Chapter 3
Paige
Today was supposed to be quiet. A soft reset after the chaos I’d experienced yesterday. I’d earned a peaceful day, damn it—the kind of day where nothing broke, no one cried, and the biggest emergency would be running out of lime wedges before happy hour.
Naturally, that’s not how my day started off.
First up: Briar. My thirteen-year-old champion of passive resistance. I stood in her doorway like a worn-out general surveying the battlefield—hands on hips, voice already tired.
“You’re going to be late. We have to get Lark to your father’s house, you to dance class, and I have to be at the bar for the beer delivery.”
She didn’t even look at me. “I’m too tired to care.”
“You need to care, or we’re all going to be late, and then it’s total anarchy. Is that what you want? Chaos? Mutiny in the ranks?”
“Ten minutes,” she muttered, already burrowed deeper under the covers like a disgruntled groundhog.
Briar’s room was a cute mess: mismatched throw pillows, tangled fairy lights, and a sprawl of books and half-folded laundry that made it look less like a disaster and more like a teenage girl’s version of cozy.
I nudged aside a stray sock with my toe and tried again. “Briar, please. We have to get going. You have dance class and you can’t be late. Then, after, your dad will pick you up.”
Unintelligible grumbling came from beneath her pillow. I took a deep breath. Counted to five. Walked away before I said something I couldn’t unsay. Like how sometimes I wanted ten more freaking minutes, too.
In the hallway, Lark drifted past like a hoodie-clad ghost. Earbuds in, expression unreadable, eyes only halfway open.
“Don’t forget your chemistry notes,” I reminded her, trying to keep my voice light. “Your dad said he’d work with you today, then I’ll work with you in the morning tomorrow if we can manage to get up a bit earlier. The beer delivery changed. I’m sorry for the rush, sweetheart.”
She didn’t say anything, just gave me a sleepy smile and wrapped me in a quick, warm hug before heading into the kitchen.
And just like that, the morning had begun. Not with peace. Not with quiet. But with the usual chaos wrapped in teenage moods and giant hoodies.
By the time I wrangled Briar out the door—with a smoothie, mismatched leg warmers, and a half-hearted apology for her tone—we were officially behind schedule. Again.
I dropped Briar at dance and Lark at Eli’s place and waved goodbye like I hadn’t just barely survived the morning. I rested my head on the steering wheel. I finally had a moment to breathe.
Then I remembered Hunter’s birthday. I sent him a text, then headed to Coffee Cabin to procure his usual birthday latte before I had to meet the beer man at Twilight Tavern. And by the way, I did all of this without thinking about our stupid pact.
Hunter Cassidy didn’t like birthdays. He claimed he didn’t want anyone making a big deal out of them, which was a lie, because he definitely wanted someone to make a big deal.
Just not in a balloons-and-cake kind of way.
More like a “coffee delivered with a smirk that said I’m thinking about you” kind of way. Quiet, just like him.
So that’s what I was doing—driving across town bright and early to pick up a latte and a cinnamon crumble muffin from Coffee Cabin, one of the many businesses my grandparents had opened in town; they were the entrepreneurs of Honeybrook Hollow, and my youngest sister, Eliza, ran the place for them.
I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, a thousand anxious thoughts buzzing through my head about the damn pact. I kept telling myself it didn’t matter, that Hunter was just Hunter—my safe place, my constant for so many years.
I was used to quiet mornings and predictable routines, but now my nerves were fluttering, and it confused me.
No, I wasn’t the weirdo; he was. This was all his fault.
He’s the one who started it by bringing up that damn pact.
And okay, fine. I couldn’t get it out of my mind, damn it.
Lying to myself was one of my most insidious coping mechanisms, at least that’s what my therapist always said.
I had thought it was bingeing on Doritos whenever I was PMSing, but whatever.
Back to the task at hand. And the inevitable freakout to follow.
“It’s just coffee between friends,” I muttered to myself as I pulled into the Coffee Cabin drive-thru line.
“Childhood friends. Like, I’ve seen him pick his nose.
This is thoughtful, not flirty. Thoughtful friends exist. It’s fine.
It’s his birthday coffee for eff’s sake, and we’ve known each other forever.
It would be weird not to bring him coffee. ”
“Hello there.” Eliza’s voice crackled through the speaker. She sounded suspiciously amused, and I scowled.
“Hey, Eliza.”
“Paige Darlington. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company at this ungodly hour?”
“Large vanilla latte, two extra shots, cinnamon muffin. Plus my usual, please. And hold the commentary.” Ever since my divorce became final, my sisters, friends, acquaintances, customers—basically everyone I knew had been sharing their opinions about Hunter and me, suggesting we should become an item.
I was over it. Living in a small town was so freaking fun.
“Ohhhh,” she drawled. “Birthday delivery, huh? Are you bringing that man your feelings in a cup? And adding a muffin this year. Interesting.”
“Yeah, okay,” I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I will tip you zero dollars and block your number.”
“Um, rude,” she cheerfully chirped. “Pull forward, please.”
By the time I got our coffee and muffins secured in a tray, my nerves had ratcheted up from “mild butterflies” to “full internal earthquake.” What was I doing?
Why was I sweating? I hadn’t worn makeup.
I was in leggings. This was aggressively platonic attire.
Except I’d definitely picked the hoodie that made my boobs look nice. So there was that.
The drive across town was brief but oddly cinematic in its quiet tension.
My grip on the steering wheel was a little too tight.
Every red light felt like a cosmic test of resolve, every pedestrian a potential audience to my anxious errand.
The car was filled with the warm, reassuring fragrance of coffee, but my pulse skipped with each familiar landmark.
It was both a comfort and a torment, as if the whole town was in on my secret.
But what secret?
How could I be keeping a secret when I didn’t even know my own damn mind? I let out a small scream of frustration, then bit my lip.
By the time his townhouse came into view, my heart was performing a frantic drum solo somewhere behind my ribs.
I parked in his driveway and stared at the front door for a solid minute before getting out. The tray shook slightly in my hands. Great. I was going to spill coffee on his crotch and seduce him by accident.
Seduce? What the hell? I needed an emergency shut-off switch for my out-of-control brain. Ever since he’d suggested going to dinner together, I’d been off balance.
I knocked.
He opened the door in gray sweatpants, and he was freaking shirtless, abs galore—who knew he had freaking abs like that?
Not me, damn it—I counted, there were six of them.
Gah! His glasses were askew, hair sticking up on one side like he’d fought off a bear in his sleep.
Plus, he was cuddling an adorable brown cat against his chest.
And somehow, the sight of him—half-asleep and rumpled—made that out of control thing in my head short-circuit.
“Abs,” I said stupidly. “Glasses. Cat.”
He grinned at me. “Good morning to you, too.”
“You wear glasses now?” I tried again, sounding more like a caveman discovering fire rather than a grown woman finding out that her best friend could wear the shit out of a pair of slutty little glasses.
“I’ve worn glasses since I turned thirty-seven. You’ve just never caught me before the contacts go in. And this is Ozzy. I found him on the trail when I was jogging. I guess I haven’t told you about him yet either.”
“Well, you look very… distinguished,” I said, realizing too late that was the sort of thing someone’s old ass aunt might say. But, I mean, I was almost forty, so I guess it was appropriate.
He arched a brow, amused. “Distinguished?”
“Like a hot librarian,” I blurted. “And the freaking cat? Cute!” I didn’t say anything about his abs. I mean, I was a lady, damn it.
There was a pause—the kind where two people simultaneously question all their life choices.
“I brought your birthday coffee,” I added quickly, holding up the tray like it could shield me from my own words.
His mouth twitched. “Thank God. I was worried you came over to insult my sleepwear in addition to gawking at my glasses.”
“I would never,” I said, stepping inside before I lost my nerve.
His house smelled like cedar and something woodsy—like cologne and clean laundry and safety, if safety had a scent.
It was familiar, but that safe feeling I always used to have here was now coupled with a surge of something else.
Something new. I set the tray down on the counter and refused to look directly at him.
I’d been here a million times before. My kids had been here.
My stupid ex-husband had even been here. What the hell was wrong with me?
He followed, scratching at his hair. “So. The usual coffee, thank you. Muffins too? This is nice. Just like old times, except you added my favorite muffin. Thanks.”
“Right, old times. Sure. Except you never looked like a sleepy romance novel lumberjack when you used to answer the door, and I usually had one or more kids with me.”
His head jerked up. I stared at the muffins like they were the most fascinating objects on earth.
“Paige,” his voice was a low growl, and I felt it from the top of my head to the tips of my curling toes. What the hell was going on?
I pretended not to hear the way my name sounded, all gritty with sleep and full of warmth. Instead, I focused on fussing with the lids on the coffee cups. My hands trembled, so I lined them up like soldiers, buying myself a moment. “I said nothing. Forget it. You didn’t hear a thing.”
“You said lumberjack.”
I slammed my eyes shut as if that could make me disappear. “It was meant clinically.”
“Clinically? Uh-huh. Okay.”
We stared at each other across the kitchen island like teenagers playing chicken with our hormones.
I shoved the muffin toward him. “Happy birthday. Don’t get all weird about it.”
He smiled—slow and dangerous. “I think I like it when you get weird about it. This is kind of nice. And did I mention that I’ve always liked that sweatshirt?”
“I’m leaving.” Heat pooled beneath my collar, prickling my neck.
He reached for the muffin with a reverence that made it seem like I’d offered him something rare, some talisman instead of half-stale carbs from Coffee Cabin.
He broke it in half, the gesture careful, deliberate, and I wondered if he was stalling, too.
“No, you’re not leaving,” he finally said. “You’re gonna stay and have coffee with me. It’s our birthday tradition.”
He was right. I wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to leave.
He took a sip of the latte, made a satisfied sound that landed somewhere uncomfortably close to a groan. I watched his throat move as he swallowed, and I knew I turned bright red. I had to look away before I started analyzing it like a scene from Bridgerton.
“You doing anything today?” I asked, trying to steer us back toward safer shores.
“Cassidy birthday barbecue. You know the drill. Too much meat, unsolicited opinions, a game of lawn darts that will absolutely end in someone getting stabbed.”
“Sounds wholesome as usual.”
“You should come. You’re basically family.”
The word basically hit like a dart in its own right, and family, for some reason, was downright painful.
“Right,” I said. “Practically like a cousin or something.”
He didn’t say anything for a second, just traced the rim of his cup with one finger, his attention suddenly fixed on the swirls of foam as if they held an answer.
I picked at the sleeve of my coffee cup, wishing I could peel myself out of this skin, out of this moment, and float into something less complicated.
“That’s not what I meant,” he finally said.
For a breath, it was as if everything in the room contracted—coffee scent, late-morning sunlight, the sweet ache of almost. Then the moment passed, as moments do, and he looked away.
“I know,” I said, my voice a little too soft.
He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch. But close enough that I felt his warmth.
I looked up at him. “This is getting weird, isn’t it?”
“A little,” he admitted, still smiling.
“Okay. Good talk.”
He handed me the other muffin. “Let’s just eat and pretend this isn’t a slow spiral into whatever the hell this is.”
“Perfect.”
We stood in his kitchen, both pretending the air wasn’t buzzing between us, chewing awkwardly, sipping our coffee, and not making eye contact, because that’s what emotionally constipated best friends did when they were maybe-sort-of starting to catch feelings for each other.
Or not, what did I know about this kind of situation?