Page 17 of The Matchmaker's Cottage

But damn if she didn’t want to make some bread.

She felt her mind wander as she stayed suspended in breadless limbo, the wood of the island countertop beneath her hands cool and still slightly dusted with the remnants of copious flour usage embedded in the surface no matter how many times it had been scrubbed down.

She loved everything about the bread-making process. The ritual of checking on her little sourdough starter and listening to it crackle and bubble, letting her know it was alive. The bright and tangy scent of fermentation. Feeding it to ensure it stayed healthy and thriving. Adding it to her well-loved bread-making bowl to start the process of creating a loaf.

She craved it. Not the bread itself—though ten out of ten times it was delicious and she’d never say no to a thick slice with lots of butter—but the method of creating it. Of starting from practically nothing and having it amount to something she had built with her hands.

It was sort of how she felt about the bed-and-breakfast, now that she thought about it, still half-caught in a daydream of avoidance with the sound of Maggie sautéing something on the stovetop behind her. The themes of all the little rooms and how she’d carefully furnished and decorated them, going to garage sales and antique stores in all the neighboring towns to find things that worked, things that fit. How she had restored the trim and all the fine details on the banisters and crown molding. The coffee station she’d set up on the main floor so guests could help themselves to a free cup whenever they wanted. The time she’d spent repainting walls, touching up the areas that had needed some TLC, repapering other walls in a historically similar way.

What she didn’t think about—or tried not to, at least—was how every little moment that added together to create the origin of that place, every antique store visit or midnight painting session, reminded her of Ethan. Not just because the memory of him was imbued in every corner, every wall, but because of howgoodEthan would have been for those things. How he would have made her laugh in the antique stores by picking uprandom tchotchkes and making some insightful yet hilarious comment about their usefulness or lack thereof. How he would have made her sit and watch him paint the walls, “since Smurfs couldn’t reach that high anyway.” The little suggestions he would have offered with his eye for detail that she would have begrudgingly admitted to liking.

As much as she felt happiness and pride in her place, she felt a touch of melancholy, too. She had done it all by herself—and what a double-edged statement that was.

She hadn’t realized she’d let out a deep sigh until Maggie turned to her from the stove and said, “All good, boss lady?”

Giving a small grateful smile, she nodded. “Just waiting for Bozo to come down and tell me he’s ready for the tour.”

“Bozo has arrived.”

A deep voice rang out from just outside the kitchen, and both women whirled around to see Ethan standing there, still looking slightly rumpled in his travel clothes, but with the shirt sleeves rolled down now and a fresh pair of sneakers on instead of the dressier shoes he’d arrived in.

Julia supposed she should be chagrined at the thought of Ethan having heard her. But as it turned out, while eight years might do a lot to disintegrate a friendship, facetious name-calling appeared to withstand the test of time.

Stepping into the kitchen, Ethan looked around, his posture and demeanor casual enough to fool the average observer. But Julia knew him well enough, even now, to see the analytical gleam in his eye. The way he didn’t miss a single detail, not a smudge on the fridge or a crumb on the counter. Not so he could judge her for it—not at all—but simply because henoticed; he simply couldn’t help it.

“Very nice,” he said after a few beats, the sincerity evidentin his voice, and a mask up over his face that even Julia couldn’t quite read. “You made this a beautiful place, Gem.”

Gem. There it was again. The name distracted her from dwelling on deciphering his tone about the cottage’s transformation. It had to stop. Should she ask him to stop?

“It’s amazing!” Maggie piped up, tapping her wooden spoon on the side of the pot. “Truly one of a kind. All the little details, the effort Julia has put in over the last few years. We—that is, my family and I—we’ve watched her build it up right from the start. And when I tell you how Julia turned this place around, boy—”

“Thank you so much, Maggie.” Julia made a conscious effort to ungrit her teeth and make her smile as genuine as possible while keeping her gaze focused on Ethan. “That’s so kind of you to say.”

Now stop saying it.

She didn’t want Maggie to reveal anything that could potentially disparage Ethan’s parents. Despite being neighbors for a few overlapping years, the Duchamps had been a scarce enough presence in the later years, that Maggie and her family had never really known them. It was only the sale of the property and the subsequent renovations that had caught their attention. None of them had ever really asked Julia about the true origins of the cottage or what had happened to the previous owners—and Julia wanted to keep it that way. At the same time, she also couldn’t stand the thought of him hearing about all the time and effort she had put into it. Alone.

“Oh, I have no doubt.” Ethan’s eyes caught hers, and she found the softness in his gaze, the affection, and the hint of guilt inordinately cruel. She didn’t want one ounce of it. He could take his nostalgia and shove it.

Before she could say anything, however, he turned his attention fully to Maggie. “That smells delicious. What is it?”

“Boeuf bourguignon,” she replied, beaming. “It needs to simmer for another hour, but then it’s ready for dinner with some mashed potatoes and the fresh bread that Julia made this morning.”

“Sounds amazing.” He turned his attention back to Julia, much to her chagrin. “Still baking, then?”

Julia nodded, unwilling to elaborate, but there was Maggie again, piping in with her glowing praise.

“Oh, she’s thebestbaker. You should try the brown-butter cinnamon rolls she—”

“Thank you, Maggie!” To soften the exclamation, she put a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “You’re honestly too kind to me. I need to carry you around in my pocket for whenever I’m feeling down.”

Maggie beamed again, replacing the lid on the pot. “Just happy whenever I can help.”

Smiling at her affectionately, Julia turned to Ethan. “Are you ready, then? We can look around and you can tell me all about your plans for this week and what you need from me.”

“Sounds good,” he said affably. “See you later, Maggie.”

Nodding, Maggie gave a little wave, before turning to begin peeling potatoes.