Page 8 of The Sugar and Spice Kitchen

Five-alarm fire, he thought. All he’d wanted was a year back home with his grandfather. Instead, he’d gotten a blizzard, a blackout, and Emily Whitaker.

He shook his head, hating the answers his brain supplied.

Cole already knew what they were going to have to do.

Emily was going to hate every second of it.

THREE

EMILY

Saturday, December 12th

The only thing worse than being rescued by Cole was being trapped with him in the dark. The steady snowfall made the outside seem impossibly bright compared to the deep blackness inside the bakery.

“Do you have any flashlights around here?” Cole asked, slipping back into that know-it-all tone.

“I have the light on my phone.” Emily patted her pockets and realized she had no idea where her phone was.

“You don’t have an emergency kit?” Cole pressed.

“No, because some of us don’t catastrophize every single day of our lives.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being prepared.” Cole’s voice was calm and rational, and Emily hated him all the more for it.

“Why don’t you use your cell phone like the rest of us?” Emily said, blindly feeling her way through her kitchen. Nutmeg meowed forlornly from the front of the bakery.

“A cell phone battery only lasts so long, and cell towers are unreliable in natural disasters. You should have a weather radio, flashlights, and a first aid kit, bare minimum.”

“Look around, Cole; this is a bakery, not a bunker.”

Emily walked over then opened the connecting door to the kitchen and called out to her kitty. Nutmeg was never allowed in the food prep areas, but she wasn’t about to leave her fur baby lost and lonely out front.

She waited for Cole to say something about calling the health inspector or issuing her a ticket.

That was Cole in a nutshell. Always a rule follower. Every moment was a chance for something to go wrong. It had to be exhausting, living like the world was one loose wire away from catching fire.

It was certainly exhausting being around him.

She could tell he was about to say something when another gust of wind slammed against the back door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Nutmeg yowled and darted deeper into the kitchen.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then Cole moved. The fact that he navigated the darkened room without bumping into a single counter annoyed her more than she wanted to admit.

“Where do you keep towels?” he asked, his hand skimming along the edge of the counter toward the back door.

Emily blinked into the dark. “What?”

“Towels. Rags. Aprons. Anything we can shove against the door to block the draft.”

She hated that he sounded so calm. Hated it more because the cold was already sliding across the floor and curling around her ankles.

“Bottom shelf by the sink,” she muttered.

Moving in the dark, Emily banged her hip on the prep table—again. Cole cursed under his breath when his shoulder hit the metal rack. Nutmeg meowed from somewhere under the sink, the sound more like a question.