Chapter 12
Eliza
By the time the drive-thru line thinned out, I’d reheated my coffee twice and still couldn’t swallow it past the knot in my throat.
Graham had barely even looked at Nate. Barely acknowledged him—except to act like he didn’t exist. But his voice had dripped with superiority, and I knew that tone. It was the same one he used to use with me in Portland, whenever I got too loud, too independent, too much.
I also knew what it meant now.
He saw Nate as a threat.
Which meant he wasn’t going to ignore him for long.
My phone buzzed a few minutes after Nate left.
Nate: If you need a break later, I’ll bring you a pie. Or a milkshake. Or both. Forget waiting until after lunch.
I stared at the screen longer than necessary, the tightness in my chest easing a notch. The noise of the morning felt farther away somehow.
Me: I’m okay. Just… tired of being a topic. Thanks for asking.
Three dots appeared, disappeared.
Nate: I get that. For what it’s worth, you handled it like a pro.
I smiled despite myself, thumbs moving before I could second-guess it.
Me: That actually helps. See you around?
Nate: Anytime.
I fidgeted with the levers on the espresso machine, wiping and re-wiping the already spotless counter.
My stomach twisted. If Graham went after Nate or the Pennywhistle Pantry—even in subtle, underhanded ways—he wouldn’t just be hurting a man who didn’t deserve it.
He’d be hurting Tilly, too. He’d be putting Nate’s livelihood at risk.
And that made me want to scream.
Graham wasn’t just my ex here. In Honeybrook Hollow, he was part of the town’s history.
The golden boy who’d grown up on these streets, left, made something shiny and successful of himself, and came back with money and confidence and a smile people trusted without question.
I’d only lived here a little over a year—long enough to be known, not long enough to be untouchable.
In my head, the math was simple and cruel: people like him got the benefit of the doubt. People like me learned to stay careful.
Nate was everything Graham wasn’t. Honest. Kind.
Steady. And that made him vulnerable in ways Graham would exploit without a second thought.
The idea of Graham’s influence and money pressing against a place like the Pennywhistle—a place that actually meant something to this town—made my chest tighten until it hurt.
Nate didn’t posture. He didn’t play games.
He just showed up and worked hard, like decency was enough to protect him.
I couldn’t even tell my family. Not because they wouldn’t believe me—but because they would. They’d go scorched earth without hesitation, and Graham would smile through it, shake hands, tell his version of the story until I was the problem for making things uncomfortable.
I loved my sisters for that fierce loyalty.
But I couldn’t risk it.
I couldn’t risk letting them provoke someone who knew this town better than I did—who had roots and reach and the kind of quiet power that didn’t have to announce itself to do damage. Carrying it alone felt safer than watching everything I cared about get caught in the crossfire.
I closed up the Coffee Cabin in a daze, wiped down the counters for the third time, and locked the door behind me with trembling fingers.
I didn’t know what to do.
So I did what I always did when the walls started closing in.
I wandered to Paper & Pine, Cara’s shop.
Sitting on the corner of Sycamore Street, its tall front windows glowed warm against the gray Oregon sky.
Inside, floor-to-ceiling shelves of mismatched wood bowed slightly under the weight of well-loved books, the air carrying the soft scent of paper, pine, and Cara’s shortbread cookies baking in the back.
I hoped the smell of books and peppermint tea would do something to calm the spin cycle in my brain.
Cara looked up from behind the counter, where she was carefully arranging a stack of journals that said things like Plot Twist and This Is Fine on the covers.
“Hey,” she said, squinting at me. “You look like you’ve either committed a crime or you’re about to cry.”
“I haven’t decided which way to go yet,” I muttered, kicking snow off my boots and unwrapping my scarf. “Do you have anything that fixes life? Or at least makes it quieter in my head?”
“Fantasy, mystery, or self-help?” Her eyes softened, her compassion evident even through her teasing.
She reached under the counter and produced a tin of her famous shortbread, sliding it toward me with a gentle smile.
“Here. Sugar is medicinal, at least that’s my philosophy.
” The kindness in her gesture made my chest ache in a way I hadn’t expected, and for a moment, I let myself breathe in the comfort of her presence and the hum of the shop around us.
“I was hoping for witchy time travel or maybe a cookbook that doubles as an escape plan.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding gravely. “The existential dread shelf. Back left, next to ‘murder but make it cozy.’”
I snorted and headed toward the back corner of the shop.
Cara’s store was all reclaimed wood, warm lighting, and small signs in her curly handwriting tucked between books: “You need this.” and “Romance lives here, you know you want it.” A patchwork armchair sat near the window with a crocheted llama pillow tucked into the side, and there was a rolling cart labeled “Blind Date with a Book” decorated with red heart stickers and wrapped in brown paper packages tied with twine.
Of course, she was on theme for Valentine’s month.
She went into the back room while I browsed, running my fingers along the spines as if they might hold answers.
I couldn’t even tell her what was bothering me.
She liked Graham. She thought he was charming.
She didn’t realize what he’d done to me, how he’d chipped away at me piece by piece until I no longer recognized myself.
Cara reemerged with a steaming cup and two books.
“One’s a romance where the main character gets revenge by becoming wildly successful. The other is about a woman who moves to the woods to scream and make cheese.”
“Both sound perfect,” I said.
She tilted her head, watching me too closely. “You okay?”
I paused. “I’m fine.”
“That’s your lying voice.”
“I don’t have a lying voice.”
“You do. It’s your serious, I’m fine, definitely not spiraling voice—the one with no hint of sarcasm and bereft of jokes. You want to talk?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Then forced a smile. “Maybe later.”
She didn’t push. Just sat at the little reading nook under the window and kept an eye on me.
By the time I picked out two paperbacks and a mug that said Book Babe, Cara had locked the front door and flipped the sign. I raised an eyebrow.
“Lucy texted. She’s on her way with pizza,” she said. “We’re doing a cozy sisters’ night right here, and you’re staying.”
I didn’t argue. Honestly, it sounded better than sitting at home spiraling while Remy and Linguini knocked things off counters for sport.
Moments later, the sound of a key turning in the lock and hurried footsteps echoing across the wooden floor was followed by a dramatic entrance as Lucy appeared, juggling a pizza box and a tote bag bursting with drinks and snacks.
Her hair was pulled up in a high ponytail, cheeks flushed from the cold.
With a triumphant grin, she appeared and announced, “Party’s here!
” The room instantly felt warmer, her infectious energy filling the cozy space.
“What’s the emergency?” she asked. “Do we hate someone? Are we hiding a body? Because I have a tarp in my trunk.”
Cara and I stared.
“What?” Lucy said. “I’m a children’s author. You’d be surprised how often my job inspires very specific fantasies.”
I snorted. “No emergency. I just needed books.”
“And comforting snacks. And distraction. And possibly a bodyguard.” Cara added.
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “Something is different about you. Eliza, are you crushing on someone?”
I froze. “What? No. What?
Cara blinked. “Wait a minute. Is this about Nate?”
Heat rose in my cheeks, but I tried to play it cool, grabbing a slice of pizza as a distraction.
The truth was, my thoughts had been a tangled mess ever since that last conversation with him.
I could still hear his laugh, see the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
Not that I was going to admit any of that to my sisters.
She watched me carefully, then declared, “It’s Nate. Pieces are clicking into place in my brain. He’s at Coffee Cabin a lot, even more than a caffeine addict would be. I see him walking down there all the time. He has the jitters, and it’s because of you, not the coffee.”
“What? No,” I blurted, my voice cracking like a preteen boy.
“Oh my god,” Lucy whispered, practically vibrating.
“You’re crushing on the hot diner dad. I heard some things around town—involving you and him and some not-so-subtle flirting, not to mention something happening during the morning rush today?
I think it’s amazing. Grandma likes him, you know.
She told me she did when we were walking Larry and her pugs the other day.
” Larry was her llama, the main character in her children’s books.
“I’m not crushing on him—or anyone.”
“You so are.”
Cara leaned back, smug. “And I bet he’s into you, too. I mean, who wouldn’t be? You’re gorgeous and hilarious. And you have a great ass.”
“Stop it. I might die if you keep this up. I’m not kidding.”
Lucy grinned. “This is the best thing that’s happened to me all week. I love, love—everything about it, watching it happen, the beginning phases, the blushing, the denial, all the feels. This is the best. But I’ll stop. Just promise to tell me all about it when you are in the acceptance phase.”
“It’s not a thing,” I insisted. “We’re friends. That’s all.”
“Uh-huh,” Cara said, biting into her slice of pizza. “And I’m Taylor Swift.”
Lucy pulled out her phone. “Do we need to do a background check on him? Google him? Deep dive his social media?”
“He doesn’t have social media,” I muttered with an eye roll.
“So you’ve checked?” She teased with a smirk. “Anyway, that’s even better. I like a mystery.”
I groaned and flopped back into the armchair, one hand over my eyes. “Why did I come here?”
“Because we’re your sisters,” Lucy said.
“And because deep down, you know we love you and would do anything for you. And you know we’re going to like him, too.
I already do, in fact. His daughter is adorable, and she’s a Larry the Llama fan, as you know, since you sent them my way during the tree lighting ceremony at Christmas, now known as clue number one. ”
I peeked between my fingers, seeing Cara and Lucy watching me with matching grins, waiting for another reaction.
For a second, I almost considered spilling everything—every confusing flutter and all the secrets I’d been keeping.
But the words tangled in my throat, too heavy to speak, so I laughed it off, trying to sound normal.
“You two are ridiculous, you know that?” I tried to play it off like I was fine.
I couldn’t tell them about Graham. About what happened with him. I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
The conversation faded as we turned our attention to the pizza, sharing quiet bites between us. The easy silence felt warm, and for the first time in days, I found comfort in their company, letting my worries slip away as I laughed and ate dinner with my sisters.
But the guilt didn’t go away.
It stayed, coiled in my chest like a warning.
Because the more I started to like Nate, the more I had to lose.
And Graham would try to ruin it all because that’s the kind of selfish jerk he was.
Later that night, once I was home, a heaviness settled in my chest. Guilt and fear tangled together until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. I stared at my phone for a long time, my thumb hovering over Nate’s name, knowing that whatever I said next would change something.
The truth pressed down on me in a way I couldn’t ignore—if I let this keep growing, I’d only be pulling Nate into the wreckage Graham had left behind.
Into the quiet threats and small-town power plays, I didn’t know how to fight yet.
And Nate had too much to lose. Tilly had too much to lose.
I wasn’t worth the kind of trouble Graham could bring to their door.
Not worth the risk of sour looks or whispered doubts or anything that made Nate’s life harder simply because he cared about me.
That thought hurt more than I wanted to admit, because some part of me believed it. That I was still too tangled up, too unsure, too bruised in places that hadn’t finished healing. That wanting Nate didn’t magically make me ready for him—or good enough for the steadiness he offered so freely.
My fingers shook as I typed, my heart aching with every word.
I told him I couldn’t see him anymore, that having Graham in town had cracked something open I thought I’d already sealed shut.
I told him I had things to work through and that I didn’t want to hurt him or complicate his life.
Hitting send felt like letting go of something fragile and rare—something I hadn’t realized how badly I wanted until I convinced myself he deserved better than the mess I still was.
The message disappeared, replaced by the quiet certainty that it was done—and regret hit me almost instantly.
Like a hollow drop in my chest, as if I’d stepped off something solid without meaning to.
I set the phone face down, then flipped it back over a second later, like it might change its mind and come back with a different ending.
It didn’t.
I pressed my palm to my sternum, breathing through the ache, already missing him in a way that felt unfair.
Missing the steadiness. The friendship. The kindness.
The version of myself that felt braver by simply standing near him.
I told myself this was what protecting people looked like.
That choosing distance was the responsible thing.
Even as every part of me wished I’d waited—just one more minute—before letting go.