Safe Place (Westcliffe #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

Baby, is everything okay?

SOPHIE

I’m rushing out the door, but I still check the lock. Once. Then again, just to be sure.

It’s flimsy—sticks if you don’t turn it all the way—and I hate how aware of it I am.

Seems like everyone’s out there chasing love. But I don’t mind being alone, as long as it’s quiet and I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder. As long as I can breathe without bracing for what might come next.

I linger for a second longer than I should, then force myself to leave.

I woke up later than I wanted to today—not by much, but enough to throw me off.

It’s not like me. I’m usually up early, already moving.

Yesterday drained me—three classes, a shift at the campus bookstore, and then the late shift at Boston Brews.

Kind of an ambitious name for a cafe in a town that's a good hour from Boston.

Today’s lighter. Just one class, an afternoon shift at the cafe, and then an interview at the Student Center for a student tutor position. Then I’m free to go home and catch up on some assignments I need to finish up before bed tonight.

It’s only the third week of sophomore year, and I’m already drowning. Eighteen credits and three jobs might be a mistake, but I don’t really have a choice. I need the money.

I slip into Intro to Communications with three minutes to spare and head for my usual spot—third to last row, farthest from the door.

My laptop’s fully charged, but it’s so old it randomly shuts down unless it’s plugged in, so I always take the seat by the wall to reach the outlet.

It’s honestly a miracle no one’s tripped over the charging cord all these years.

Professor Brightman is already loading something onto the projector, muttering something about formatting issues. A few moments later, the lights dim and Brightman clears his throat.

“Alright,” he says, tapping a few keys on his laptop. “Let’s talk about your first major assignment. You’ll be working in groups of five on a presentation.”

He clicks to the next slide. “Each group will analyze a real-world crisis communication failure—something that made headlines. Your job is to break down what happened, where the communication strategy fell short, and how it could have been handled more effectively from a public relations standpoint. Think messaging, timing, tone, stakeholder response.”

Another click. A list appears on the screen. “Groups were randomly assigned, so no bribing me for switches. Find your name up there and start coordinating with your team. I’d use this time to exchange emails and numbers.”

My eyes scan for my name. Group 6: Sophie Lennox, Ella Morgan, Declan Park, Micah Vale, Grant West. I recognize Declan from our Expository Writing class last fall, with relief. But that’s it. Thankfully, with Declan I know the workload will be distributed at least fifty/fifty.

“Sophie! Over here!” Declan calls from a distance.

He’s standing with two guys, whom I assume are Micah Vale and Grant West. They’re both tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly put together. Athletes, maybe?

The one with brown hair meets my eyes and gives me a nod.

His gaze is calm, focused—and framed by the prettiest gray eyes I’ve ever seen.

The blonde guy next to him, just as tall, greets me with an oversized grin and a wave.

He looks at the brunette next to him, and then back to me, and then starts beaming.

It’s then that I notice the brunette is wearing the same forest green Westcliffe University sweatshirt as me.

I can feel my face turning red. I picked mine up at the campus bookstore during my shift last week, along with a couple T-shirts.

They’re practical, and I get a very generous employee discount. But no one needs to know that.

Another girl joins our group at the same time I do—tall, polished, and clearly not shy. She must be Ella Morgan.

“Hello, boys,” she says, voice honey-sweet. “Micah, Grant—it’s so good to see you both. How did you two manage to end up in the same group?”

The blonde one grins like he was waiting for that exact setup. “Probably the same way you did,” he says, tossing her a wink.

Ella finally glances at me, then does a quick double-take at the brunette. Her gaze drops to our matching sweatshirts, and a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“Aw,” she says, tilting her head. “You look like you could be his little sister.”

I don’t let it get to me. Not worth the energy. Instead, I offer a polite nod and turn to the group. “I’m Sophie.”

“Declan.”

“I’m Grant, and this guy”—says the blonde, as he hooks an arm around the brunette’s shoulder—“is Micah. Looking forward to working with everyone.”

Micah chuckles. “Digging the sweatshirt, Sophie. You’ve got good taste.”

I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me, or maybe he’s trying to soften Ella’s comment, so I just smile. Giving very little to no reaction is always the answer.

We exchange emails and phone numbers around and discuss a few tentative meeting times before we start to drift back to our seats.

MICAH

“The girl from our group is kind of cute. What do you think?” Grant asks as we walk out of class.

“Bella?” I raise a brow. “She’s trouble—trust me, stay away.”

“Her name’s Ella. And I’m not talking about her.

I meant the other one. The quiet one. The one with the matching sweatshirt as you.

” He gives me a look. “And don’t worry, I know Ella,” he adds with a scoff, “she used to hook up with one of my old hockey teammates. Still might be. Had the audacity to ask me—multiple times—to introduce her to you. Can’t believe she actually managed to get in your group. ”

“How did you get into my group?” I ask, remembering the way he shut Ella down earlier.

“I begged Professor Brightman after class last week,” he admits with zero shame. “Told him you’re my emotional support best friend. He knows what I’ve been through. I guess he caved. Ella probably pulled some similar bullshit.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

Grant West has been my best friend since forever—more of a brother than anything else. Everyone thought he’d go pro in hockey after college. He was that good. But after losing his twin brother freshman year, he quit.

He plays the pity card sometimes. Not because he’s manipulative, but he just passes it off more lightly than he actually feels about it, obviously. I don’t push him to be honest, though. I’m sure he will open up when he’s ready.

“The girl with the Westcliffe sweatshirt,” he says again, nudging me. “What do you think?”

I shrug. “She’s cute, I guess. Definitely not your type though. But then again, I didn’t really get a good look.”

It’s a lie. I saw her clearly. I should’ve looked away, but I didn’t.

She is pretty, but that’s not what I noticed first. She looked very tired and her eyes were distant—almost kind of sad, like she’s carrying something heavy behind her eyes.

“Yeah she’s more of the quiet girl-next-door type,” he says. “She’s pretty, but I’ll let you have her. It’s a sign from the universe you guys wore the same shirt.”

I roll my eyes and don’t answer. The sweatshirt I’m wearing isn’t a show of school pride or some sign from the universe.

It’s because the girl I hooked up with in my car before class took my hoodie, and I knew the lecture hall would feel like a damn meat locker.

Picked this one up from the bookstore ten minutes before class started.

I should probably end things with Hailey. She was supposed to be a summer fling, but she keeps popping up everywhere I go. I needed stress relief—she’s hot, easy, and doesn’t ask questions. But it’s gone on longer than it should’ve.

It’s not that I’m swamped with classwork or anything, but I’m under pressure.

Junior year means my dad’s breathing down my neck more than usual.

I’m being trained to take over The Vale Group, our family’s global luxury real estate and development firm.

That means perfect grades at a prestigious university, PR appearances, networking events, and playing the heir.

I’m not even the oldest. That’s Luke—he’s a year ahead of me. But he made it clear a long time ago that he wants nothing to do with the company. Said it doesn’t align with his values.

So now it’s me. All eyes on me. Relationships are too much maintenance. Too many expectations. Just another performance I don’t have the energy for.

I head to my car and back to my apartment while Grant turns toward the gym.

I also know he’s meeting with his advisor—probably another attempt from the school to convince him to reconsider hockey.

Without him, the team will most definitely suffer another season.

Plus Grant doesn’t have the grades to make up for no longer being the school’s star athlete.

But I know he won’t go back.

He’s also pretty locked in on becoming COO of The Vale Group—or something close to it—when I take over.

If he needs money to make up for losing his athletic scholarship, my family would cover that too.

My dad’s a hard-ass, rigid about everything, with two exceptions: my mom and Grant.

He’s always been an exception. He treated him like a son since long before what happened with his brother.

I duck into the cafe next to my building. An eight o’clock class on a Monday morning was a mistake, and I need caffeine if I plan on functioning like a human.

Then I notice the familiar face behind the counter.

Sweatshirt Girl.

Same Westcliffe hoodie, one sleeve pushed up above her elbow, short brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. Her big brown eyes are locked on the espresso machine—darker than I remember from class, and more tired. Same neutral expression, like she’s working without being fully present.

I’ve been to this cafe more times than I can count.

Has she been here all along? Taken my order before?

How the hell did I never notice her until now, or not even recognize her in class this morning?

To be fair, she didn’t seem to recognize me either, but I’m sure she gets hundreds of customers a day at this location.

“An iced americano please,” says the guy at the front of the line.

“Iced americano. Would you like anything else?” asks the barista at the register—a guy with a man bun.

“Yeah. A madeleine…and the number of the barista in the green Westcliffe sweatshirt.”

What the fuck?

I catch Sweatshirt Girl freeze mid-pour. Her shoulders tense. Eyes flick wide.

“Kidding,” the guy adds quickly, trying to backpedal. “She’s just cute. That’s all. Just the americano and the madeleine.”

The asshole then has the nerve to walk over to her—fuck, what was her name again?—and starts saying something I can’t quite hear from where I'm standing. But I can see it’s making Sweatshirt Girl very uncomfortable—no, she looks fucking terrified.

SOPHIE

The line moves, and I keep my head down, focus tight on the steam wand, trying not to panic.

“Hey.”

I don’t look up.

“Hey,” the voice repeats, closer now.

He’s come around the side of the counter.

“Didn’t mean to make you all jumpy.” His eyes rake over me. “Just wanted to say—you’ve got a real delicate vibe. Kind of like someone who needs looking after.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean? I step back slightly. Not much. Just a half-step, trying to remain unaffected. But he leans in further.

“You always this quiet?” he murmurs, head tilting like he’s trying to look up under my lowered lashes. “That hoodie’s cute on you. But I bet you’d look better in nothing but my T-shirt.”

My mouth goes dry. I freeze.

“Don’t be shy,” he says, his voice dipping low. “I’m not trying to be a creep. I just think we’d be a good fit. The quiet ones are always the most wild. If you know what I mean?”

The sound of blood rushing in my ears nearly drowns everything out. My breathing shortens. My grip tightens around the portafilter until it hurts. I can’t move. I can't speak. Everything inside me starts to close down, like it used to. Like it learned to.

He lowers his voice even more, words nearly grazing my skin.

“Tell me what time you’re off, and I’ll be waiting.

We’ll keep it just between us. You can trust me.

” His fingers brush the edge of the counter near mine.

Too close. I’m hoping Liam, my coworker will step in and help me, but I know he’s occupied at the register.

“Baby, is everything okay?” I hear in a comforting, slightly familiar voice. I know this voice. I heard it earlier.

I look up like I’ve been snapped out of a trance, and it’s him. Micah. His eyes are first on me, full of worry, and then suddenly lock on the guy across from me. “What the fuck is going on here?”

The guy stutters a step back. The sleaze drains from his face the second he sees Micah—like someone turned off a switch. “Hey—hey man, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. My bad.”

Micah’s voice goes flat and dangerous. “My bad?”

“Sorry, man.”

“Not to me,” Micah snaps. “To my girlfriend, you asshole.”

The guy blinks. He looks at me. Then back at Micah. His jaw works like he wants to argue, but something in Micah’s face makes him think better of it. Micah’s a good couple inches taller, and a hell of a lot more built than he is.

“I didn’t do anything. God forbid someone tries to make a new friend,” he mutters, eyes sweeping over me one last time. “You’ll warm up eventually. They always do. I have that effect on girls like you.”

Something inside me shuts down completely. My breath catches. That line—those words—they land hard. Like a memory. Like a bruise that hasn’t faded.

Before I can blink, Micah steps forward. Quick, sharp—his jaw tight, fists clenched like he’s two seconds from breaking the guy’s face in half.

The guy jolts toward the exit, looking at me one last time before he’s out the door.

I reach out on instinct, hand wrapping around Micah’s forearm before he can follow. And he looks like he’s about to. He’s solid and burning under my fingers.

“Please,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

His eyes stay on the door for a beat longer, chest rising with silent fury. “Are you okay?” he asks, voice a bit softer now. “I can go after him.”

“I’m fine. I’m sure I won’t see him again,” I say. But my voice wavers at the end. Because I’m not sure if that’s true.

He turns back to me and I meet his eyes. Then he glances down at my name tag. Of course he doesn’t remember my name, though we literally exchanged numbers two hours ago.

“Sophie.” He says. “What time do you get off work?” he asks. “I live in the building next door. I’ll be here. Just in case.”

I want to say no, that I’m fine. But the truth is, I’m scared.

“Four,” I manage.

Micah nods. “Four it is.”