That Spark (The Slade Brothers Second Generation #6)

Chapter 1

Sadie

“Just a few more minutes, sweetheart,” I whisper, but she doesn’t budge.

Keys jangle in my hand, car, apartment, café front, café back, storage.

The cold metal bites at my fingers in the predawn air.

Slinging Poppy’s diaper bag over one shoulder and her travel crib under the other arm, I manage to scoop her against my chest without waking her. Her warm weight anchors me.

At the back door, the lock sticks like always. One, two, three stubborn turns, and it finally gives.

Next up: security check. It’s so ingrained I do it on autopilot. Door locked behind me. Check. Storage room clear. Check. Office untouched. Check. Café area empty, front door bolted. Double check.

In my office, I pop open Poppy’s crib and settle her inside, tucking the quilt around her with practiced ease. The baby monitor goes on the counter, its steady green glow like a tiny beacon. I linger for a few heartbeats, watching her chest lift and fall, then slip back to the main floor.

The café startup routine runs through my muscles without thought.

Lights on. Espresso machines warming. Cash counted.

While the systems boot, I flip through yesterday’s receipts.

Sales are down eight percent from last week.

For a Tuesday in March, it could be worse, but it’s nowhere near where it needs to be.

My planner’s already open to today’s to-do list. Marissa texted last night, something about her son’s school play, so I’m short-staffed until noon, again.

Pen in hand, I scribble out the morning lineup and wedge myself into every gap.

Our almond milk stash is almost gone, and the chocolate croissants everyone loves still haven’t arrived from yesterday’s order.

A slow burn of exhaustion settles behind my eyes as I stare at the laptop spreadsheet, the numbers I’ve been dodging. Three more months of this slump and I’ll be dipping into my dwindling savings. My stomach gives a slow, sour twist.

The baby monitor crackles with Poppy’s soft sigh. Still asleep. Still safe.

My phone vibrates, a mystery Oregon number. My heart rate spikes. I hit decline and tuck the phone away like it might bite. That unopened court envelope still lurks in my glove compartment. One crisis at a time, Sadie.

At 5:18 a.m., the back door squeaks open. My hand twitches toward my phone, then Saul’s familiar shuffle reaches my ears.

“Morning,” he says, hefting his baking supplies. Flour dusts his black tee already. “Little one still out?”

“Like a rock,” I reply, my shoulders loosening. “Coffee’s almost there.”

He grins. “You’re a saint.” He drops his bags and stretches, joints cracking. “Schedule change again?”

I pass him the updated sheet. “Marissa’s out until noon. Think we can handle the rush?”

“We always do.” He winks and disappears into the kitchen, metal bowls clanging as he pulls them from the shelves.

At the counter, I flip on the order tablet and brace myself to keep this place running for another day.

The back door swings open at 6:15 on the dot. Rowan stomps in, messy bun, travel mug in hand, confidence rolling off her like she owns the place.

I’m behind the counter when she appears. My spine goes rigid, fingers pausing over the register before I catch her eye.

“You brought home coffee when you know mine’s better?” I nod at her mug.

She snorts. “Yours is better, but mine was ready at five a.m. Some of us value sleep over punctuality.” She leans forward on her elbows. “Where’s my favorite niece?”

I roll my eyes. “Your only niece is still crashed in the office.”

“Semantics.” She slings her jacket on the hook, practically engraved with her name. “Also, you look like hell.”

The stainless steel under the counter throws back my reflection. Dark circles, frizzy hair, skin rubbed raw from too many late nights. Exhaustion sits on my face like a mask I can’t peel off.

“New look.” I shrug.

“Very… chic.” Her eyebrow arches, then her expression softens. “Rough night?”

“Poppy’s cutting another tooth. Coffee’s my only lifeline.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Again. My chest cinches tight.

Rowan’s eyes track the color draining from my face. “You okay? You look ready to bolt.”

I shove the phone deeper. “Just spam.” The words come out thin and brittle. “Can you tackle the pastry display? Saul’s behind.”

She stills, hand hovering over the pastry case. “Third time this week you’ve flinched at a buzz, Sadie.”

Another buzz vibrates against my leg. With a quick glance at the screen, I know it’s from an Oregon area code. My pulse kicks hard, a dull pounding in my ears.

Rowan’s gaze sharpens, catching every twitch, every swallowed breath.

“It’s nothing.” I scrub the counter harder than it deserves, the rag squeaking against the steel. “Robocalls. Café chaos.”

She folds her arms, shoulder pressed to the fridge door. “You’d tell me if it was serious, right?”

“I would.” The smile I slap on feels like it might crack off my face.

The front door chimes. First customer of the morning.

“We’re open,” I call, already moving toward the register, grateful for the distraction. “I’ll ring up while you finish the pastry case?”

Rowan hesitates, then nods slowly. “This isn’t over,” she murmurs.

My phone sinks deeper into my pocket, out of reach of any court clerk or ominous notice, at least for now. Orders start lining up on the screen. One task at a time. One hour at a time. Whatever’s waiting in Oregon can wait a little longer.

By the time the morning rush hits, the café is packed with regulars, and the order chime dings in rhythm with the hiss of the espresso machine. This is my lane: pour, steam, cap, call out. My hands move on autopilot.

“Three-shot Americano for Doug,” I say, sliding the cup across. “Extra room.”

Doug tips his hat. “Lifesaver, Sadie.”

The tablet pings again. Mobile pickup: Axel Slade. My fingers stall mid-swipe.

Axel Slade.

Just reading his name, my body reacts with heat low in my belly, a flush creeping up my neck.

I can still feel where his arm crowded my space last time, skin prickling like he’d left a mark.

The way he looked at me, hungry and wanton, like he already knew what I tasted like, left me off-balance.

He’d leaned in close, not enough to touch, but enough that my breath hitched.

Then, that wink, cocky, like he was daring me to look away first.

I hated how much I liked it. The kind of man who doesn’t just take up space but leaves you wondering how it would feel to let him claim all of it. And all of me.

A very specific image of his forearm on my pickup counter from two days ago floods my brain.

The memory of how he'd leaned in just far enough to be in my space without quite crossing it, like he was testing a boundary he'd set for himself.

The smell of him. And then… that little wink he gave me when he noticed me staring.

I'd turned away faster than I needed to and pretended to wipe down the steam wand.

He'd said thank you the way people don't anymore. It was unhurried and felt genuine, looking right at me instead of at his phone. Like I was a person he was actually speaking to.

I'd hated him a little for that because of this exact reason. I knew that image would haunt me again and make me blush.

My throat goes tight now, heat pricking along the back of my neck the same way it had then.

This is the part I hate most, that my body clocks him before my brain has a chance to intervene.

That some dumb, cellular part of me has cataloged the exact green of his eyes and filed it somewhere I can't seem to delete.

I try to push him out of my mind. There’s too much to juggle, too much at stake.

But the memory of his voice, low and rough, lingers.

The way he watched my hands, the heat in his gaze.

I can still feel it, like a fingerprint pressed low on my spine.

I tell myself it’s nothing, that I don’t have time for this, but my body doesn’t listen. It never does when he’s around.

He’s off-limits. I’m off-limits.

I tap Accept too hard. Except my hands don't get the message. There's still a hum running just under my sternum, low and irritating, the kind that doesn't switch off just because I've told it to. I know what it is. I'm not an idiot. I just have exactly zero use for it.

I reach for the next order and will my nervous system to stand down.

It doesn't.

Fine. I can feel something and still not act on it. I've had plenty of practice at that.

“Rowan, can you grab more almond milk?” The words come out a little too sharp, too fast.

She shoots me a look over the pastry case. “You good? You look…”

“My face is fine,” I mutter, measuring beans for the next order with more precision than necessary. “We’re slammed.”

Three more pings. I bury myself in the grind and hiss of milk, the soft babble from Poppy’s monitor, and the memory of the unopened envelope burning a hole in my glove compartment, the Oregon calls waiting inside it.

I could open it. I know I should. But that would mean ripping the bandage off everything I’ve been running from.

“Sadie!” Rowan snaps. “Order up. Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere.” I blink hard and shove the spiral back where it belongs. “Right here.”

Axel’s order still sits on the screen, status hovering on In Progress. That same flutter kicks at my ribs. I push it down. No distractions. Not now. Not ever.

I turn back to the espresso machine, hand steady on the portafilter. One shot at a time. One day at a time.