Page 43 of Rising Heat

I nod.

The seat isn’t new to me, but the title would be. I’ve spent enough shifts behind the wheel to know exactly what the job looks like, which is also part of the reason I want it. The truth is,

Chauffeur feels different than most things.

Most responsibilities don’t announce themselves. They just sort of appear one day and then keep showing up until you stop noticing they’re there.

Growing up, Tyler and I could walk into the exact same situation and somehow walk out of it with completely different jobs. Tyler got to be young in a way I don’t think I ever really considered for myself. He’d spend an entire day outside, come home muddy and starving, and launch into whatever story he’d been collecting since breakfast while the rest of us listened.

At some point during that same afternoon, I’d usually find myself helping my grandfather with something, unloading a truck with Dad, or finishing whatever needed doing before dinner.

By the time I noticed the pattern, it already felt normal.

The thing is, I don’t remember resenting it. If anything, I liked knowing where I stood. There was something reassuring about people looking at a situation and assuming you’d handle it—not because they couldn’t, but because they already believed you would.

This is one of the few things I can remember wanting before it belonged to me. Ryan thumbs the screen that’s gone dark.

“You’ll find him,” I say.

He exhales.

“Always do.”

A corner of his mouth lifts before he pushes back from the table. At the door he pauses, expression more serious this time.

“Take care of your people, Mack.”

Always do.

CHAPTER SEVEN

darcy

A month into Boston living and I already have a cafe with a chai tea latte I’ve claimed as my favorite, a regular corner table by the window, and a barista named Liv who no longer asks if I want the blueberry scone and just bags it as soon as she sees me walk in.

The little coffee shop on Tremont is warm and cozy and full of people who don’t care where I came from.

The black picture-frame windows in front fog at the edges where the heat inside meets the stubborn chill outside. Afternoon light spills across scratched oak tables and white painted brick walls lined with mismatched art deco prints. The espresso machine hisses behind the counter in familiar bursts that cut through the low chatter, and someone has Ingrid Michaelson playing softly over the speakers.

A month ago, nobody in here knew my name.

Now my life smells like burnt sugar and espresso.

I’m not complaining.

It’s a small thing. But lately I’ve become weirdly protective of small things.

By three, the afternoon rush has softened into a comfortable lull. A graduate student is half-asleep over a textbook in the corner, one AirPod dangling loose. Two women in wool coats split a lemon loaf near the window. Liv wipes down the pastry case, already mentally clocked out.

I’ve been here since ten with my laptop, a sketchpad, and three different color palette options for a client that rejected my first two rounds. I am trying not to take that personally.

My phone buzzes against the table.

Bex

Okay, status check

are the men downstairs still being aggressively attractive or has everyone calmed down?