Chapter 17 Knox
Knox
The beer tastes like a victory I haven’t earned yet. It’s cold, bitter, and it slides down my throat, a welcome shock after a day spent suffocating in the stale air of the mayor’s office.
I should be at home, in the quiet of my house, watching the video Amy sent of Clara’s band performance. I should be studying every note, every expression on my daughter’s face, trying to make up for the fact that I wasn’t there.
But I needed noise. I needed the illusion of anonymity.
My mind replays the day’s events on a loop.
The meeting with Jake was a grueling, twelve-hour marathon of crisis management.
We finally hammered out the details of the Port Blossom deal.
It’s a risky, high-stakes gambit—trading a significant portion of our allotted raw lumber for a six-month supply of heat suppressants.
Jake was on the phone with their mayor for hours, his voice a smooth, persuasive blend of charm and hardball politics.
I spent the time mapping out the logistics, the transport routes, the security details.
It felt like old times, like planning a major operation back in my NYPD days, only instead of taking down a cartel, we were trying to stop a town from imploding.
But the suppressants are just one piece of a crumbling dam.
The power grid is the other. The temporary generators are straining, their constant hum a fragile heartbeat for the town.
We spent hours with an energy consultant from the state, a man with a face full of worry and a spreadsheet full of red numbers.
Reviving the main grid is a multi-million-dollar problem, and Driftwood Cove’s coffers were bone dry. That was when Julian Vance walked in.
Julian. A real estate mogul who, it turns out, owns half the commercial properties in this town, including the land the new clinic is being built on. He’s a man who wears tailored suits that look out of place amid the construction dust and speaks in measured, confident tones.
He offered to front the capital for a new, sustainable micro-grid system, a proposal that was both a godsend and deeply suspicious.
No one does anything for free.
Jake was optimistic; I was just cautious.
Julian is a new variable, and I don’t like new variables.
During all of that, my phone buzzed. Clara. I stepped into the hallway, my heart pounding, the professional mask falling away. I begged. I pleaded. I promised her a weekend on the coast, just the two of us, no talk of work, no excuses. I told her I’d rent the fastest jet ski on the entire beach.
To my utter shock, she said yes. A small, reluctant “fine, Dad,” but it was a yes.
The relief was so profound it left me feeling dizzy.
Amy sent the video link an hour later with a short, terse message: She was great.
You missed it. I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Not yet. The guilt was still too fresh.
So here I am. At a bar. Trying to outrun my own thoughts.
And then I see her.
Millie.
She’s sitting at a table with two men, and my entire body goes on high alert. The Alpha in me rises, a territorial instinct so sharp and sudden it’s like a physical blow. My scent.
I can almost smell her from here, that sweet, intoxicating vanilla and rain that has haunted my dreams since that night.
The memory crashes into me—the feel of her skin, the sound of her voice begging my name.
I force it down, take a long swallow of my beer, and play the part of the detached observer.
I know one of the men. The dark-haired one.
Liam. I’ve seen him at The Cocoa Nook, the one who makes the coffee art.
He’s Maren’s son. That makes him part of the town’s foundational structure.
The other man is a stranger to me, but they have an easy camaraderie that speaks of a long history.
All I know is that he’s one of Gabe’s firefighters.
They’re laughing about something, their heads close together. Millie is smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She looks… tired. But beautiful. So fucking beautiful it hurts.
I watch them, my gaze casual, sweeping the room, but always coming back to their table. I’m gathering data. It’s what I do. The dark-haired one, Liam, says something to the blond one, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good shot, Maddox.”
So that’s his name. Maddox. I’ve heard that name before. In passing. One of the men who fought the fire. The pieces click into place. Liam, the café worker. Maddox, the firefighter. And Millie, the librarian who holds them both in the palm of her hand. They’re a unit. A triangle. A pack.
I see the way they look at her. Liam’s gaze is a mix of open adoration and deep, lingering hurt.
Maddox’s is more guarded, more protective, but it’s there, a fierce loyalty that borders on possessive.
And Millie… Millie sits between them, the eye of their storm, completely unaware of the power she holds.
I watch as she excuses herself, sliding off her stool and walking toward the back hallway.
My eyes follow her, tracking her movement through the crowd.
She doesn’t look my way. As she passes, a group of guys at a nearby table call out her name, and she turns, offering them a bright, genuine smile. It’s easy, unburdened.
I turn back to the bar, staring into the amber depths of my beer. So this is her world. Not just the library and the scent of old books, but this. This complicated, messy, intertwined history with two men who are clearly her everything.
And I’m just the sheriff. The one-night stand. The outsider. A wave of something hot and unfamiliar washes over me. It’s not just jealousy. It’s… inadequacy. A feeling I haven’t experienced in a long, long time. And I do not like it one bit.
I signal Keith for one more, my throat dry, my nerves frayed.
He slides the bottle across the bar. I drain half of it in one go, the bitter liquid a poor substitute for the control I’m craving.
My eyes drift back to their table. They’re laughing now, all three of them, a shared joke that sends a ripple through their little group.
They’re a unit. A closed circuit. And I’m on the outside, looking in.
I toss a few bills on the bar and stand, the motion stiff. I don’t look back. I can’t. I push through the heavy door, and the cold night air hits me like a slap, sharp and bracing. It clears my head for about two seconds before the image of her face, her smile, imprints itself again.
The cab of my truck is a familiar, cramped sanctuary. I slam the door, the sound echoing in the quiet parking lot, shutting out the noise, shutting out them. But it doesn’t shut out my thoughts. They’re louder than ever in here.
I rest my forehead against the cold steering wheel, my knuckles white where I grip it. I need something. Something more than beer.
My hand fumbles in the glove box, knocking aside old registration papers and a stray tire gauge.
My fingers brush against the crinkled cellophane of a pack I forgot I had.
I pull it out. Marlboro Red. An old habit I thought I’d kicked years ago.
There’s one left. One lonely, slightly bent cigarette at the bottom of the pack. It feels like a sign.
I grab it, placing it between my lips. The filter is a little crushed, the paper dry. I search the center console for a lighter, my fingers closing around a cheap plastic Bic.
The first drag is a toxic, welcome burn, a harsh cough rattling my chest that I quickly suppress. I haven’t done this in years. My body protests, but my mind sighs in relief. I blow a plume of smoke toward the windshield, watching it ghost and dissipate against the glass.
She’s not mine. She was never mine. She was a stranger, a one-night mistake, a fantasy I built in the cab of this very truck.
But now she’s real. She’s a part of this town, woven into its very fabric in a way I can’t even begin to understand.
They have a history, a language I don’t speak, a shorthand of shared pain and joy that excludes me completely.
I take another drag, longer this time, letting the smoke fill my lungs, holding it there until the burn becomes a dull ache. It’s a distraction. A momentary anesthetic for the raw, gaping wound of my own inadequacy.
I’m the goddamn sheriff, a man who’s faced down armed criminals and walked through the aftermath of city-wide riots. But watching her with them, seeing that easy, unguarded affection… it makes me feel like a jealous, powerless kid.
The cigarette burns down, the glowing ember a small, angry star in the darkness of my truck.
The ash flakes onto my jeans. I don’t care.
I smoke it down to the filter, until my fingers singe and I’m forced to let it drop.
I crush the butt into the empty ashtray, the last wisp of smoke curling up into the air and disappearing.
The temporary relief is gone. The nicotine does nothing to quiet the storm in my head. The problem is still here, waiting for me. She’s still here.
And I still fucking want her.
The drive home is a blur of wet asphalt and neon lights bleeding across the windshield.
It’s started to drizzle, a fine, misty rain that makes the world slick and reflective.
The wipers swipe a hypnotic, slow arc across the glass, but they can’t wipe away the image burned into the back of my eyelids: Millie, laughing.
Not at me, but with them. With Liam, the café worker, and Maddox, the firefighter.
A triangle I have no place in.
The truck cab is cold, the silence a heavy blanket.
I turn the heat up, but the chill is inside me, a deep-seated frost that has nothing to do with the weather.
I’m a fool. A goddamn fool. I came to this town to escape, to find a quieter life, and instead, I’ve found a woman who is more complicated than any case I ever worked in New York.
A woman who is tied to two men who look at her with a history I can never compete with.
I pull up to the house, the tires crunching on the wet gravel. The ocean is a dark, restless mass beyond the dunes, its sound a low, constant roar. Inside, the air is stale and unwelcoming. I shed my jacket, letting it fall to the floor, and walk straight to the bathroom.
The shower is a necessity, a ritual of purification. I turn the water on as hot as I can stand it and step under the spray, the heat a punishing shock against my skin.
I close my eyes and let the water beat down on me, trying to wash away the jealousy, the feeling of being an outsider, the ghost of Millie’s scent that seems to cling to my clothes no matter how far I am from her. It doesn’t work. The feelings are still there, coiled in my gut like a snake.
My hand moves down my body, a mechanical, desperate motion. I’m not thinking about anything, not her face, not the memory of our night together. It’s just a physical act, a way to release the pressure, the frustration that’s been building inside me since I walked into that bar.
I grit my teeth when I wrap my hand around my cock.
It’s quick, rough, and utterly unsatisfying. When it’s over, I lean my forehead against the tile of the shower wall, the water cascading down my back. I feel empty. Hollow.
I towel off, wrap the towel around my waist, and walk into the bedroom. The bed is unmade, a tangle of sheets. I collapse onto it, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with me. Closing my eyes, I will my brain to shut down.
The next morning, I wake up with a clear head.
The sun is streaming through the window, bright and optimistic.
The storm in my chest has passed, pushed into a locked box in the back of my mind.
I have a job to do, and more importantly, I have a daughter to pick up. That’s all that matters right now.
I check my phone. A text from Jake confirming the logistics for the lumber shipment. A reminder about my meeting with Julian this afternoon. And a message from Amy with Clara’s flight information. She lands in an hour.
I need to go to the office for a little bit, sign off on a few things, and then I’m heading to the airport.
The drive is different this morning. The sun is out, drying the last of the rain from the roads. The town looks hopeful, the new construction gleaming in the light. At the office, I deal with what I need to, my mind focused, efficient. I’m the sheriff. I’m in control.
The airport is a small, regional hub, a single building with a parking lot that’s mostly empty. I wait by the baggage claim, my hands shoved in my pockets, a nervous energy thrumming through me. Then I see her.
Clara.
She walks through the doors, a faded black sweater hanging off her frame, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her jeans are distressed, rips and tears artfully placed, and her hair… her hair is still purple at the tips, but it’s a darker, more subdued shade now, like a bruised plum.
“Hey, superstar,” I say, a smile spreading across my face before I can stop it.
She sees me, and a small, hesitant smile touches her lips. “Hey, Dad.”
I pull her into a hug, her body feeling slight and fragile in my arms. “I like the hair,” I say, my voice muffled by her sweater. “It’s darker.”
She pulls back, a real smile this time. “Yeah. No one has noticed.”
“I noticed,” I say, my voice soft. “I’m just happy you haven’t shaved your head.”
Her smile falters, and for a second, I see the flash of pain from our phone call. “I should have. I was hurt.”
My own smile drops. The guilt hits me like a physical blow. I pull her in for another hug, tighter this time. “I know, baby. I am so, so sorry.”
She lets me hold her for a long moment, then she pulls back, her expression clearing. She hands me her backpack, a familiar, worn-out thing covered in patches. “Let’s go see your new home, Dad,” she says, and the words are a peace offering.
I take the bag, my heart feeling a little lighter than it has in days. “Yeah,” I say, my smile returning. “Let’s go home.”