Those who don't like or cannot at least be kind/civil towards N&E, please scroll on by this story. :) I've seen certain users leaving caustic, snide "reviews" (about N&E) on N&E stories since the S10 finale. We're all human, so if you need to vent, please do it elsewhere—not on someone else's hours of creative effort and love. . . their N&E stories, in this case. :)

A/N: Hey, N&E friends! If you read the newest chapter (#4) in my three-year old Lucas/Fiona story ("When Suave and Feisty Collide"), you'll know that although I haven't watched WCTH since the S8 finale and completely blacked out everything S9, I followed the S10 N&E happenings at arms-length, so I know what happened this season, saw all the clips, etc. If you read that 4th ch., you also know more of my thoughts on where S10 took them and where S11, it seems, will take them. :) This site had a server crash on Sept. 15th and update notifications were not being sent out at the time I published that chapter, so some followers may have missed the chapter completely.

Stats are still down since the server crash so any review/follow/favorite lets me know this story is actually being read/enjoyed, even if I'm still "in the dark" in terms of views/reads, LOL!

S10 appeared to end mid-autumn(ish) and although I'd prefer the coming together nature of this story to take place *at least* several canon months later, that'd push this story into winter/spring, and since it's definitely an autumn story, that was NOT workin' for me, LOL! So it takes place in the same seasonal time S10 ended, but maaaaaaaybe we can suspend belief and pretend HV's autumn somehow magically extended/grew extra space in it? :D Ideally, I'd prefer more distance—literal and figurative—between the L and E breakup and N&E coming together, but. . .

Autumn's reaching its end—we're probably moving out of the autumn mood and into the Christmas mood, but this autumn short story idea struck me for our couple and it's Thanksgiving week, so hopefully this'll tap into autumn's last hurrah within us. More chapters to come. :) I've got a little idea for a Christmas short story brewing, too. Happy Thanksgiving, American readers! I'm grateful and BLESSED for all my readers/friends here. XOXO ~Paths

(I feel Nathan's maybe a little OOC [out of character] in my opening section, considering how S10 left them—all that building, unresolved tension w/so much left unsaid—but that's how this story rolled out for its opening vibe, so. . . :chagrined shrug: Sometimes you go where the story dictates. :)

— Chapter 1 —

A Mountie and the Baking Schoolmarm

DRIVING A MOUNTIE CRAZY was never a wise idea. And there was a scent, wafting through the cracked open window, that was driving Nathan Grant crazy.

Banana bread.

He knew it. Their whole neighborhood knew it by now.

The flavor notes floated before Nathan's nose like an aromatic taunt.

Golden-browned butter. Ripe banana. Nutty walnut. The melting sweetness of brown sugar. . .

So vivid were the textures and flavors he could almost delude himself into imagining the physical reality sliding over his tongue in a burst of sweet, homey goodness.

Hammer in hand and wood shavings dusting his knees, he nearly growled. Blast the woman anyway.

Elizabeth Thornton had been driving him crazy for half a decade and now her banana bread was joining the club.

His eyes flicked to the old wooden clock on the wall, ticking away the dwindling hours of the late afternoon.

Allie hadn't returned from Elizabeth's, probably still playing with little Jack even though her weekend babysitting duties had finished for the day. He could hardly pry her away from the little boy these days. If he left off fixing this loose floorboard right this minute, he could be at Elizabeth's front door in less than a minute and quite casually just happen to—

No.

He restrained the wayward impulse. Things between himself and the baking schoolteacher at the end of the lane had been uncertain of late—uncertain enough that he didn't wish to show up unannounced.

His noble intentions lasted all of three and a half minutes before the lure of banana bread drove him to the point of no return.

Right down the dirt and gravel lane he strode, straight up to the simple white rowhouse so like his own, occupying the last residential plot before the roadway melted into the shadows and pines of the bordering forest—a forest where fishing spots and simple, sun-strewn logs by peaceful waterways held special sway in his heart.

He raised a hand to knock on the closed front door, his mind assessing that the front steps could use a fresh coat of paint and the earthy-colored leaves gathering in scattered clusters were going to need raking soon.

His knuckles resounded against wood. From within, he heard a light voice call an unhesitating, if a tad preoccupied sounding, "Come in!"

He tried the weathered knob. It was unlocked, turning easily under his hand. He frowned. She really should be locking her door. Then the door swung open and all thought left his head.

In a wave, that same mouth-watering scent whose tantalizing spell he'd been under for hours rushed over him. Kitchen clatter tinkled. A haze of golden warmth and light beckoned him indoors.

He stepped across the threshold, catching a glimpse of Allie and little Jack chasing each other across the back yard, visible through the open door at the rear of the small home. He'd heard their playful shrieks even from the front steps.

It felt like home.

His eyes found the all-too-often object of his pondering thoughts. Something in the core of his chest clenched.

Cozy. Womanly. Inviting. The welcoming picture she presented seared itself onto his memory with the potency of a branding iron against leather.

She felt like home.

Hair piled out of the way in a messy bun atop her head, Elizabeth turned from her place at the oven, so flushed and happy and shining-eyed from heat and baking—cheeks matching the rosy hue of her long skirt, batter-streaked white apron cinched about her trim waist—that Nathan locked his arms at his sides to prevent them from reaching toward her sweet appearance on the spot.

Like a husband coming home from a long day.

Propriety.

Friendship.

Don't.

He took a quick breath to center himself.

The shining smile faded from Elizabeth's mouth as she registered who it was. "Nathan!" His name was a soft gasp between her lips.

Time suspended between them, like it did so often of late. It was as if someone jammed a finger into the smoothly whirring gears of a clock, grinding time to a halt. The sounds of the children playing seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. Little Jack's giggles. Allie teasingly calling his name, threatening that she was going to catch him.

Nathan's eyes clocked the accelerating pulse in Elizabeth's neck. "Sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you." Quietly, he closed the front door behind him.

Her hand fluttered down from her throat. "I. . . I'm not frightened. Just startled."

But at the base of her throat, her heartbeat thudded even faster.

Nathan made no comment. But he wasn't blind. Or dumb. He could clearly see the physical evidence that whatever emotion had come over her affected her still.

Hands slipped casually into pockets, he sauntered a few steps closer to the maddeningly delicious smell that had teased him for hours and its equally maddening maker. "Baking meatloaf, I see."

"Mea—?" One of those slender, capable hands popped onto her hip. Aghast blue eyes surveyed him. "Nathan Grant, are you saying my baking efforts look like meatloaf to you?"

He moved in a little nearer. This close, he could feel the heat from the oven, the heat from her half-indignant response.

"What else could it be?" He allowed himself a seemingly puzzled look at the golden-brown goodness so close at hand it was all he could do not to reach out and swipe a chunk.

Astonished, she waved a hand over her head. "You don't smell that?"

All innocent, he stared into her eyes. "Smell what?"

"That!" She stabbed a finger at the finished loaves, resting in a neat row on the cooling rack. "How does that smell like meatloaf to you?"

One more step. "Well then," he said softly, "what, pray tell, is it?"

"Banana bread!" she burst out with astounded eyes, only half-laughing.

"Ah." His voice graveled softer yet. "You made banana bread."

"I. . ." She swallowed. "Yes." Her tone was bald. Her fingers indented the fabric over her hip.

A half-step more. Her eyes flared ever so slightly.

"In the loaf pan you kept?" One more tiny shift closer. ". . . 'Just in case'?"

The memory, in all its implications, leapt between them and it was like the world held its breath.

"Yes." No avoidance, no subterfuge. Just truth. Elizabeth's breath seemed to come faster. Her shoulders slowly squared. "N-Nathan, I was wondering—"

A sudden trail of smoke piped up from the closed oven door. Elizabeth sniffed, nose swooping to the air. Her face changed. "My bread!"

She whirled back to the oven, grabbing for an oven mitt as Nathan yanked the squeaky-hinged door open—Needs oiling—and she leaned around him to snatch the loaf pan from the heated cavity and deposit it onto a safe surface.

There was a moment of silence while they stared at the singed top of the otherwise perfect banana bread. Nathan very gently shut the oven door. The squeak seemed to jar Elizabeth.

"It's ruined," she pronounced with utter dismay.

Her face was making a brave attempt at ruefulness, but Nathan's ear caught the hint of a wail in her undertone. Having tried his hand at baking a handful of times, he knew the time and effort it took to make this many loaves, and he could almost see her silent, internal bewailment over the ruination of her very last loaf.

He surveyed the item in question. "Well, actually," he reached out with a towel-protected hand and turned the hot pan around, eyeing the loaf critically, "I think we might be able to salvage most of it if we just cut the burned portions off. Like so."

Deftly, he palmed a short-handled bread knife lying in wait on the countertop and in two quick slices had removed the offending pieces of charred bread.

"But it will probably taste burned still," she objected, a downcast turn to her lips.

"Let's try." He nudged a chunk loose and lifted it to her.

She bit into it. "It's definitely burned," she murmured around the mouthful, with a headshake that loosened a few long pieces of hair from her haphazard bun.

Nathan fought to keep his fingers from tucking them behind her ears, one by one. It was a battle he lost. Elizabeth's eyes blew wide as his fingers started to brush a tendril from her cheek.

Her hair was weightless, a waft of silk against his callused fingers.

He pulled back instantly, realizing what he was doing. "Sorry." The apology was quiet, simple, direct. The gaze he turned down on her was level. Or at least he hoped it was. He had no desire to fracture the moment with his precipitous action.

"Let's try another layer down." He decided to spare them both by continuing calmly past the incident. "Maybe the burned flavor didn't reach that far." Knifing another small chunk out of the loaf, he offered it to her. "Try this."

Gingerly, she set her even white teeth into it for a tiny taste test. Chewed. He watched her reaction intently.

Delicate eyebrows, sleek as feathers, soared high in graceful arches. "You're right," she said with some surprise, hand lifting to cover her mouth as she finished chewing. "There's no burned taste at all."

"There, see?" What wasn't quite a smile played at his lips. "Sometimes what appears ruined. . . isn't."

Her head snapped up. Any trace of levity drained from her face. Her pupils were huge.

Very deliberately, Nathan slowly laid down first the knife and then the towel, all without his eyes ever leaving hers. All color fled her normally creamy complexion. Awareness fell, unavoidable as the thunderous reality of an avalanche roaring down a mountain.

"The loaf is as good now as it would've been had we gotten the timing right. Sure, it looks a little different now." His shoulders flicked in a scant shrug. "But what are looks? The perfect blend of flavors is what matters, and they're just underneath, but still all there. Unchanged. Just under a new surface this time."

She hardly seemed to breath, so still had she gone before him. Only the flutter of her delicate shirtwaist betrayed that she yet took breath.

She knew exactly what he was saying.

He didn't crowd her. But he didn't retreat either. "You started to say something earlier, Elizabeth." His eyes swept her face intently. "What was it? You were wondering if. . . ?"

"I was wondering if. . . you might. . ." Her responding whisper was unsteady, so soft it was barely a breath. But her eyes, bright and burning with something he didn't dare hope upon, clung to his without wavering, an almost desperate intentionality locking them there. "Would you like to get dinner with me?"

The way she held her breath. The way a thousand emotions and memories—hopeful, pained—warred in her eyes as she stared at him.

Elizabeth. What are you saying?

But he knew. He'd always known.

This time, she waited for him to answer those now poignant words echoing from their tumultuous past.

·oOo·

A/N II: Hope you enjoyed this first installment. The banana bread dinner-picnic is coming! And banana bread has got to be brought back in S11. It'd be downright criminal if it isn't, LOL. I couldn't leave the banana bread thing alone; hence this story. :D

This might've been a bad day to upload this story (in the middle of busy Thanksgiving), but hopefully those who found a spare moment to read—between savoring pumpkin pie and turkey with all the fixin's—enjoyed it! Please feel free to share the link to this story anywhere (and w/anyone) you wish.