Chapter 11 Millie
Millie
The sizzle of butter in the pan is the only sound that breaks the quiet of my kitchen.
Maddox stands at the stove, his back to me, the dark blue of his firefighter’s uniform stretching across his shoulders.
He looks solid, dependable, a rock in the churning sea of my life.
The scent of toasting bread and melting cheese fills the small space, a comforting aroma that does little to settle the knot in my stomach.
“Seriously?” I ask, taking another sip of the chamomile tea he made for me. The ceramic mug is warm against my cold hands. “He bought the truck? The one we all thought was Mr. Jackson’s new planter for his petunias?”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Liam? A tattoo?”
“A big one,” Maddox confirms, leaning his hip against the counter. He plates the sandwiches, the golden bread glistening. “On his back. A broken circle with flames around it. And an ‘M’ in the middle.”
The image hits me with the force of a physical blow. A brand. A permanent, painful mark he’s etched onto his skin because of me. My throat tightens, and the tea suddenly tastes like ash. I set the mug down, my hand trembling slightly. “I really fucked him up, didn’t I?”
Maddox’s expression softens. He pushes a plate toward me, but I can’t even look at the food.
He rounds the counter, his movements quiet and sure, and then he pulls me into a hug.
I go willingly, melting against the solid wall of his chest. His arms wrap around me, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head, and I breathe in his scent.
It’s familiar, warm, but there’s something else there too. Something that makes my heart ache.
“You kind of smell like Liam,” I murmur into his shirt, the words muffled by the fabric.
He huffs a small laugh. “Ran out of shampoo this morning. Used his. Hope you don’t mind.”
I shake my head, my face still buried against him.
I don’t mind at all. It’s just another reminder of how intertwined our lives are, how impossible it is to separate one piece from another.
He feels me tremble, and he pulls back just enough to look at me.
His thumbs gently wipe at the dampness on my cheeks, tears I hadn’t even realized were falling.
“Hey,” he says, his voice soft. “You know how Liam is. He’s all in, one hundred percent, with everything he does. He’s just hurt, Mills. He’ll come around. He always does.”
I nod, wanting to believe him. I do believe him. But it doesn’t make the present any less painful.
He sighs, his gaze dropping for a second before meeting mine again. “I have to tell you something,” he says, his tone shifting. “And I don’t want you to freak out.”
My stomach clenches. “What?”
“Liam was with Jessica last night. At my place.”
The hot stone in my chest returns, heavier this time, searing. “I don’t care,” I say, the words coming out too fast, too sharp. I turn away from him, focusing on the sandwich he made. “It’s his life. He can do what he wants.”
But I do care. Of course, I do. The thought of him with someone else, with bright, bubbly Jessica, makes me feel sick. It’s a tangled mess of jealousy, possessiveness, and a sharp, piercing guilt. This is getting complicated. So much more complicated than a simple one-night stand with a stranger.
Maddox’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder, a grounding weight. “Everything will be okay,” he says, his voice a low promise.
We eat our breakfast in a strange sort of silence, punctuated by the soft purring of Nimbus as he rubs against our legs, begging for scraps. I break off a tiny piece of cheese for him, which he accepts with a sniff.
After we eat, I get ready for work, pulling on my jeans and a simple black T-shirt for The Cocoa Nook.
Maddox helps me onto the back of his motorcycle, his hands firm on my waist as I swing my leg over the seat.
He’s a little taller than Liam, and I have to stretch my arms a little farther to wrap them around his waist. The engine rumbles to life beneath us, a powerful vibration that I feel in my bones.
He drives me to the café, the morning air cool against my face. I rest my cheek against his back, the leather of his jacket smooth against my skin. When we pull up out front, he kills the engine and helps me off.
“You need to be patient with him,” he says, his voice serious. “With Liam.”
I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. “Have a good day, Mills.”
I watch him ride away, the bike disappearing down the street, before I turn to unlock the door to the café.
I’m the one opening up today, so I flip on the lights and start the coffee machines—the familiar hiss and gurgle a comforting sound.
I wipe down the counters and arrange the pastries in the display case, my movements automatic.
Ten minutes later, the bell above the door jingles, and Maren walks in, carrying two large cardboard boxes that smell heavenly. “Morning, love,” she says, setting the boxes on the counter. “I’ve brought treats.”
She opens the lids, revealing a feast. There are scones flecked with lavender, their tops crusted with sparkling sugar; glossy chocolate croissants that are still warm to the touch; and little apple turnovers oozing with cinnamon-scented filling. My stomach rumbles in protest.
“They look amazing, Maren,” I tell her, my mouth watering.
She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Have you seen my son yet?” she asks, her tone carefully casual.
My heart sinks a little. “He was with Maddox this morning,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“Oh,” she says. She busies herself with arranging the pastries in the case. “Well, if he comes by, tell him to give me a call, will you? I just want to make sure he’s okay.”
“Of course,” I promise.
She stays for another few minutes, chatting about the rebuilding efforts and the new shipment of coffee beans, but her mind is clearly elsewhere. When she leaves, the café feels quiet again, the scent of sugar and coffee hanging in the air.
I’m working behind the counter, restocking napkins and wiping down the espresso machine, when the bell above the door jingles again. I don’t look up at first, assuming it’s an early customer. “I’ll be right with you,” I call out.
But then I hear a familiar laugh, a sound that used to make my whole day brighter. And then I see them.
Liam and Jessica.
They walk in together, standing so close their shoulders are almost touching.
The cheerful chatter of the café, the rich scent of brewing coffee, the warm golden light—it all fades away, replaced by a muted, gray static. They stand there, a perfect portrait of casual intimacy.
Jessica says something, her head thrown back in a laugh that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and Liam smiles down at her, a soft, private smile I used to think was reserved only for me.
He’s wearing one of his own faded band T-shirts today, the one with the frayed collar, and his hair is a mess of curls that I have an almost physical urge to smooth down. But it’s not my place anymore.
My feet feel bolted to the floor. I have to say something. I have to act normal. I force my lips to move, to form words that feel alien in my mouth. “Hey,” I manage, my voice sounding thin and reedy. “Your mom came by earlier. Said to tell you to call her back when you get a chance.”
Liam’s gaze shifts to me, the warmth in his eyes instantly extinguished, replaced by a guarded, pained expression. “Okay,” he says, his voice flat. “Thanks.”
I can’t stand here. I can’t breathe in the same space as them. “I’m just… I’m going in the back to arrange the pantry,” I mumble, turning away before he can respond. “Jessica, can you watch the counter?”
“Sure thing,” she chirps, her voice bright and oblivious.
I walk away, my steps stiff and unnatural, feeling his eyes on my back the entire time. The swinging door to the kitchen flaps shut behind me, and I lean against it for a second, my eyes squeezed shut.
The back room is quieter, but the silence is no comfort. It’s just a hollow echo in my head. I walk toward the pantry, a small, cramped space lined with shelves of flour, sugar, and coffee beans.
I reach for a sack of flour, my fingers brushing against the rough burlap, and that’s when it happens.
A band tightens around my chest, so sudden and so severe that I gasp, my hand flying to my heart. It’s not a heart attack. It’s worse. It’s the feeling of all the air being sucked out of the room, out of my lungs, leaving nothing but a vacuum.
I try to draw a breath, but my throat has closed up, a tight, unyielding knot of muscle. Panic. Cold, sharp, and absolute. I’m having a panic attack.
The walls of the pantry seem to shrink, the shelves looming over me like a cage. The single bare lightbulb overhead begins to strobe, or maybe that’s just my vision. A high-pitched ringing starts in my ears, drowning out everything.
I can hear my own heart, a frantic, wild drumbeat against my ribs, too fast, too hard. I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die right here, surrounded by bags of sugar, and no one will find me until it’s too late.
I slide down the wall, my body going limp, my back scraping against the rough plaster. I curl into a ball on the floor, my hands clutching my chest, trying to physically force my lungs to work. But it’s no use. Black spots dance in my vision. The world is tilting, spinning, fading away.
The door swings open with a bang, a sliver of light from the kitchen cutting through the gloom. “Millie?” Liam’s voice, sharp with concern. “What are you—”
He stops. I can feel his eyes on me, taking in my position on the floor, my desperate gasps for air. He’s at my side in an instant, crouching down, his hands on my shoulders.
“Millie? Hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”
I can’t answer. I can only shake my head, tears streaming down my face now. I’m not breathing. I really can’t breathe.