Chapter 21
Knox
The rain is a relentless drum against the windows. Inside, the air is warm, scented with the smell of the sea and Clara’s cherry-vanilla lip gloss.
We’re on the couch, a blanket draped over our legs, watching some ridiculous reality show about competitive cake decorating. She’s curled up against my side, her head on my shoulder, a solid, warm weight that feels more like home than this house ever has.
“You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be in charge of an entire town, you’re surprisingly bad at stocking a kitchen,” she says, her voice dry and amused. She gestures with her chin toward the mug in my hands. “This is just hot milk. There’s no chocolate in it. No cocoa.”
I take a sip, grimacing. She’s right. It’s just sad, warm milk.
“I’ve been a little busy, what with the whole ‘rebuilding a town from the ashes’ thing,” I retort, but there’s no heat in it.
I’m smiling. “I’ll run to the store. Get you some real hot chocolate.
The good stuff, with the little marshmallows. ”
She perks up, her eyes lighting up. “The good stuff? Deal.” She shifts, sitting up straighter. “But you have to promise not to arrest anyone on the way. I don’t want my cocoa tainted by your police work.”
“I make no promises,” I say, setting my mug down and ruffling her hair. She swats my hand away with a dramatic groan, but she’s smiling. “Be right back. Don’t burn the place down.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, already sinking back into the couch and grabbing the remote.
The drive into town is a lesson in caution.
The rain has turned the coastal roads into slick, treacherous ribbons of asphalt.
The wipers on my truck work overtime, a frantic, metronomic swipe against the deluge.
My headlights cut through the gloom, illuminating the sheets of rain that blur the world into a watercolor painting of grays and blacks.
I’m focused, my senses on high alert. This is when accidents happen.
I’m coming around a sharp bend, a part of the road I know is prone to pooling water, when my headlights catch on something. A flash of red. A vehicle. It’s not just on the side of the road; it’s in the ditch. The front end is crumpled, angled at a sickening, unnatural tilt.
My heart stops. It’s not a professional, calculated assessment. It’s a gut-level, primal lurch. My foot is on the brake before my brain has even finished processing the image. The truck slides on the wet pavement, but I bring it to a stop, my knuckles white where I’m gripping the wheel.
And then I see it. The shape. The make. It’s a truck I know. One I’ve seen parked outside The Cocoa Nook. One I’ve seen parked outside her apartment.
It’s Millie’s.
A cold, sharp panic, unlike anything I’ve ever felt, slices through me. It’s not the calm adrenaline of a crime scene, the detached focus of a sheriff approaching a crisis. This is something else. Something raw and terrifying. It’s a feeling of falling, of the world dropping out from under me.
I’m out of my truck before I even think, the door slamming shut behind me. The rain is a physical assault, soaking me in seconds, plastering my hair to my forehead.
I run, my boots sinking into the mud and grass of the ditch. “Millie!” I yell, my voice swallowed by the storm. “Millie, are you in there?”
I reach the driver’s side door. The window is cracked open just a sliver. And I see them.
They’re inside. Both of them. Millie is in the passenger seat, her head turned away from me, but I can see her profile, pale and unharmed. And next to her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders in a gesture of casual, protective intimacy, is Liam.
He looks up as I approach, his expression shifting from concern to mild surprise. He even has the audacity to smile. “Hey, Sheriff,” he says, his voice calm, as if we’re just bumping into each other at the grocery store. “We’re okay. Just a little skid. The roads are a mess out here.”
But I’m not looking at him. My eyes are locked on Millie. She won’t look at me. She’s staring straight ahead, her body rigid, her hands clenched in her lap. She knows I’m here. She’s choosing not to see me.
The panic recedes, replaced by a cold, heavy wave of something I don’t want to name. It’s a mix of relief that she’s okay and a sharp, bitter pang of… jealousy. Of seeing her there, with him. Of seeing his arm around her.
I force my sheriff’s mask back on, the one that feels like a poor fit right now.
“I was just worried,” I say, my voice clipped and professional.
“The roads are bad. I’m going to make a note to inform the mayor.
We need a town-wide announcement, tell everyone to stay off them unless it’s an emergency. ”
“Got it,” Liam says, his tone still easy, a little too easy. “I called a tow truck. And a firefighter. They should be here soon. We’ll be fine.”
“Right,” I say, my gaze flicking back to Millie. Still nothing. “Drive safe,” I tell them, the words feeling hollow and inadequate. I turn and walk away, the squelch of my boots in the mud a miserable sound.
I climb back into my truck, the cab feeling cold and empty. I sit there for a long moment, my hands still shaking slightly. I’ve been in shootouts. I’ve faced down armed criminals. I’ve walked through the aftermath of riots. But I have never had a panic like that.
The feeling of my heart seizing up, of my entire world narrowing to a single, terrifying point of possibility. It was unprofessional. It was out of control.
And I don’t like that one woman, one citizen, has the power to make me feel like that. To make me forget my job, my training, everything.
I close my eyes, the image of her face, pale and turned away from me, burned into the back of my eyelids. This is a complication I didn’t see coming. A complication I’m not sure I know how to handle.
Cora’s bakery is filled with warmth and light. The bell above the door jingles a cheerful welcome as I step inside, and the air hits me—a sweet cloud of sugar, yeast, and melting butter. It’s a smell so profoundly normal, so comforting, that for a second, the knot in my chest loosens.
Cora is behind the counter, her face flushed from the heat of the ovens, a dusting of flour on her cheek. “Sheriff!” she exclaims, her smile bright. “What can I get for you on this miserable day?”
I manage a smile in return, the muscles in my face feeling stiff and unused. “I’m on a mission,” I tell her, my voice a low rumble. “My daughter’s in town. I need to bribe her for forgiveness.”
Cora laughs. “Ah, the best kind of mission. Say no more. We have just the thing.”
She leads me to the display case, a veritable treasure trove of baked goods. My eyes scan over them, but my mind is elsewhere.
I see a row of chocolate croissants, their flaky layers glistening, and I remember the way Millie’s eyes lit up when she talked about them.
I see a plate of cinnamon rolls, dripping with icing, and I think of the scent of her, the way she smells like vanilla and home.
I have to forget about her. I have to push her out of my head, despite how much I dream of just one more night with her.
The dreams are vivid, torturous things where I can still feel the weight of her in my arms, the soft gasp she made when I first entered her.
It’s a hunger that has nothing to do with food, a craving that sits deep in my bones, and it’s slowly driving me insane.
“Sheriff?” Cora’s voice pulls me back. “What do you think? The ‘Death by Chocolate’ cookie is a classic crowd-pleaser for teenagers.”
I look at the monstrosity she’s pointing at. It’s a giant, dark chocolate cookie, studded with chunks of fudge, chocolate chips, and what looks like an entire brownie baked into the center. It’s excessive. It’s perfect.
“That’s the one,” I say, my voice firm. “And one of those giant blueberry muffins, too. The ones with the crumbly topping.”
“Excellent choices,” she says, packaging them up in a white cardboard box. “Your daughter is a lucky girl.”
The words hit me harder than they should. Am I lucky? Or is she? I’m a man who shows up with pastries because he can’t be there for the important things. I pay, my movements mechanical, and take the box. The warmth of it seeps into my hands.
The grocery store is my next stop. The automatic doors whoosh open to a world of fluorescent lights and squeaky linoleum. I grab a cart, the wobbly wheel pulling to the left, and start my mission.
Milk. Clara likes that sugary cereal I’d never let her have at home. I grab a box, a small guilty pleasure. Bread. Eggs.
I finish my shopping, my cart filled with the staples of a life I’m trying to build. Cocoa, chips, soda, frozen pizza. All the things a “cool dad” would have.
I’m at the checkout, the conveyor belt moving my items toward the cashier, when I see them.
A display of heart-shaped boxes of chocolates.
A cheap, tacky reminder of a holiday I’d completely forgotten.
Valentine’s Day. And all I can think about is Millie.
What would she think of these? Would she find them cheesy?
Or would she smile that small, secret smile of hers?
I shove the thought away, violently. I pay for my groceries, my jaw tight, and haul the bags out to my truck. The rain has finally started to let up, a soft, misty drizzle replacing the earlier deluge. The air smells clean, washed.
I load the groceries into the passenger seat, the box from Cora’s bakery sitting on top like a crown. I’m a father today. I’m going to go home, make my daughter a ridiculously unhealthy dinner, and watch a stupid movie with her. I’m going to be present. I’m going to be the dad she deserves.
But as I start the engine and pull out onto the road, I know it’s just a temporary fix. The problem is still out there. She’s still out there. And I’m a man haunted by a librarian who has somehow, in the space of a few weeks, managed to unravel me completely.