When I try the second time, I decide to make coffee alongside it.
That’s when things go south.
The ancient espresso machine makes a grinding noise. I should stop. I know I should stop.
But I don’t.
I flip the switch again and smell something burning.
The back of the machine lets out a hiss. Then a pop.
Then smoke.
“Shit—shit—no, no, no.” I scramble to unplug it, but the outlet sparks.
The back wall near the breaker starts to glow.
“Pancake!” I scream.
The fire alarm wails.
Smoke fills the room like cotton stuffing, thick and choking. I grab a nearby towel and throw it at the small flame, but it does nothing.
The fire extinguisher—where the hell is it?
I rip open the old cabinet near the door and grab it, nearly dropping it in panic. I don’t even know if it still works, but I yank the pin and aim.
The chemical blast is loud. White foam coats the wall. My ears ring from the alarm. Pancake darts out the open door, tail puffed.
I fall onto my knees, coughing.
The muffins are ruined. My sweater’s soaked with sweat. And the café smells like burned coffee and bitter humiliation.
I sit there, foam everywhere, blinking through the haze.
This was a mistake.
Maybe I’m too broken to fix anything.
Maybe the café is just as wrecked as I am.
CHAPTER TWO
Beau
The station smellslike burnt coffee, old leather, and aftershave. It’s a mess of half-played poker, last night’s shift’s leftovers, and the kind of banter that makes everything feel easy. Familiar.
It’s not like Sandtown, Idaho, where I grew up. Where every interaction came with strings and expectations.
Here in Fox Hollow, there’s room to breathe. To be. To let your guard down without it coming back around with a bite.
“Full house,” Jamila says, slapping her cards down with a grin like she’s already won. She probably has. She always wins.
“Damn it,” I mutter, tossing my cards down and leaning back in my chair. “You cheat.”
“Don’t hate the player, Rhodes,” she says, shuffling her deck with one hand like a magician. “Hate the game.”
We’re halfway through another hand when the tone drops—a shrill, unmistakable pulse that clears the table faster than anything.
