Chapter 24 Jake
Jake
Jake leaned against his truck, watching through the wide front window as Hannah moved behind the counter of Sugar & Spice.
The bakery had been open for an hour now, the scent of cinnamon and coffee spilling into the street, drawing in the occasional tourist. A couple of road-trippers sat near the window, laughing over their lattes, oblivious to the tension that had settled into this place like an old wound.
Hannah looked… tired. Tired, but steady, her hands deft as she wiped down the counter, answering questions with polite efficiency. To the casual observer, she was just a woman running her business, nothing out of the ordinary.
But Jake knew better.
He'd seen the way her hands trembled as she scrubbed away the dirt left by the dead bouquet. Seen the way her eyes darted toward the windows, how she flinched at every unexpected sound.
He should be inside. Should be making sure she was safe.
Instead, he was here.
Making a call he already knew the answer to.
With a sigh, he pressed Martinez's number. The line barely rang before she picked up.
"Cooper."
Jake cut to the chase. "There was another incident."
A pause. Then a slow exhale. "How bad?"
"Flowers this time." He kept his voice even, professional. "Dead. Left on her doorstep. No note, but the meaning was clear."
"Shit." A chair creaked on her end—he could picture her leaning back, rubbing her temples. "Let me guess. No cameras, no witnesses, no real evidence to go on."
Jake clenched his jaw. "None."
"Harrison?"
"Who else?"
Another sigh. "Cooper, you know I want to help. But we don't have the resources for this."
Jake's grip tightened on the phone. "You have the resources for surveillance on politicians' mistresses and offshore tax evaders, but you don't have anything for a woman who's being actively harassed?"
"You think I don't care?" Her voice sharpened. "This is not an FBI priority. It's a local matter. If the sheriff wants to handle it, great. But you and I both know what that means in a town like Crystal Lake."
Jake stared through the windshield, jaw tight. He did know. The sheriff would take a report, shake a few hands, and move on.
"So what do you suggest?"
A beat of silence. Then: "Let it go, Cooper."
Jake shut his eyes, his fingers curling into a fist against his knee.
No.
That wasn't happening.
"I can't," he said, voice rough. "She's not just—" He stopped, inhaling sharply. "I can't."
Martinez was quiet for a long moment. Then her voice softened. "Jesus. You're really in love with her, aren't you?"
Jake let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. "She's the woman I'm going to spend the rest of my life with."
Another pause. Then—soft, almost amused: "Congratulations."
Jake let out a bitter chuckle. "Yeah, well. She hates me, so."
Martinez hummed. "I did always say you were a stubborn son of a bitch."
Jake leaned his head back against the seat. "So what do I do?"
There was a rustling sound on her end. "You're gonna do what you've already decided. You're gonna be her protection detail whether she wants it or not."
Jake's throat felt tight. "That's not enough."
"Then make it enough."
He swallowed hard, staring at his own reflection in the truck's side mirror.
Martinez's voice softened. "Look, Cooper. I can't get you backup. But if you send me anything solid—anything real—I can at least flag it. Maybe get the Bureau watching Harrison's movements. That's the best I can do."
Jake exhaled slowly. "I'll take it."
A pause. Then: "Good luck. And for what it's worth... I hope she forgives you."
Jake huffed out a humorless laugh.
Yeah.
So did he.
But first, he had to keep her safe long enough for that to even be an option.
He ended the call and sat there for a long moment, gripping the steering wheel.
Then he glanced back toward the bakery.
Hannah was still moving behind the counter, her hands steady as she worked.
Jake knew better.
She wasn't steady.
She was barely holding on.
And no matter what she thought of him, as long as she needed him, he wasn't going anywhere.
Not now.
Not ever.
The back door of Sugar & Spice creaked open, and Jake stepped inside, carrying the fire safety gear. The bakery smelled like cinnamon, sugar, and something that always just smelled like Hannah.
It still hit him like a sucker punch every time.
He set the equipment down on the stainless steel counter, exhaling slowly, forcing himself to focus. Drop the gear. Check in with her. Get out before he did something stupid.
But the kitchen was empty.
A faint hum of movement came from the storage room. He followed it, pushing open the door—
And slammed straight into Hannah.
The impact sent them both stumbling, and before Jake could catch her, a heavy sack of flour toppled from the shelf above them.
It exploded on impact.
A cloud of fine white powder billowed around them, coating everything—his uniform, her apron, their hair, their skin.
Hannah coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. "Oh, for God's sake—"
Jake, blinking through the sudden haze, took in the absolute wreck they'd just made of the storage room. The floor was a mess of footprints, a broken-open sack spilling flour like fresh snow. And standing there, covered head to toe in a soft dusting of white, was Hannah.
She looked like a surprised, flour-covered angel.
A laugh caught in his throat before he could stop it.
"Don't." Her voice was sharp, pointing at him like a weapon. "You dare."
Jake held up both hands in surrender, grinning despite himself. "Not a word."
Hannah exhaled sharply, irritated—then froze.
She was looking at him. Really looking.
And before he could react—before he could stop her—she reached up.
Her fingers brushed through his dark strands, shaking free the flour.
For a heartbeat, they just stood there.
Her fingers ghosting over his scalp. His breath shallow. Her lips slightly parted.
The world outside the storage room didn't exist.
It was just this—just them.
Her touch lingered, her fingers trembling slightly. Her throat bobbed in a swallow, and Jake could see the war in her eyes. The part of her that wanted to step back. The part of her that wanted to stay.
Jake made the choice for her.
He kissed her. The taste of flour giving way almost immediately to the familiar feel of her lips.
Softly at first. Gently. A slow, reverent brush of his lips against hers, like he was giving her time to pull away.
She didn't.
She melted into him with a sharp inhale, hands sliding down to clutch his shirt. And just like that, the kiss deepened.
Jake tilted his head, pressing in—letting himself drown in her warmth, her taste, the familiar shape of her body against his. His hands found her waist, fingers flexing over the curve of her hips, memorizing the feel of her.
God, he missed this. Missed her.
Hannah made a soft, desperate sound against his mouth, and it wrecked him.
He kissed her harder, deeper, pouring every unspoken thing into the connection.
I love you.
I'm sorry.
I never stopped wanting you.
Her fingers fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, like she needed him just as badly.
Then—
The front bell chimed.
They tore apart like guilty teenagers, breathless, flour still dusting their clothes.
A long, charged silence filled the space.
Hannah took a step back, chest rising and falling rapidly. She lifted her hand to her lips like she could still feel him there.
The flour on her body betrayed them both. The places his fingers had gripped her waist, where his hands had slid over her curves—it was smeared into her apron, rubbed away completely in places.
His thumbprint was still visible on her cheekbone. His lips had erased the flour from her mouth.
Jake swallowed hard, fingers curling at his sides.
The bakery door chimed again, and a muffled voice called out from the front. "Hello? Anyone here?"
Hannah blinked, reality slamming back into place.
She took another step back, turned toward the door. "I—I should—"
Jake nodded, throat too tight for words.
She was gone a moment later, leaving him standing there, wrecked.
Hands shaking.
Heart hammering.
Wanting her so badly it hurt.
Jake was recoiling the fire station hose when his phone buzzed. He finished the roll, exhaling hard, then wiped sweat from his forehead before grabbing his phone.
Hannah.
A spike of adrenaline hit his bloodstream before logic kicked in. She wouldn't be calling unless—
He answered before the second ring. "Hannah?"
Silence. Shaky breathing.
His stomach clenched. "What happened?"
A long pause. Then—
"It's nothing."
That was a lie.
"Hannah." He was already moving to the door. "Talk to me."
A sound—frustrated, embarrassed—came through the line. "It's stupid. I shouldn't have called."
But she had called. And that alone meant something.
"Tell me what's wrong."
A beat. Then: "The pilot light went out."
Jake froze, one arm in his jacket. "What?"
"The oven." Her voice was clipped, but there was an edge beneath it—something raw, uncertain. "I—I smelled gas, and I panicked. I just—I know what to do, I should just fix it myself but for some reason I called—" She cut herself off, like she hated admitting it.
Jake was already moving, throwing open the firehouse doors. "I'm on my way."
"Jake, no, you don't have to—"
But he was already hanging up.
By the time he jogged down the street to Sugar & Spice, his pulse was a war drum in his ears.
Hannah stood just inside the entrance, arms wrapped around herself, looking small in the dim light.
She saw him and immediately stiffened. "Jake, I told you it wasn't—"
He brushed past her, heading straight for the kitchen. "Did you shut off the gas main?"
"Yes."
He checked it anyway, flipping open the access panel beneath the ovens. The valve was off, just like she said. Still, he scanned the area, testing the air, making sure—
No leak.
No danger.
Just a simple, minor issue.
He exhaled slowly, tension coiling and releasing in his chest.
When he turned, Hannah was leaning against the counter, watching him with guarded eyes.
"Your pilot light's fine," he said. "Just needs to be relit."
She nodded, exhaling. "I knew that."
Jake grabbed a long-reach lighter from a drawer and crouched down to ignite the small blue flame. The oven flickered to life, steady and sure.
When he stood, Hannah still hadn't moved.
Jake rubbed the back of his neck. "So, uh. That's it."
Silence.
Then:
"I called you."
It wasn't a question. Just a quiet, painful admission.
Jake swallowed. "Yeah."
"I should have called a repairman. Or figured it out myself." She shook her head, gaze dropping to the floor. "But the moment I smelled gas, I—" She broke off, pressing a hand to her forehead.
Panic.
She had panicked.
And she had called him.
Jake felt something in his chest crack wide open.
"Hannah," he said softly.
She looked up.
"I want you to call me for emergencies."
Her lips parted, eyes searching his like she wanted to believe that, like she wanted to let herself need him again. But then something flickered behind them, something colder, sharper—
Self-preservation.
"I want you to call me for everything," he said. He sounded desperate to his own ears.
"That's the problem," she whispered.
Jake barely had time to brace himself before she hit him with the words that shattered him.
"I still want to."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The air between them was thick, heavy. Every unspoken thing sat between them, all the hurt, all the history, all the longing.
Then Hannah took a step back.
The distance between them felt bigger than the damn Grand Canyon.
Jake swallowed the ache in his throat, nodded once, then grabbed his keys off the counter.
"Call me," he said, voice rough. "Call me if you need anything."
He turned and walked out before she could say anything else—before she could drive another nail into his already ruined heart.
Because God help him, he wasn't sure how many more of those he could take.