The Baker's Touch

The coastal highway stretched before Olivia Chen like a ribbon of possibility, the October sun glinting off the Pacific Ocean to her left. She'd driven this route a thousand times in her youth, but today it felt different. Today, she wasn't running away—she was coming home.

Her Honda Civic was packed with everything that mattered: professional baking equipment, boxes of recipe notebooks, and the few personal items she'd bothered to take from the Los Angeles condo she'd shared with Marcus. The divorce papers, freshly signed, sat in her glove compartment like a diploma for surviving heartbreak.

Thirty-four years old and starting over. The thought should have terrified her, but instead, Olivia felt a flutter of something she hadn't experienced in years: excitement.

The town of Crescent Bay appeared around the bend, and she couldn't help but smile. The lighthouse still stood sentinel on the northern point. The main street still sloped down toward the harbor, lined with the same weathered storefronts she remembered. But something was different—better. New shops dotted the street, the old movie theater had been restored, and there was a energy to the place that hadn't existed when she'd left for culinary school fifteen years ago.

She pulled up in front of 47 Harbor Street, her new beginning. The storefront was small, sandwiched between a bookshop and a wine bar. The previous tenant—a gift shop—had gone out of business six months ago, leaving behind faded blue paint and a "For Lease" sign that her mother had spotted on one of her daily walks.

"It's perfect for a bakery, Liv," her mother had said during their video call. "The morning sun comes right through those front windows."

Standing on the sidewalk now, Olivia could see exactly what her mother meant. Even in late afternoon, the light was beautiful. She imagined the space filled with the scent of fresh bread, display cases gleaming with pastries, the hiss of the espresso machine greeting early morning customers.

She was so lost in her vision that she didn't notice the man approaching until he spoke.

"You must be Olivia."

She turned, her heart doing an unexpected skip.

He was tall—well over six feet—with broad shoulders that filled out his worn flannel shirt in a way that suggested actual work, not gym vanity. Dark hair, slightly too long, curled at his collar. But it was his eyes that caught her: deep brown, with a directness that made her suddenly aware of how rumpled she looked after six hours in the car.

"I'm Jake Sullivan," he said, extending a calloused hand. "Your contractor."

Olivia shook his hand, feeling the rough warmth of his palm against hers. Something electric passed between them, quick as a spark. She pulled back, flustered.

"Right, yes. My mom mentioned she'd hired someone to handl...