"Everything okay?" I ask.
He looks up at me, annoyed. His eyes drop to the henley, to the jeans, to the fact that I actually put some effort into my appearance. He scowls but he asks, "Since when do you dress up?"
"I'm going out for coffee. Who was that on the phone?" My eyes zero in on the bulging vein in his temple. That can't be good for his blood pressure or his heart, either. Getting that upset, knowing the man is an alcoholic, is a health risk.
"None of your damn business." He picks up the phone again and shoves it in his pocket, turning away from me toward the fridge. "If you wanted to know what's going on in this family, you should've been here."
There it is—the same line, repackaged. I've heard six different versions of it since I got home and every single one hits the same nerve. I grab my wallet off the counter and head for the door because if I stand here and take the bait, we'll be at each other's throat again, and I can't show up to meet Emily with my blood pressure through the roof.
"I'll be back later," I grumble, knowing this conversation can't be over. And when he doesn't respond, I pull the door shut behind me.
But I stand on the porch for a second, letting the fresh air cool me down. My father has this way of getting under my skin and pissing me off. I'm sure he probably doesn't mean to or evenrealize he's doing it, but fuck's sake. Being back in this place makes me wish I never came home.
I stalk off the porch toward town, and the fifteen-minute walk gives me plenty of time to shake off the bad attitude and think through what I'm gonna say to her. Emily's gonna want an explanation. She'll want to know why I left, why I didn't call, why I didn't write, why I vanished for eight years without a single word. She deserves answers to all of those questions.
The problem is that every honest answer I have sounds like an excuse, and Emily has never had much patience for excuses, and I hurt her really badly. I could tell that the day I walked into that bakery and saw her. I just have to swallow my pride and let her say what she needs to say, because I owe her that much.
The coffee shop is new, one of those places with chalkboard menus and mismatched furniture that looks like it was decorated by a Pinterest queen. I don't recognize the guy behind the counter, a younger kid with a patchy beard and an apron that saysBrewed Awakeningacross the chest.
"What can I get you?" he asks, looking thoroughly bored, and I see his phone propped up against the cash register playing a video. One single ear bud peeks out from his ear under the dark cap he wears.
"Two coffees. One black, one with cream and two sugars."
He rings it up without looking at me. "Name?"
"Jaxon."
His eyes flick up at that, and I swear he gives me a dirty look, but he turns to make the coffees and I lean on the counter watching him. It appears even the next generation of people in this townhold the same animosity toward me as the ones who were here when I left. Like their parents are teaching them that the name Jaxon Cole is synonymous with a dark cloud they should avoid.
When he returns, he offers the coffees without so much as a smile or thank you, and I don't bother thanking him, either. I take the coffees to a table by the window and sit down facing the door. Old habit from the service. You never sit with your back to an entrance if you can help it, at least not when you know an enemy could sneak up on you. But this time, I'm not waiting for an enemy—at least I hope she's not going to declare herself one.
Emily and I have some things we'll need to discuss and work out, but we are far from enemies. Maybe I'm foolish for thinking we still have a shot, and maybe she'll prove that's true. But maybe, if there is a God in heaven, she'll surprise me. I felt the spark between us twice now. I'm just praying she did too.
The coffee is decent, better than I expected from a place with a pun for a name, and I sip mine while I wait and try not to check the time every thirty seconds. I've been trained to run on a schedule, so to be ten minutes early means you're late.
Emily, however, is four minutes late when she walks in. I start to feel tense because that's my knee-jerk reaction to someone not respecting my time, but I force myself to remember I'm not on military time anymore and sometimes, life gets in the way. Besides, she looks incredible and every thought I had about trying to play it cool goes straight out the window as I stand to wave her over.
She's wearing a light blue sundress with a denim jacket over it, and her hair is down around her shoulders instead of pulled back. She's got a little color on her lips and her freckles are out from the sun, scattered across her nose and cheeks. She lookslike she put effort into this but doesn't want anyone to know she put effort into this, which is such an Emily move, it almost makes me laugh.
She's absolutely perfect.
She spots me at the table and gives a small wave that's more like a twitch of her hand, and when she gets close enough, I can smell her perfume. It wraps around me and pulls me in, reminding me how amazing it is to lose myself in a woman's touch. But I grind back those thoughts and sigh, smiling at her. This is about catching up and reconnecting, nothing else.
"Hey," I chirp as I pull her chair out and she sits, tucking her purse on her lap instead of hanging it on the chair. She's got a death grip on it.
"Hey." She eyes the second coffee. "You ordered for me?" The way her eyes track from the paper cup with its thick cardboard sleeve upward to my eyes makes me smile. I sink onto my chair, and I can't keep the damn goofy smile from curling my lips.
"Cream and two sugars. I remembered…" I slide it across the table and sit back down, and she wraps both hands around the cup but doesn't drink yet.
I take a sip of mine and try to find a way into a conversation that doesn't feel forced. But she looks uncomfortable—tight jaw, tense shoulders, eyes flicking around nervously. It's been a long time, and there's a lot of hurt there.
"So," I say, "how long have you been working at the bakery?"
When she looks up at me, I instantly regret asking that question. The look on her face isn't annoyance, but it isn't exactly welcoming. I've been away too long and missed too much, andshe is really ready to let me have it. "I don't work there, Jaxon. I own it."
Her words throw me off for a second. It's not that I don't believe her, or even that she's capable of doing that. I just realize how much I've missed around here. "You own the Carolina Crumb?"
She takes a sip of coffee and watches me process it. "It's mine… Why? You think I'm not able to do something?—"
