Chapter 20
Hannah
Hannah stared at the stack of bills on her grandmother's old desk, running the numbers again. And again. As if somehow they'd change if she just looked at them long enough.
The morning sun slanted through Sugar & Spice's windows, painting everything golden. Usually, this was her favorite time of day—just her and the gentle hum of the ovens, the scent of fresh bread wrapping around her like a warm blanket.
But today, the numbers wouldn't add up.
Her fingers traced the edge of another cancellation notice. Three cakes this month alone. The hospital's standing order. The founder's day celebration committee.
Her phone buzzed. Frank, her flour supplier. Her chest tightened—she'd been dodging his calls all week.
"Frank, I—"
"Just wanted to let you know the payment came through." His voice was warm, familiar. "You're all set."
Hannah's hand froze on the paperwork. "What payment?"
"For the past due balance. And this month's order." Paper rustled on his end. "Came through last night. You want the usual delivery schedule?"
The room tilted sideways. She hadn't paid. Couldn't have paid. The money wasn't there.
Which meant—
"Who?" Her voice came out strangled. "Frank, who made the payment?"
A pause. "Anonymous. But look, Hannah, everyone's going through tough times. Nothing wrong with accepting—"
The rest of the call was a blur of politeness and platitudes. Hannah thanked him woodenly, her voice distant, automatic. She hung up before he could say anything else.
Her hands shook as she pulled up her account. The payment was there. A neat sum that exactly covered what she owed, plus next month's order.
Only one person knew those exact numbers. Only one person had seen her hunched over the books late at night, had watched her try to make the math work.
Jake.
The name hit her like a physical blow.
The same Jake who'd betrayed her trust. Who'd spent months pretending to love her while gathering evidence against her father. Who had no right to—
Her desk clattered as she shoved back her chair.
No.
He didn't get to do this.
Didn't get to swoop in and play hero after destroying her life.
She grabbed her keys, the invoice clutched in her hand like a weapon. The morning sun felt too bright now, too exposing, as she stepped onto Main Street.
A movement caught her eye. Michael Harrison stood in front of his shuttered pharmacy, watching. Always watching lately.
His lips curved in a bitter smile.
Hannah's fingers tightened on the paper until it crumpled.
She didn't need Jake Cooper's guilt money or his protection or his help.
She'd rebuild this herself, brick by brick if she had to.
But first, she was going to tell him exactly where he could shove his anonymous payment.
Her boots clicked against the sidewalk as she marched toward the firehouse, the sound sharp as gunshots in the morning quiet. Behind her, she could feel Michael's eyes following her movement. Could almost hear his smirk.
Let him watch.
Let him judge.
Let the whole damn town see.
She didn't need anyone's help.
Especially not Jake's.
But God, her hands were shaking.
The firehouse door swung open with a force that rattled the hinges.
Hannah barely registered the startled faces of the firefighters clustered near the kitchen, their casual morning chatter cutting off as she strode inside.
The air smelled like coffee and smoke and sweat, but all she could focus on was the man standing in the middle of the bay, his back to her, hands braced on a workbench.
Jake.
Her fingers curled around the invoice, crumpling it further. Good. Let him see what a mess he'd made.
"Cooper!"
Jake turned at the sound of his name, wiping his hands on a rag, brow furrowing as his gaze landed on her. He was in his uniform—navy blue t-shirt stretched across his broad chest, turnout pants slung low on his hips—but for half a second, she saw him the way he used to be.
Barefoot in her kitchen, stealing spoonfuls of cookie dough while pretending to fix her leaky faucet.
That image shattered under the weight of her rage.
She closed the distance between them, shoving the crumpled paper hard against his chest. "What the hell were you thinking?"
Jake barely moved from the impact, his gaze dropping to the paper, then back to her. He didn't even have the decency to look guilty.
"Hannah." His voice was low, careful.
"Don't you 'Hannah' me." She shoved at him again, harder. "You had no right."
Jake's hands clenched at his sides, but he didn't step back. "You needed help."
Her breath came sharp and shallow. "I needed to do it myself."
Something flickered in his expression—something too raw, too full of a grief she wasn't ready to name.
A chair scraped behind her. The other firefighters were watching. Peterson, Roberts, even Chief Miller in his office doorway.
The weight of their attention pressed against her skin, but she didn't care.
Jake had no right to do this. To fix things behind her back. To decide what she needed. To play hero after destroying her life.
She shoved him again.
This time, he caught her wrists.
The shift was instant. One second, she was full of fury—the next, her pulse was hammering beneath his grip.
Jake's fingers were warm, too warm, too familiar.
For a second—one unbearable second—she was back in his arms, his touch ghosting over her skin, lips brushing hers in the kind of kiss that turned her world upside down.
And then she remembered.
The betrayal. The lies. The fact that he had never really been hers at all.
Hannah tore her hands free, shoving him off so hard he took a half-step back.
"Stop trying to fix me, Jake."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "That's not—"
"I don't want your money." Her voice shook, but she didn't care. "I don't want your help. I don't want you."
Something in his expression fractured.
For a moment, she thought—hoped—he might say something. Might fight back.
But he didn't.
Because Jake Cooper only fought when it was his job.
She turned on her heel, shoving past Roberts, past Peterson, past the dozens of eyes burning into her skin.
By the time she hit the firehouse door, her hands were trembling.
But she didn't look back.