Chapter 5 #2
Finally, mercifully, the interrogation slows. The book club ladies back off slightly, pretending to have their own conversation while obviously still listening to every word.
Dean turns to me. Really looks at me, and the playfulness in his expression fades into something more serious. More real.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “About yesterday. The way I handled things.”
I wasn’t expecting that. “You were just doing your job.”
“I was hiding behind my job.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is. “There’s a difference.”
The coffee shop has gone silent. Everyone leaning in, pretending not to listen.
Someone’s phone goes off with a wedding bells ringtone.
We both laugh despite ourselves, and the tension breaks just enough that I can breathe again.
“Can we talk?” Dean asks. “Really talk. Without the audience?”
“I don’t think that’s an option right now.”
“Fair.” He glances around at our rapt observers, then back at me. Something shifts in his eyes—a decision being made. “Then I’ll just say this here. The reason I’m so strict about safety regulations isn’t because I like following rules.”
His voice drops lower. Rougher. I have to lean closer to hear him, close enough that I can smell the freshness of his aftershave, hints of pine and clean, crisp air.
“My wife died five years ago. Car accident. Someone ran a red light, wasn’t paying attention.” His jaw tightens. “I was first on scene. I’m a fire chief. I’m trained for this. But I couldn’t save her. Couldn’t do anything except hold her and watch her slip away.”
My heart cracks open. “Dean.”
“Rules exist for a reason, Jo. They save lives. That red light that driver ignored? That’s a rule.
A simple one. But it cost me everything.
” He takes a shaky breath. “So yeah, I’m inflexible about safety.
Because I’ve seen what happens when people cut corners or think rules don’t apply to them. I’ve lived it.”
The entire coffee shop is silent now. Even Grandma Hensley has stopped her commentary.
I reach out without thinking, covering his hand with mine on the table. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How could you?” His hand turns under mine, fingers threading through mine in a way that feels both natural and earth-shattering.
“I’m not trying to ruin your festival, Jo.
I’m trying to make sure no one gets hurt.
That no one has to get a phone call in the middle of the night saying someone they love isn’t coming home. ”
Tears prick my eyes. Because I get it now. Really get it. He’s not a villain. He’s a man trying to prevent others from feeling the pain he still carries.
“I’ve been alone since my divorce,” I hear myself saying.
The words spilling out before I can stop them.
“Seven years. Brad left, and I thought...I thought there was something wrong with me. That I was too focused on work, too intense, too much.” I glance at our joined hands.
“Watching Asher and Mads so happy makes me wonder sometimes. Is love still possible at forty-eight? Or did I miss my chance?”
My voice cracks on the last word.
Dean’s grip on my hand tightens. “I’m fifty-two. I thought that chapter was closed for me. Thought I had my one great love and that was it.”
“And now?” I whisper.
“Now I’m sitting in a coffee shop being ambushed by your book club, and I’m thinking...” He stops. Swallows hard. “I’m thinking maybe I was wrong.”
The air between us turns molten. Charged. I can feel my pulse in my throat, in my fingertips where they press against his.
“I’ll help you,” Dean says. “With the festival. We’ll find a solution. If you’re willing to work with me instead of against me.”
“Together?” The word comes out breathier than I intended.
“Together.” His thumb strokes across my knuckles, and the touch sends heat spiraling through me. “What do you say, Jo? Truce?”
I should be cautious. Should protect my heart that’s already been broken once. Should remember all the reasons this is complicated. He’s Asher’s fire chief. I’m Asher’s mother. We barely know each other, and we’ve been fighting for days.
But looking into his eyes, feeling his hand in mine, I can only think about one thing.
Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe there’s still time for second chances.
“Truce,” I agree.
The coffee shop erupts in applause.
Dean and I jump apart, both of us having forgotten we have an audience. His face is flushed, and I’m pretty sure mine is the same.
The door chimes. Mads walks in, takes one look at us—at our still-joined hands, at our faces, at the lit candle on the table—and her entire expression lights up like Christmas morning.
“Oh my,” she breathes, already pulling out her phone.
Dean and I exchange panicked looks.
“Mads,” I start. “This isn’t—”
But she’s already typing furiously, a huge grin on her face. Across the room, someone’s phone buzzes. Then another. Then three more in rapid succession.
“The whole town is going to know by dinner,” Dean mutters.
“The whole town knows right now,” I correct, watching the phones light up around us like dominoes.
He looks at me. I look at him. And despite everything—despite the complications and the gossip and the fact that we still haven’t solved the festival problem—we both start laughing.
Because maybe, just maybe, this disaster is turning into something beautiful.
Even if it is happening in front of literally everyone we know.