Chapter 4 Cece
CECE
I've always hated the Brewed Awakening café, with its cutesy chalkboard signs and overpriced pastries, but they're the only place in San Salona that makes coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
Which is precisely what my father needs after staying up all night rewriting his sermon about ‘moral fortitude in the face of sinful influences.’
The bell jingles cheerfully as I push through the door, the warm scent of espresso and cinnamon wrapping around me like a hug.
I'm halfway to the counter when I spot him—the mayor, Ethan’s dad, standing with his back to me, surrounded by his usual entourage of yes-men.
His voice carries through the small café like he's using a megaphone.
“It's an absolute disgrace,” he's saying, hands gesturing wildly. “First that...that pornographic display in the nativity scene, and now Thomas is allowing some motorcycle gang to donate to the church toy drive? Has he completely lost control of his congregation?”
I freeze, my hand still reaching for my wallet. Every head in the café swivels toward me like some creepy synchronized movement in a horror film. Even the barista stops mid-pour, her expression going wide with surprise.
The mayor turns, his gaze narrowing when he spots me standing there like a deer in headlights. For a second, I think he might have the decency to look embarrassed at being caught gossiping about my father. Instead, his lips curl into that same smug smile Ethan inherited.
“Well, speak of the devil,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Heat crawls up my neck as every stare in the café pins me in place. I’ve spent my whole life in this fishbowl, but it never gets easier being the main attraction.
“You know,” Mayor Kincaid continues, setting his coffee cup down with deliberate slowness, “I was just saying to the gentlemen here that perhaps it’s time for the church board to have a serious conversation with your father.”
“About what, exactly?”
“About his...judgment lately.” The mayor’s look sharpens with malice. “First allowing that obscene display on church property, and now welcoming criminals to donate to a church function? Perhaps it’s time for him to consider retirement if he’s going to allow such things to happen on his watch.”
The café has gone completely silent. Even the espresso machine seems to be holding its breath.
“Those 'criminals' saved our toy drive.”
“Saved it? My dear girl, the church may have just helped them launder goods so you can wipe that smug look off your face.”
“That's rich coming from the family who pulled donations from a children's charity just to spite me.” I step closer, letting the righteous anger that’s been building since I saw those empty tables drive me forward.
“Do you know how many families were counting on those toys? Or do you just not care?”
The mayor's face turns an impressive shade of crimson, making the veins in his neck bulge like he's about to have an aneurysm right here in front of the pumpkin spice muffins. His little posse of golf buddies shifts uncomfortably, suddenly very interested in their coffee cups.
“Our family supports many worthy causes,” he says stiffly. “We simply chose to redirect our generosity this year.”
“Right. To 'worthy causes' that don't involve my father’s church. I guess that explains why none of your closest friend donated either or that Mr. Miller at the grocery store suddenly changed his mind on his food box donations. You know, the donations his family has made since the store opened in the 1950s.”
I don't know what I expected to happen when I challenged him, but it wasn't this. His face goes from red to white to red again, like a patriotic mood ring.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he sputters, but the guilt written across his face says otherwise. He absolutely did strong-arm his cronies into pulling their donations.
“Don’t I?” I take another step forward, and he actually steps back. “Because it seems awfully coincidental that every single business owner in your golf foursome suddenly developed amnesia about their usual Christmas donations.”
The silence stretches like a rubber band about to snap. I can feel the weight of everyone’s stares, can practically hear them composing their texts to spread this juicy gossip. But for once, I don’t care. I’m so tired of being the victim in everyone else’s story.
“It’s sad, really, that children are paying the price all because I divorced your cheater of a son.”
“How dare you,” he hisses, stepping closer. “My son made one mistake—”
“One?” I laugh, the sound sharper than I intend. “I stopped counting after his secretary. But please, enlighten me about this mythical ‘one mistake.’”
Someone in the back of the café snickers. Kincaid’s gaze darts around, suddenly aware of our audience. Nothing travels faster in San Salona than gossip served with a side of public humiliation.
“This is hardly the place to air your marital grievances. Though I suppose discretion was never your strong suit.”
“Maybe you should have taught your son how to be discreet. Seems the lack of discretion may run in your family, Richard.”
The mayor's face twitches, and I know I've hit a nerve. Rumors about his own affairs have circulated for years, though no one dares mention them aloud. Until now.
“You little—” He catches himself, aware of the audience hanging on his every word. “I've always thought Thomas failed as a father, letting his daughter grow up with such a loose grasp of Christian values. Now I see I was right.”
“At least my father taught me that charity isn't a weapon to hurt people with.”
“No, he just taught you to welcome criminals into your church,” he shoots back, disdain dripping from every word. “Those…bikers are nothing but trouble. Drug dealers, thugs—”
“Those ‘thugs’ did more for the children in this community yesterday than you’ve done all month,” I cut in, steady despite the tremor in my limbs. “Maybe you should ask yourself what that says about your Christian values.”
The café falls into a hush so complete you could hear a sugar packet hit the floor. Everyone here is watching the mayor of San Salona get called out. This will be all over town before lunch.
“I don’t have to justify myself to you. The church board will hear about this,” Kincaid snaps at last, anger making his hands tremble. “About your father’s poor judgment in accepting donations from criminals, and about your…outburst here today.”
“Good,” I say, surprised by how steady I sound. “I’ll be there to tell the truth, not whatever political spin you try to sell. Bring your popcorn, Richard—I plan to put your ‘generosity’ on full display.”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. For once, I’ve left Richard Kincaid without a ready retort. It should feel more satisfying.
“Cece Montgomery, I swear to God—” the mayor manages at last, but it’s too late. I’ve already turned toward the counter.
“Two large coffees, black, and whatever pastry hasn’t been contaminated by the mayor’s hot air,” I tell the barista. Her face goes blank with wide surprise. She nods and hustles off.
My hands are shaking, adrenaline skittering through me like lightning. I can’t believe I just did that. In public. With witnesses. My father is going to kill me.
“You’ll regret this,” Kincaid hisses behind me, the threat low and meant only for me. “Your father’s position isn’t as secure as you think.”
I don't turn around. “Neither is your next run for mayor. Family scandals and all. Oh, the family secrets I could tell, Richard.”
The collective gasp from the café patrons tells me my parting shot hit its mark. I shouldn't feel so satisfied, but damn if I don't. Years of playing nice, of turning the other cheek—it feels good to finally bite back.
The barista slides my order across the counter, her expression a mixture of terror and admiration. “On the house,” she whispers.
“No, I insist on paying.” I make a show of placing a twenty in the tip jar, then grab my coffee and head for the door.
Mayor Kincaid is still standing there, his face mottled with fury and embarrassment. His golf buddies look like they’d rather be anywhere else on earth. One of them—I think it’s Dr. Phillips—won’t even make eye contact.
“Have a blessed day, gentlemen,” I say sweetly, pushing through the door before anyone can respond.
The bell chimes behind me, and I'm halfway to my car when my phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number, but I recognize the name immediately.
Squaring off with the mayor in public, Cece?
Who is this?
Just your friendly neighborhood Santa biker.
I stop walking, staring at the screen. How does he already know? It happened less than five minutes ago.
Another text comes through.
You okay?
I lean against my Honda, balancing both coffees while I type back.
Define okay. I may have just declared war on the most powerful family in town.
Good for you. They had it coming.
The simple support in those words hits me harder than it should. When was the last time someone took my side without asking what I did to provoke it first?
My dad's going to kill me when he finds out.
I make a great bodyguard.
I find myself smiling despite everything.
I think I've caused enough scandal for one day. How’d you find out?
My phone buzzes with another notification. A picture message. I open it and nearly drop my coffee.
It's him, Brayden, leaning against his motorcycle, staring directly at the camera. His dark hair is pushed back, and there's just the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. But what makes my heart stutter isn't how unfairly attractive he looks—it's what's behind him.
The Brewed Awakening. Their signature blue awning visible just over his shoulder. And if I squint, I can make out a blurry figure in the background who is unmistakably me, standing at the counter not five minutes ago.
Shit. He's still in town.
Across the street. Right now.
I scan the parking lot frantically, but I don’t see him anywhere.
Are you stalking me?
His response comes immediately.
Just enjoying the show. Your takedown of the mayor was better than Netflix.
My cheeks burn as I realize he must have witnessed the entire confrontation. I look up again, searching the street, and finally spot him. He's sitting on his bike across the way. When our eyes meet, he lifts his hand in a lazy salute.
My phone buzzes again.
Want to get out of here before the mayor calls in the National Guard?
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. The rational part of my brain—the part that sounds suspiciously like my father—is screaming that this is a terrible idea. Getting involved with Brayden Cole would be like pouring gasoline on the fire I just started with Mayor Kincaid.
But the other part of me, the part that's tired of playing it safe and being everyone else's victim, wants nothing more than to climb on the back of his bike and disappear.
I can't. Dad's waiting for his coffee.
Another message pops up.
One ride, Cece. When's the last time you did something just because you wanted to?
When was the last time? I can't remember. Every decision I've made for the past decade has been filtered through what other people expected, what would look good, what was appropriate for a my role.
I stare at my phone, the last text message blinking at me like a dare.
The words hit me like a sucker punch because he's right. I can't remember the last time I did something purely for myself. Even my divorce was reactive—a response to Ethan's betrayal rather than my own choice to break free.
Before I can second-guess myself, my fingers are typing.
Meet me at the church so I can drop off my car.
I slide into my car, set the coffees carefully in the cup holders, and take a deep breath. What am I doing? This is insanity. Pure, reckless insanity.
Yet I find myself starting the engine and pulling onto the street in the direction of my dad’s church. I park near the back entrance, hustling inside with dad’s coffee. Thankfully, he’s not in his office. I carefully put his cup down, chug mine, and head back outside just as Brayden pulls up.
The motorcycle is larger up close than it looked from across the street, all gleaming chrome and matte black metal that seems to absorb the winter sunlight rather than reflect it. Brayden holds out a helmet to me without a word, his eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
“I've never been on a motorcycle before,” I admit, taking the helmet from him. It's heavier than I expected.
“First time for everything.” There's that hint of a smile again, just enough to make my pulse quicken. “Unless you're having second thoughts.”
I should be. I should absolutely be having second thoughts, thirds, and fourths. But instead, I'm fastening the helmet under my chin with trembling fingers.
“Need help?” he asks, and before I can answer, his hands are on mine, gently nudging them aside. His fingers brush against my neck as he adjusts the strap, and I try not to shiver at the contact.
“Thanks,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
“Hop on,” he says, swinging his leg over the bike with practiced ease. “Arms around my waist, hold tight, and lean when I lean.”
I hesitate for just a moment, glancing back at the church. My father could walk out any second and find me climbing onto the back of a motorcycle with a man in a leather cut. The scandal would eclipse even this morning's coffee shop showdown.
But for once in my life, I don't care.