The snowstorm intensified as Emma led Lucas down the narrow path behind her bakery. Thick flakes swirled in the air, settling on her auburn hair and dusting her red coat like powdered sugar. Lucas trailed behind her, his polished leather shoes slipping on the icy ground.
"Do you ever salt these paths?" he grumbled, narrowly catching himself as his foot slid.
Emma shot him a look over her shoulder. "Not usually a problem. Most people know how to walk on snow."
Lucas muttered under his breath, pulling his coat tighter around himself. He wasn't accustomed to this kind of weather—or small-town hospitality, for that matter. Yet here he was, about to bunk in the home of a woman who barely tolerated him.
They reached a small, cozy-looking house tucked behind the bakery. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the porch light glowed warmly against the snow-covered roof. Emma pushed open the front door and gestured for Lucas to enter.
"Leave your shoes by the door," she instructed, brushing snow off her coat. "And don't track snow on the rug."
Lucas glanced down at his expensive loafers, now soaked and scuffed. With a resigned sigh, he slipped them off and stepped inside, immediately hit by the warmth of the house. The smell of cinnamon lingered here too, mingling with the faint scent of pine from a small Christmas tree in the corner.
The living room was as charming as the bakery—soft, mismatched furniture, shelves lined with cookbooks and family photos, and a quilt draped over the back of the couch. A fireplace crackled softly, and Lucas couldn't help but notice how inviting it all felt.
Emma hung up her coat and pointed down the hall. "Guest room's the second door on the left. Bathroom's across the hall. Kitchen's off-limits unless you're supervised."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "You really think I'm going to raid your kitchen?"
"You'd be surprised how many people think they can outbake a professional," Emma replied with a smirk.
Lucas shook his head, heading toward the guest room. The door creaked as he opened it, revealing a modest space with a twin bed, a small dresser, and a window that overlooked the snowy backyard. It was far from the luxury he was used to, but it would have to do.
---
Later that evening, Lucas sat at the small dining table, watching Emma move efficiently around the kitchen. She wore a different apron now, green with a snowflake pattern, and her movements were quick and practiced as she whisked a batter in a large mixing bowl.
"Do you ever stop working?" Lucas asked, leaning back in his chair.
Emma didn't look up. "Not during the holidays. The bakery's busiest season is December, and I'm already behind because of this storm."
Lucas glanced at the clock. It was nearly 9 p.m., yet Emma showed no signs of slowing down. "You know, most people would be relaxing by now. Maybe watching a Christmas movie."
Emma snorted. "Relaxing doesn't keep the lights on."
Her tone was light, but Lucas caught a trace of exhaustion in her voice. He studied her for a moment, noticing the faint circles under her eyes and the way her shoulders sagged ever so slightly when she paused to catch her breath.
"Why not hire more help?" he asked.
Emma shrugged. "It's not that simple. I'm not exactly rolling in cash, and besides, the bakery's a family operation. Always has been. It doesn't feel right letting strangers mess with my mom's recipes."
There it was again—that flicker of vulnerability. Lucas leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Your mother must've been an incredible baker."
Emma froze for a fraction of a second before resuming her whisking. "She was," she said softly. "She started the bakery when I was a kid. Every Christmas, she'd come up with these amazing themed recipes—peppermint bark brownies, eggnog cheesecake, gingerbread cupcakes. She loved making people smile."
Lucas didn't respond immediately. He wasn't sure what to say. He hadn't grown up with traditions like that. His childhood had been boardrooms and business meetings, not warm kitchens filled with the smell of cinnamon.
"You're close to her, aren't you?" he asked gently.
Emma's whisking slowed. She set the bowl down and wiped her hands on her apron. "She passed away a few years ago," she said quietly. "Keeping the bakery running feels like the only way to keep her memory alive."
For once, Lucas didn't have a sharp retort or a clever comeback. He simply nodded, an unexpected pang of empathy stirring in his chest.
---
The next morning, Lucas woke to the sound of clattering pans and the faint hum of Christmas music. He groaned, rubbing his temples as he rolled out of bed. The twin mattress was too small, the pillow too lumpy, and his back ached in protest.
He threw on a sweater and stepped into the hallway, following the sounds to the kitchen.
Emma was already hard at work, her hair tied up in a messy bun and flour smudged on her cheek. The smell of fresh bread filled the air, and Lucas's stomach growled despite himself.
"Morning," she said without looking up.
"Morning," Lucas replied, leaning against the counter. "Do you ever sleep?"
"Not in December," Emma quipped, sliding a tray of muffins into the oven. "There's coffee in the pot if you want some."
Lucas poured himself a cup and took a cautious sip. It was strong—stronger than he liked—but it was better than nothing. He glanced out the window, where the snow continued to fall steadily.
"Looks like the storm's sticking around," he remarked.
Emma nodded. "They're saying the roads might not clear until tomorrow. Guess you're stuck here a little longer."
Lucas sighed, but a small part of him wasn't entirely upset. There was something oddly calming about this place, even if Emma's sharp tongue kept him on his toes.
"So," she said, turning to face him. "What do big-shot developers do when they're not bulldozing small businesses? Do you have hobbies, or is it all spreadsheets and coffee runs?"
Lucas smirked. "I'll have you know I'm quite good at skiing."
Emma raised an eyebrow. "Skiing? Let me guess—private resorts and first-class chalets?"
"Naturally," he said with a mock bow.
Emma chuckled, shaking her head. "You're something else, Lucas Hale."
For the first time, Lucas felt like she wasn't entirely angry with him. And for reasons he couldn't quite explain, he liked it.