Chapter 17 Noelle
NOELLE
When Dad arrives home earlier than expected, the sound of his truck crunches up the driveway, a gunshot ricocheting through the entire house.
Every conversation stops mid-sentence, the clatter of dishes ceases, even Eli’s racecar freezes in place on the table where he’s been zooming it in circles.
For one impossible heartbeat, no one moves.
I’m halfway out of the dining room when the front door swings open.
The cold rushes in first, followed by the familiar stomp of his boots on the porch and the low rumble of his voice as he shakes the snow off his coat and steps inside.
“You’d think we moved to Alaska with how bad the wind chill is out there,” he mutters to no one in particular.
He shrugs his layers off and hangs them on the rack by the door.
Then, he toes his boots off and sets them on the mat.
It’s all painfully ordinary until his gaze lifts and catches on the three men sitting at his dining room table.
He blinks once, slow and deliberate, as if giving his brain a chance to reset what he’s seeing.
“Morning…” His eyes sweep the table taking in the plates, the mugs, the unmistakable evidence of a breakfast already had, then land back on the me. “What’s all this?”
Dean is the first to recover.
He leans back in his chair and gives a lopsided grin that’s probably worked on half the women he’s ever met.
Too bad my father isn’t one of them. “Happy birthday, Richard. You were out late last night. Get into any trouble?”
Dad’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “Not so much. Surprised to see you boys here already… You always show up for people’s birthdays at eight in the morning?”
“Only for you.”
He grunts, unimpressed, and sets his keys in the bowl by the door before swinging it shut.
I can already see the slight narrowing of his eyes, the tilt of his head, the gears turning behind that calm expression.
When Eli insisted the guys stay for breakfast, I’d counted on Dad’s voluntary shift at the station to dull his senses, maybe even keep him too tired to care about details of Grant, Dean, and Callum already being here, but it didn’t save us from scrutiny.
Eli squeals, sliding out of his seat and bouncing across the room.
His socks skid on the hardwood.
For a second, I think he’s going to crash straight into my father’s knees but instead, he stops just in time and thrusts a folded piece of construction paper up into the air. “Grampy! Look! When Dean was making breakfast, I made you a card!”
Dad’s expression doesn’t change much, but I see the exact moment the information registers.
The slight straightening of his shoulders as he takes the card from my son and reads it.
It’s the same look he always gets when something doesn’t add up.
“Dean made breakfast, huh?” he repeats, tone deceptively mild. “How early did you all get up?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Grant stiffen.
It’s the smallest flex of his shoulders betraying his instinct to step in. And of course he does, smooth and unflappable as ever.
“We came by early to take you out. Thought we’d surprise you with breakfast for your birthday, but you were still out. So we ended up making breakfast for Noelle and Eli instead.”
His delivery is flawless, said like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like the three of them have been showing up at our house at dawn for decades in the name of tradition to cook Dad breakfast.
But my dad isn’t just anyone.
He’s spent thirty-five years as a fire chief running headfirst into burning buildings and dealing with people at their most panicked, most reckless, and most human moments.
He’s built a career on reading people, on noticing what they don’t say and what their actions do when they’re lying.
On what their eyes flick toward when they’re hiding something they don’t want known.
He’s never been fooled by charm or excuses, and I can already tell from the way his gaze sharpens that today isn’t going to be an exception to that.
He doesn’t speak right away, he just looks at each of them one by one, internally ticking off boxes on a mental checklist.
“Didn’t see a missed call from any of you about any breakfast plans,” he says at last.
“Hence the surprise part,” Callum answers instead.
Dad’s eyes flick toward him, assessing him carefully.
There isn’t much to Callum’s face though that gives him away.
Not enough for my dad to latch onto and pick apart like he can with Dean and maybe Grant.
I step forward before anyone can say something that makes this situation seem any more suspicious than it already is. “You know, if you weren’t out all night, they may have even surprised you with breakfast in bed.”
He snorts, a small smile ticking up at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, really? Would’ve loved to see that.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding when he scoops Eli up into his arms.
The crisis, at least for now, seems to have passed.
Dad can’t prove anything strange has happened right under his nose. Not without something tangible, at least.
And unless one of the guys lets something slip, we’re in the clear.
For now.
He reaches over to brush a crumb from Eli’s chin, his large, calloused hand gentle against my son’s small face.
For a man who’s spent most of his life barking orders and fighting tragedies, my dad has always had this incredible softness when it comes to Eli.
It sneaks up on me every time I see it, melting the lines around his eyes and making him look younger by years.
“Don’t suppose you’re up to go to that ice skating rink with me like we talked about last week?” he asks.
Eli’s reaction is immediate and explosive. His entire face lights up as if someone’s flipped a switch inside him. “Really? You’re not gonna take a nap first?”
That earns a laugh out of all of us. Even my dad grins, shaking his head as he lifts Eli higher on his hip. “You think I’d want to waste time and skip out on spending my whole birthday with my best guy?”
“Let’s go!” Eli cheers, his voice echoing through the kitchen. He wiggles in Dad’s arms, already reaching for the door like the world outside is waiting just for them.
Dad chuckles, steadying him with one hand. “Hold your horses, buddy. You’re still in your pajamas.”
“Ugh.”
“Go on now.” He waves his hands toward the stairs. “Get dressed and we’ll head out. Long socks this time, so your skates don’t rub.”
Eli giggles and scrambles down from his arms, taking off up the stairs in a blur of motion.
His laughter echoes up the staircase, followed by the slam of his bedroom door and the faint sounds of drawers opening and closing.
Dad watches him go with that small, proud smile that softens him in ways I didn’t think possible.
Then he glances at me, his expression unreadable again. “You heading to the shop soon?”
I nod. “Just for a few hours. Going to set up some displays for that tree lighting ceremony that’s happening in the park tomorrow night. I figured putting together a few racks of light-up ornaments will draw a few customers in on their way over.”
“Smart planning.”
“You let us know if you need help, Noelle.” Grant says from the table.
Dad slides his eyes in their direction. “Surprised you all aren’t volunteering your services.”
Dean, ever the charmer, grins from across the table. “We’d just be in the way. Noelle runs that place like a well-oiled machine. Plus, I don’t know about these two, but I’ve still got some birthday shopping to do.”
Dad just shakes his head. “Don’t go too overboard. How about we all grab dinner somewhere instead of cake and gifts here? Doesn’t need to be fancy. Spending time with you all is more than enough.”
“Listen to how sentimental you sound,” Callum says with a slight smirk. “This holiday season has made you downright jolly.”
Dad laughs. “Blame it on the nightshift.”
Eli comes barreling back down the stairs then in a puff of enthusiasm.
He’s wearing his thickest sweater and a pair of mismatched gloves.
A red scarf is trailing behind him like a cape, only half wrapped around his neck. “I’m ready! Grampy, let’s go!”
Dad laughs again, shaking his head in disbelief as he takes the gloves from Eli’s hands and helps him pull them on properly.
When he finally gets him properly dressed, he presses a kiss to Eli’s forehead. “Alright. Let’s make this birthday one to remember.”
Eli grabs his hand, bouncing on his toes, the pure joy in his little voice filling every inch of the house. “Yay!”
I don’t notice anything is wrong until I try to shove my key into the front door at the shop.
At first, it’s just a little resistance, something that feels like a hiccup in the lock.
I frown, thinking maybe the cold’s frozen it up again, and shove my shoulder against it.
Sometimes it happens this time of year—the metal freezes, the wood expands, and everything sticks.
But when I twist the key again, the sound it makes isn’t right.
It’s a harsh, scraping noise like metal grinding against something broken inside the mechanism.
“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, jiggling the key and trying one more time.
I try again, this time pressing my shoulder against the door as I twist the key harder.
The lock gives a protesting squeal then jerks.
For a moment, I think I’ve forced it open but when I push, the door doesn’t move the way it should.
It doesn’t swing cleanly inward, it hits something hidden on the other side of it.
The first thing that hits me isn’t that familiar balsam and cinnamon wax melts I had burning all yesterday but something acrid that smells like spray paint.
A sick, crawling feeling starts in my gut.
Even in the dim lighting from behind me, I can see that my beautiful shop, my sanctuary, my livelihood, has been turned into a war zone.
Shelves have been ripped from the wall and lie on their sides like fallen soldiers.
Ornaments that took me weeks to get shipped from overseas artisans are shattered and in pieces all over the floor.