’d been trained for Italian cuisine after all. Not for this.
But looking around, Casey knew this wasn’t an ordinary café. This was someone fulfilling his dream, and he’d chosen to do it steps from Paper Lake.
From her.
She looked out the window, trying to work up her resolve to go up to the register and buy something. She should at least get a cup of coffee to support the business, and do it while she didn’t see Ben around. Suddenly, though, she heard someone come up behind her.
“How about a second cup, since I’m sure you already had one this morning.”
Casey whirled around. Ben was wearing an army-green T-shirt and a navy apron covered in flour. There was flour on the shirt, too, streaked across his chest and down his sleeves. There was even some on his cheek and dusted in his brow. His hair was pulled off his face with a black bandana, accentuating his piercing brown eyes.
He was smiling broadly, so completely in his element that Casey couldn’t imagine him anywhere else.
He handed her a steaming mug of coffee, already lightened with cream. Then he slid her a plate. On it was a fat, puffy croissant golden on top and dusted with powdered sugar like a light autumn snow. It was laden with slivered almonds and smelled like butter and sweetness.
Casey took a sip of the coffee and her eyes widened over the cup.
“This is good,” she said, taking another sip. “This is really good.”
Ben’s smile spread across his face. “Want to know the secret?”
“It tastes like I make it.”
“I remembered the canister from your kitchen. Beans ordered from the same place, made batch by batch in identical French presses. I made sure yours was extra hot and with just enough cream.” He tapped his finger against the table as if he were waiting for his award.
“You stole my coffee,” Casey said, indignant, but she kept sipping it greedily, enjoying the warmth, keeping the mug to her lips so he wouldn’t see how much she was smiling.
“Try the croissant.” He nudged the plate over. “It’s our specialty.”
She broke it in half. It was light and airy, so flaky it practically melted in her fingers. She took a bite, getting the almond paste inside, and held up a finger to keep him from speaking. This was a moment she wanted to savor.
She took another sip of coffee, still hot. It was creamy and nutty and smooth. He was leaning so close to her, before she knew what she was doing she had reached over and brushed the flour from his cheek with her thumb.
“You look like you’ve been out in the snow,” she murmured, suddenly embarrassed by her act. They were in public and people knew her, and now they knew him as the owner. What would they say?
But no one was paying attention. And if they did say anything to Ben, it would only ever be to compliment him on the place. She thought of what Lee had said, how everybody liked him. How he already fit in. Her fingers seemed to tingle where she’d touched him, sending pulses all the way down to her toes. Ben leaned closer so he was practically whispering in her ear, the flour from his apron brushing onto her shoulder.
“Did you look up the name?” he asked.
“The almonds.”
“I told myself I’d be ready to open it up once I perfected the recipe. I’ve been working on it ever since I saw you in New York. The butter is imported. Everything is fresh.”
“Did you name this for me?” She had to ask, but she hardly dared to listen to the answer. She’d known it when Lee explained the term, but she still couldn’t believe it was true. She had to hear it from him.
Ben’s breath was warm on her neck. She heard the smile in his voice. “This—this whole place—has been an elaborate rouse to make you come see me and taste the best damn almond croissant you could ever imagine.”
Something floated in her chest. She was aware of every inch of his body humming beside her, how close he was to touching her and yet how carefully he kept a sliver of distance between them. As though sparks would leap out if he so much as grazed her skin.
She couldn’t meet his eyes, afraid that she’d melt to the floor.
“So now everywhere you go,” he breathed, “everything you do, anytime your tastes come alive, every sip of coffee you take in the morning, when you’ve woken up and you have that grin on your face and you’re all flushed from swimming in that goddamn freezing lake... I want you to be thinking of me.”
Casey stared straight ahead, muscles tense, not daring to move, hardly believing the things he was whispering in her ear, one arm leaning on the table, the other propped behind her chair so that anyone would guess they were just having a friendly conversation, no subtext at all. But before she could come up with a response, Ben simply smiled as if he’d told her the weather was going to be good for the next few days, rapped his knuckles on the table, and announced in a loud voice everyone could hear that he had to get back to work.
Casey watched him walk away, her heart hammering in her chest. When he ducked around the corner, he turned and winked.
She chewed slowly, savoring the delicate pastry as she watched the hum and flow of customers and the rhythms that played out behind the counter. Ben got to work kneading a basketball-sized round of dough, across the table from an older woman Casey had seen working part-time at Pam’s. She was pressing out a sticky dough, smearing it with what looked like a buttery cinnamon-and-sugar glaze dotted with toasted nuts, and then wrapping the dough back up into miniature loaves.
Ben’s forearms were coated in flour. He put his whole body into the kneading, pressing down and forward to stretch the dough and then balling it back up again with a deft flick of his wrists. Even through his shirt it was clear how hard his muscles were working, his biceps and back well defined.
She had to turn away. It wasn’t good to stare.
Casey finished the coffee and croissant and stumbled outside in a daze. The only thing to do after a morning like that was jump in the lake and cool down every inch of herself. She wished it were the dead of winter. She needed to be utterly frozen to think about something besides his fingers as they worked over the dough.
The truth was, she could no longer pretend that she didn’t have to have him. Her whole body was a wick, and he alone knew how to make her ignite.
* * * * *
SHE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT the next move should be. Should she go see him again? Should she wait for him? The answer came later that afternoon, when her phone vibrated with a message. She’d been trying to keep busy, cleaning up the office and checking on the campsites. Then she tried to return to a painting she was in the middle of, but she couldn’t keep still. She’d sit down at the office desk, and then her leg would start jogging and her brain would be racing away and she’d realize she had been sitting there for ten minutes with her brush hovering in the air, doing nothing.
Then she’d resolve to focus and the cycle would start all over again. She reached for the phone, hoping it was Lee or Hannah, anyone to distract her from this tumult she’d put herself in.
Instead it was from Ben. How was your croissant? he asked, adding a smiley face at the end.
She wanted to fling the phone across the room. There was no way he wanted to be friends, not after the way he’d talked to her at the café. But she couldn’t be more direct when he was the one who kept pressing the brakes. She sighed and resigned herself to following his signs.
It was fine, she typed back, sinking into the chair, realizing that it could be fun to toy with him the same way he was playing with her.
You liked it?
Maybe, she wrote coyly, unwilling to give anything away.
The best you’ve ever had?
Somehow, she had a feeling he wasn’t just asking about the croissant anymore. She chewed her lip, contemplating the right response.
Maybe, she wrote again.
There’s plenty more, came the prompt reply.
Now she was certain he wasn’t talking about pastries. She took a deep breath.
I hope so, she wrote, and quickly pressed send before she changed her mind.
His response took so long she was sure she’d blown it somehow. She’d misunderstood everything. She’d been a fool.
She set the phone down on the table next to her half-finished painting, cringing inside.
It vibrated so loudly against the wood that she jumped.
Come over for dinner tonight, he said. 7pm. Upstairs.
And then another message lit up. Please.
Casey exhaled audibly in the tiny cabin, unaware that she’d been holding her breath. Her simple OK seemed like not enough of an answer, but it was all she could manage with her trembling hands.