12. Wynter

CHAPTER 12

WYNTER

The cabin at Pinecrest was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. I lay back, staring up at the ceiling, replaying yesterday over and over. The snow, Taran’s laughter, his breath curling in the cold air, that one charged second when I thought?—

I shook my head, trying to brush it off as wishful thinking. Taran, my best friend since we were kids, the guy who had always been… off-limits. The same Taran who’d been by my side through everything before I went off to pursue a career in the army, but who’d never given me a reason to think he wanted me in any way other than that.

But then, yesterday happened. The snowball fight, his smile that stayed just a second too long, his eyes that held mine just close enough to make me wonder. There was something there, wasn’t there? Or had I been reading into it, hoping for something that wasn’t real?

I dragged a hand down my face, willing myself to be logical, but the urge to see him gnawed at me, sharp and relentless. I stood up, grabbing my jacket before I could overthink it.

Maybe I just needed something to eat. Mabel’s had the best Christmas cookies in town, and, well, I had been craving them lately. Perfect excuse. I smirked to myself, pulling the door shut and heading into the fresh, cold air toward Mabel’s shop.

Inside, Mabel’s Sweet Treats was the picture of holiday charm. Warm, golden lights sparkled around the windows, framing shelves piled with cookies, cakes, and pastries. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg, rich and sweet, filled the air, blending with the low hum of Christmas music from an old radio behind the counter. I felt my shoulders relax, the warmth of the place easing the restlessness that had been building in me.

Mabel spotted me as soon as I walked in. She was small and sharp-eyed, with a way of seeing more than she let on, and the look she shot me was one of knowing. She crossed her arms, a sly smile creeping over her face as she leaned against the counter.

“Well, well. It’s not every day we get a visitor with such good taste in both friends and sweets,” she said, her gaze amused.

I bit back a grin, caught off guard. “Just figured I’d stop in for some cookies.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes twinkling. “Uh-huh. Cookies.”

I chuckled, not quite able to meet her eyes as I glanced around. “Is Taran around?”

“Of course he is,” she said, giving a nod toward the back. “It’s his day to run the kitchen. You want me to let him know you’re here?”

I shook my head. “I’ll surprise him. But if he starts throwing flour at me, you’re taking the blame.”

Mabel laughed, waving me off. “I’m counting on it.”

I lingered near the counter, watching Taran work in the kitchen. His focus was steady, hands kneading dough with practiced ease, his movements smooth, confident. Flour dusted his forearms, and a light smudge streaked his cheek. There was something magnetic about him like this—comfortable in his space, at ease, fully in his element.

“He’s got a way about him, doesn’t he?” Mabel’s voice broke through my thoughts. I straightened, glancing her way, feeling a bit like I’d been caught.

“Maybe a bit,” I admitted, trying to sound casual.

She chuckled, giving me a nudge. “Go on, then. I’m sure Taran wouldn’t mind showing you the ropes. And between us, since y’all were kids, he’s always been a bit more cheerful when you’re around.”

At her words, my mind flashed back to the little things Mabel had said over the years about Taran and me. They’d barely registered at the time, just harmless observations from someone who’d known us forever. Like the way she’d tease, “You boys are thicker than thieves, aren’t you? Always glued at the hip.” Or how she’d chuckle when Taran and I showed up together, saying, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you two had a secret language.” I’d always shrugged it off, thinking it was just her way of ribbing us.

But now, looking back, I wondered if she’d seen through me all those years, picking up on something I hadn’t been ready to admit. Something I hadn’t even admitted to myself.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I made my way to the back. As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, Taran looked up, his eyes widening slightly before he laughed, a bit flustered. A rosy tint colored his cheeks, and I felt a flicker of warmth at the sight.

“What are you doing back here?” He wiped his hands on his apron, glancing at Mabel as if she’d set this up.

“Mabel’s idea. She thinks I need a crash course in holiday baking,” I said, shrugging. “Figured I’d take her up on it.”

He rolled his eyes, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he handed me an apron decorated with Santa faces and candy canes. “Good luck, then. Don’t blame me if you go home looking like a snowman.”

I slipped it over my head, catching a whiff of cinnamon and vanilla clinging to the fabric, probably from years of holiday baking. “I’ll try to keep my dignity intact,” I said, tying it at the back. “But no promises.”

Taran chuckled, grabbing a ball of dough and kneading it with practiced ease. “Trust me, with that apron, dignity’s long gone.”

“Real funny,” I said, shaking my head but unable to keep a grin off my face.

We started with the basics. Taran guided me through mixing and folding, his instructions clear but amused. My unaccustomed clumsiness was on full display because I was so stupidly aware of him—his smell, his proximity, his touch.

“Not so fast, Wyn.” Chuckling, he stopped my hand from tipping too much flour into the bowl. “You’re baking, not building a snowbank.”

“Hey, I’m doing my best.” I was barely able to repress my body’s reaction to his touch lingering on my hand, warm and grounding. I glanced up, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, the kitchen noise seemed to fade.

He grinned, and before I knew it, he reached over and lightly smudged a streak of flour onto my cheek. “There, that’s better.”

I narrowed my eyes, grabbing a handful of flour and flicking it back at him, earning a surprised laugh as he brushed it off. “You’re asking for it,” I warned.

We kept up the playful back-and-forth, flour scattered on the counter and our clothes. Every time he moved past me in the cramped space, our arms brushed, his warmth sparking a thrill that I felt down to my core. I caught myself watching him, admiring the focus in his eyes, the light in his expression, the way his lips curved when he laughed.

Every accidental touch, every laugh, every look—each one only drew me in closer. And the more time we spent there, the harder it was to keep reminding myself why we shouldn’t cross the line.

I couldn’t pull away, not even if I tried. My fingers still curled around his, heart pounding in my chest. Taran’s eyes were locked with mine, and I swore I saw something there—hope, maybe even something deeper, something I’d dared not dream of for over two decades. It was a spark, faint but unmistakable. For a second, I was back to being that teenager, full of yearning, watching Taran from afar as he fell for Royce instead.

But this... This was different. It was too much for me to ignore now, too real to write off as wishful thinking. My heart ached with the want, a longing I hadn’t allowed myself to feel for so long.

I took a shaky breath. The air felt thick, heavy with what was unsaid. My chest tightened with the weight of it, the moment.

With a single, hesitant movement, I closed the gap between us, drawn in as if by a magnet. My lips brushed against Taran’s, soft and tentative, a question, a plea, wrapped in years of hidden desire. And when he didn’t pull away, when his hand slid to the back of my neck, deepening the kiss, I couldn’t contain it anymore. The kiss grew in passion, in urgency, like the world had fallen away, leaving only us, this moment, this unspoken connection between us.

Time seemed to stretch, bend, and the only thing that mattered was the feel of Taran against me, his warmth, his breath mingling with mine. Everything that had been left unsaid, all the years, the regrets, the loneliness, it all unraveled in that kiss.

But when we pulled back, the world rushed back in. My breath came in shallow bursts, my mind racing as I processed what had just happened. I could barely register the sudden burst of exhilaration that followed, mixed with a jolt of fear. What had we done? Was it too much? Too soon?

I caught a glimpse of Taran—his lips swollen, his eyes darkened with something I couldn’t quite name. He looked like he’d been kissed. Hell, he looked like I had kissed him.

My chest swelled with something I hadn’t expected: pride. A surge of warmth flooded through me, mixed with a fierce desire to do it all over again, to make him feel this good, to make him feel wanted .

But then reality hit, sharp and cold. I glanced around quickly, panic rising in my throat. But goddamn! We were just out of view from the front of the bakery, a few steps away from where the customers sat. If anyone had walked in…

“Gentlemen.” Mabel’s voice froze us both. She stood in the doorway with a knowing smile, glancing between us and the flour-strewn counters. “If you two are done turning my kitchen into a snowstorm, I think there’s an order that needs finishing.”

Taran gave her a sheepish grin. “Right. On it.”

She chuckled, giving me a wink before disappearing back into the shop, leaving us alone in the warmth and quiet of the kitchen.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, but I couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at my lips. A quiet, sheepish laugh escaped me. “Guess I’d better go,” I muttered, trying to keep my voice steady, but my heart was still racing; it felt big.

Taran didn’t say anything, but I saw his own gaze flicker to the floor, and then back to me. I couldn’t help but notice the faint flush on his cheeks, how his breath was still a little uneven. The effect I’d had on him was clear.

As Mabel left, I caught her smirk again, knowing she was keeping her own counsel. I turned back to Taran, heart still pounding, and the air between us felt thick with unspoken words.

“Guess we need to talk,” I murmured. My voice felt low, thick with the weight of everything I hadn’t said yet.

Taran nodded, but I caught a new openness in him, a lightness like he’d finally put down a weight he’d carried too long. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I could swear I saw relief flicker across his face, like he’d been wondering—just as I had—if I felt the same, if we’d ever reach this moment.

As I dusted flour from my hands, Taran stepped closer. “You, uh… still have some here,” he murmured, reaching to brush a light dusting from my shoulder. His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary.

Without thinking, I caught his hand, my thumb grazing across his knuckles. The warmth of his skin, the quiet between us, except for the thump of my pulse—we’d crossed a line neither of us could uncross.

He looked up, his eyes meeting mine with something almost searching, like he was trying to read what lay beneath the surface. My chest tightened. His fingers were warm against mine, and I felt rooted in place, as if letting go would break something fragile between us.

Taran’s breath hitched, and neither of us moved, the space between us charged with something we’d both kept buried for too long.

As he pulled his hand away, our fingers slid apart reluctantly, like neither of us was quite ready to let go. And as I watched him turn back to his work, I knew one thing with startling clarity: later couldn’t come soon enough.