“Well, I don’t like it,” she mutters, her tone softening. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”
“Maybe,” I shoot back, smiling despite myself.
There’s a pause, the kind that feels loaded with all the things we’ve never needed to say out loud. “I just want you safe, okay?” she says finally, her voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.
“I know,” I reply, my throat tightening—not from fear, but from the overwhelming gratitude of having someone like her in my life. “And I promise I’ll be careful. But I’m not leaving, Aiden. Not when I might’ve found purpose.”
“Fine,” she says, but it’s the kind of fine that means she’s not fine at all. “But you better call me daily. And not just to check in because I’m texting you five thousand times a day. Call me if you’re bored, or lonely, or whatever. And send me pictures of that ridiculously hot husband of yours so I can confirm he’s not an alien or something.”
I laugh, the sound warm and real this time. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me,” she quips. “Text me later, okay?”
“Okay,” I promise, even though we both know she’ll text me first.
I end the call, slipping my phone into my pocket as I glance at the clock. Time for some air—and maybe a cup of coffee that doesn’t taste like security-guard-brand sludge.
The Honey Dropenvelops me the moment I step inside, the rich scent of espresso mingling with the faint sweetness of vanilla. It’s the kind of warmth that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a memory, familiar but with a tinge of distance—like coming home after being away for too long.
My eyes immediately land on Delilah, her bright auburn hair piled into a haphazard bun, a few strands falling loose. She’s at the register, locked in a spirited argument with a customer, her hands gesturing wildly as she fires off a rapid string of words. The barista looks caught in the crossfire, shifting nervously as Delilah chides them both with equal fervor.
At first, she doesn’t notice me, too caught up in her battle of wits. But then her gaze flicks toward the door, and the transformation is instant. Her entire face lights up like someone flipped a switch, and without hesitation, she abandons the poor customer mid-sentence.
“Gale,” she squeals, practically throwing herself at me in a hug that’s tight enough to steal my breath.
I laugh, hugging her back, expecting to catch a whiff of coconuts and sunshine—something lingering from her beach trip to Cabo. But no, that’s ridiculous. She’s been back for over a month. Instead, she smells like vanilla and cinnamon, her mom’s signature latte recipe clinging to her like a second skin.
“Del,” I say, pulling back just enough to see her face, which is glowing with her usual effervescence. “You’re already starting fights? How long have you been back on the clock?”
She grins, unapologetic. “Long enough to remind everyone that I run this place better than Mom.”
I arch a brow. “Pretty sure your mom would have a lot to say about that.”
“Eh.” Delilah shrugs, her usual unapologetic grin spreading across her face as she loops her arm through mine and steers me toward a table tucked in the corner. “She secretly loves it when I step in. Says it keeps things . . . interesting.”
I glance back at the customer still lingering awkwardly at the counter, their expression caught somewhere between annoyance and confusion. “Pretty sure interesting isn’t the word they’d use.”
Delilah waves a hand, dismissing them like a queen waving off a minor inconvenience. “They’ll live. Now, spill,” she says, her voice dropping just enough to let me know she’s serious. “And don’t even try to feed me some ‘everything’s fine’ bullshit. I want the real tea.”
I hesitate, glancing around the bustling café. Familiar faces are everywhere, and the air is thick with the kind of nosy energy only a small town can produce. I can feel the questions hanging in the air, unspoken but loud enough to drown out the hum of conversation.
Delilah catches my hesitation, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Let’s go to the office.”
She leads me to the back, through the door markedEmployees Only, and into the small, cozy room that serves as her mom’s office. She locks the door behind us, then drops into the chair opposite mine, her hands steepled under her chin like she’s about to interrogate me.
“What the fuck, Gale?” she starts, her tone cutting through the quiet. “You married Ledger Timberbridge?”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “You heard, huh?” I try to sound casual, but her gaze doesn’t waver.
“You married Ledger,” she repeats, leaning forward now, her eyes blazing. “And I had to find out from the town gossip. Do you know how embarrassing it is to hear, ‘Oh, didn’t you know? They met in Italy. It was romantic, blah, blah, fucking blah—’ all wrapped up in a bow of fucking lies?”
I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Technically, we did meet in Italy,” I say, attempting a weak defense.
“I call that bullshit,” she snaps, her arms crossing over her chest as she glares at me.
I exhale, knowing there’s no way out of this without telling her something real. “Fine. We met in Italy. You knew about my failed wedding, but I never told you the rest . . . about the honeymoon or the kiss or . . .” I trail off, because I shouldn’t tell her about the truths and dares or how I ran away. “Well, let’s just say we had a good time bonding.”
Delilah leans back, her mouth falling open slightly before she snaps it shut again. “Okay, so you knew him,” she says, her voice laced with skepticism. “But marrying him? That’s a leap.”
