My throat tightens. My eyes burn.
My feet carry me without conscious decision, muscle memory taking over, following paths I walked a thousand times growing up.
I end up at the one place I always seem to come back to, the place that's been my true north even when I've been too stubborn to admit it.
CHAPTER 25
CINNABONS AND SORRY’S
NATE
Corrigan'salways smells like sugar, coffee, and the kind of memories that don't fade no matter how many years pass.
The warmth hits me as soon as I step inside—cinnamon and baked dough curling into my lungs like the town itself is reminding me where I came from.
Like Eden never really let me go, even when I tried to leave it behind.
The morning crowd is thinning out, just a few regulars scattered at tables with newspapers and laptops.
Carol's behind the counter, same as she's been for twenty years, hair pinned back in a neat bun, apron dusted with flour.
"Large black and an extra hot almond latte," I tell her, "and a box of cinnabons."
She smiles, already reaching for the tongs. "Rough morning, Mr. Sullivan?"
"Are you ever just going to call me Nate, Carol?"
"Probably never." She gives me the smile a loving grandmother gives—warm, knowing, with just enough mischief to remind you she's seen it all before. "You'll always be that sweet boy who used to come in here with your brother, trying to convince me to give you free samples."
The mention of Jake doesn't sting the way it used to. Just a dull ache, familiar and constant.
"Not a rough morning when you have a fresh batch of Cinnabons," I say, leaning one elbow on the counter.
"Oh, stop it, boy." She slides the cup across to me, then starts boxing up the pastries with careful precision. "These for young boys of yours?”
"No." I hesitate. "They're actually an apology."
Her expression softens, and she pauses in her work to look at me properly.
"Well," she says gently, "good luck with that."
I tap my card against the reader, and when she hands me the box, she adds, "I hope you're forgiven with these. Lord knows they've gotten my Harold out of trouble more times than I can count."
"Thanks, Carol. I hope so too."
I'm turning to leave when I nearly walk straight into someone who looks profoundly out of place in a small-town bakery in Eden.
Tailored navy blazer that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Crisp white shirt with the top button undone in that calculated casual way. Dark jeans that fit too perfectly to be off-the-rack. Shoes that shine like they've never seen dirt.
Hair styled with the kind of product that holds in wind and rain and general existence—the kind of grooming that speaks of standing appointments and personal shoppers and a life lived in boardrooms and first-class lounges.
Everything about him screams money. Success measured in metrics I stopped caring about years ago.
And something about him makes my skin crawl in a way I can't immediately place.
"Excuse me," he says smoothly, voice carrying that particular brand of confidence that comes from never being told no. "Are you Nate Sullivan? The music producer?"
I shift the coffee and box to get a better grip. "Uh, yeah. That's me."
