Before she could move, the brass bell above the bakery door chimed.

The cold air rushed in, smelling of pine, wet pavement, and expensive cologne.

Damon stepped inside.

He stopped just past the threshold, his black leather gloves still on his hands.

His dark gaze locked onto mine.

The silence in the room was absolute, suffocating the warm scent of the cinnamon rolls.

“Hello, Nora,” he said.

His voice was exactly as I remembered it.

It was smooth, quiet, and completely devoid of doubt.

“You shouldn’t be here, Damon,” I said.

I pressed my palms flat against the flour-dusted wooden counter to stop my hands from shaking.

“I spent four years looking for you,” he said.

He walked slowly toward the counter, his polished leather shoes clicking on the old pine floorboards.

He looked around the small, rustic shop, his eyes lingering on the hand-written chalkboard menu.

“A bakery in Michigan,” he said, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. “You always did prefer the quiet.”

“Leave,” I said. “There is nothing for you in this town.”

He stopped a few feet away from me, the counter the only barrier between us.