She’s across town, probably wrist-deep in paint and sawdust, determined to rebuild her life brick by brick.
Cora breaks into my thoughts. “We should go dancing sometime. You still know how, or have you gone soft?”
I laugh. “I remember enough to keep from embarrassing myself. Mostly.”
“So that’s a yes?” she says, grin widening.
“That’s a maybe,” I counter. But the corner of my mouth pulls up, because saying yes to Cora is easy. It doesn’t cost me anything.
I step outside, coffee warming my palm against the crisp morning air, and nearly run into Ryker. He’s hauling a toolbox in one hand, a rolled-up blueprint in the other.
“Morning,” I say.
He nods. “Morning. You look like hell.”
“Thanks. How’s Wren’s café coming along?” I ask casually, though I’m not sure why the question slips out. Maybe because I picture it every time I pass the square—Wren inside, sleeves rolled up, that stubborn little crease between her brows.
Ryker shrugs. “We’ve done most of the heavy work. But she called this morning and put everything on hold.”
That stops me. “Hold? Why?”
“Said she needed a week. Didn’t say more than that.”
I thought she was eager—hell, desperate—to get the place open. That bakery’s more than a project for her; it’s an anchor. Her grandmother’s legacy. Hearing she’s pulled back sends a ripple of something sharp through my chest.
We part ways, Ryker heading toward the hardware store. I stand there for a moment, sipping my coffee and trying to tellmyself it’s none of my business. She’s an adult. She can handle herself.
But the next thing I know, I’m back at the counter inside the coffee shop. “Hey,” I tell Cora, “make me another. And, uh… one of those cinnamon scones.”
“For you?” she asks.
“For someone else,” I say, and leave it at that.
It doesn’t hurt to check in. That’s all this is. Just making sure she’s alright.
That’s the lie I tell myself, anyway. The truth is, I don’t mind seeing her again—definitelydon’t mind.
By the time I reach the bakery, the front doors are locked. The windows are dim, no light spilling from inside. I balance the coffee tray in one hand and knock.
A blur of orange catches my eye. Pancake. The cat plants himself in the front window like a sentry, tail flicking.
“Hey, buddy,” I murmur, lifting my fingers in a little wave.
I should leave. The place is clearly not open, and she’s probably resting. But something roots me in place. I knock again, harder this time.
No answer.
I pull out my phone and hit her contact. The first ring goes to voicemail. Second ring, nothing. On the third, there’s a click and her voice—low, rough, like she’s been asleep or crying.
“Beau?”
“Yeah. You okay?”
“I’m fine. If you’re at the café, you need to leave.”
There’s a muffled sound in the background. Movement. Upstairs, if I had to guess.
“Where are you?”
