I smile. “Just checking.”
Another pause. Then her voice turns bratty, familiar. “So… while I have you… I may need thirty bucks.”
I groan. “For what?”
“My roommate’s birthday dinner.”
I snort. “Dinner? Or margaritas?”
She gasps, offended. “Levi Maddox, howdareyou accuse me of being predictable?”
“I’m sending forty.”
“God bless you.”
“Tess.”
“I’m fine,” she says, the teasing slipping into something softer. “Seriously, midterms suck, but I’m good. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I lie easily. “Just checking in.”
We hang up after she promises to send me the world’s worst selfie later. I send the money, take a shower, and get dressed in jeans, a Henley, and my usual boots. Tossing my jacket over my arm, I step out into the cool evening.
I feel a little steadier. Still tired. Still carrying more than I probably should. But steadier.
Thirty minutes later, I’m walking into the Smokehouse, where the air smells like aged bourbon and slow-cooked pork.
The lights are low, the windows fogged with laughter and the scent of woodsmoke. It’s the only place in town that somehow feels both like a dive bar and a town hall, depending on what hour you walk in.
Mick, the owner and bartender, is leaning halfway over the bar, eyes twinkling.
“You’re late,” he calls. “They already started talking about the girl.”
I frown as I make my way through the tables. “What girl?”
“You know the one.” He taps the side of his nose. “Red hair, green eyes, almost burned down a whole café trying to bake muffins. Legend in the making.”
I blink. “You mean Wren Aldridge?”
Beau’s sitting at our usual booth, nursing a beer with that satisfied lean he gets when he’s just stirred a pot. Simon’s beside him, arms crossed, scrubs exchanged for jeans and a black thermal that still looks like a uniform.
“You know, she looks exactly like her grandmother. Apparently,” Mick continues, “no one ever knew who Grandma Aldridge’s mate was. She just showed up one day pregnant, running that café like a one-woman pack.”
“She was mated,” Simon mutters.
“Who? The grandma?” I ask.
Beau nods. “Doesn’t mean she was bonded.”
I slide into the booth and grab the beer. Beau slides over. “The town’s already dissecting the poor woman’s scent profile?”
“Not just the grandma, Wren too. She nearly burned down her grandmother’s café. Everyone is talking about her and her entire family,” Simon deadpans, arms crossed, beer half-finished.
“She was trying to make coffee,” Beau says, ever the defender, hair still messy from his shift. “Looked like she hadn’t slept in days. That place meant something to her.”
Usually, we’re joking, teasing, letting the edge of our jobs melt into beer and comfort food. But tonight… there’s a tension I can’t name.
“She looked rattled,” I admit. “Like something hit her harder than the smoke.”
