Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
JESS
The bell over Pie Hard’s door jingled as I pushed it open, a too-cheerful chime that matched the warm blast of air and the wall of scent—sugar, cinnamon, melted butter, that crisp edge of fresh-brewed coffee.
It hit me square in the chest, cozy and familiar, and for a second, I almost forgot why I was here.
Then my brain conveniently supplied a replay of Powell’s sleepy, crooked smile when I’d slid out of his bed that morning, and my heart did a full cartwheel.
Focus, Donnegan.
Lola stood behind the counter in one of her novelty aprons.
This one was covered in cartoon pies with speech bubbles (“You want a piece of me?”).
Her silver hair was piled up in its usual messy bun with a pencil stabbed through like a flag of sovereignty.
At the corner table, the usual suspects were holding court: Dorothy Bishop, Mrs. Atkins, Mrs. McKenzie.
They all had coffee. They all had pie. They all had Opinions.
Lola spotted me and lit up. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Twelve Stops herself.” She waved me over. “Come here, sugar.”
“I’m just dropping off final notes.” I held up the folder like a shield. “Five minutes, tops.”
“Uh-huh.” Dorothy eyed me over the rim of her mug. “And I just eat salad for the taste.”
I made the mistake of glancing at their table. All three of them were staring at me with identical speculative interest.
Lola leaned her elbows on the counter, chin in hand, giving me a once-over. “You got a secret you’re not sharing, sugar?”
My cheeks heated instantly. It was ridiculous how fast they could do this. “My secret is that I haven’t had lunch yet, and I would like to leave with my dignity and a cookie order.”
“Mm.” Her eyes narrowed the way they did when a meringue didn’t behave. “You’re glowing.”
“I am not glowing.” I slid the folder across the counter. “That’s caffeine. And stress. And overhead lighting.”
“She is absolutely glowing,” Mrs. Atkins stage-whispered. “Take a gander at her. That’s a woman who’s been—”
“Busy,” I cut in, before that sentence could go places I could never recover from. “With logistics. For the festival that is tomorrow.”
“I hear we’re getting the grand reopening of Pour Decisions for the Twelve Stops,” Dorothy said.
I really couldn’t stop the smile now. “Yeah, we are.” Powell had helped me fit the new espresso machine in place yesterday. My truck was fully kitted out again and ready to roll for the hot cocoa flights.
I turned back to Lola. “Anyway, I’m only here to go over some last-minute things for the cookie decorating event.”
Lola chuckled and flipped open the folder. “All right, all right. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
“Come say hi, honey,” Mrs. McKenzie called.
“In a minute,” I said automatically.
Lola glanced over the top of her glasses. “You are a rude child if you don’t at least wave.”
“I am a very busy woman.”
“Busy is not an excuse to forget your manners.” She stabbed the pencil she held toward the corner table. “Go on. I can read and breathe without supervision.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Resisting was useless. I took a breath that I hoped would push my heart down from my throat and crossed to the Merry Meddlers.
Dorothy patted the empty chair next to her. “Sit. You look like you’re about to run laps.”
“I am about to run laps,” I said, but I sat. “Just not the fun kind.”
“Oh, hush,” Mrs. Atkins said. “You love this kind of thing.”
“Define love.”
“Color-coded Post-its,” she said promptly. “Tabs. Spreadsheets. Bossing people around with a smile.”
Okay, that was… not untrue.
“Everything ready for tomorrow?” Mrs. McKenzie asked, stirring her coffee with a tiny spoon even though it was clearly already perfectly mixed.
“As ready as it’s going to get. All the signage is done. Volunteers know where they’re supposed to be and when. We’ve got backup extension cords and extra gloves. Now I have to stay on top of it before it all mutates into chaos.”
Dorothy smiled. “It’ll be wonderful. We haven’t had this much buzz about an event in years.”
I tried to let that land as encouragement, not pressure. “That’s the plan.”
“Powell’s been running around like a maniac,” Mrs. Atkins said fondly. “Came by here this morning for the extra folding tables.”
My heart did that stupid little hop again at the sound of his name. “Right. He mentioned he was doing a supply run.”
“He wouldn’t leave until he fixed the wobbly one,” she continued. “Took the thing apart right there in the hallway. I told him we’d make do, but oh no, that boy can’t stand a half-done job.”
“That’s our Powell,” Mrs. McKenzie agreed. “When we had that big storm last year and my gutter came down, he was at my house with a ladder before I could even get the words out.”
“And he patched my roof after,” Mrs. Atkins put in. “Wouldn’t take a cent. Just said, ‘You’d do the same for me,’ and went on his way.”
“Helped repaint the fellowship hall two summers ago,” Dorothy added. “Stayed through the whole heat wave. I thought he was going to melt right into the floor.”
They all laughed, fond and warm. I found myself smiling automatically, because that was who he was. Of course, they were talking about him like he was some kind of hometown superhero. He practically was.
Still, hearing it all stacked up in a row tugged at a loose thread in my chest.
Lola arrived with a fresh pot of coffee and started topping off their mugs. “Don’t forget when he came back after that rash of frozen pipes,” she said. “He must’ve crawled under half the houses in town that week.”
“And the time he pulled that lady’s car out of the ditch on County Road 8,” Dorothy said. “Didn’t know her from Adam.” She shook her head. “He saw she needed help and stopped.”
“Baby, that boy would help anybody,” Lola said, laughing. “It’s the way he’s wired. You get in a bind, he’s right there.”
Help anybody.
The words landed a little differently.
I took a sip of coffee to hide the way my throat went tight. “Yeah,” I said. “He’s… very big on showing up.”
Mrs. Atkins nodded vigorously. “He can’t help himself. I swear, if someone tripped over a curb in Birmingham, he’d feel it in his bones and go running.”
“He’d give you the shirt off his back,” Dorothy said. “Literally. You should’ve seen him with all those kids’ toy drives. Hauling boxes, building bikes, making sure every child had something under the tree.”
Lola looked at me over the coffeepot, eyes soft. “You picked a good one to partner with, Jess. For the festival,” she added, but her mouth curved like she was aware of exactly what she was doing.
Heat crept up my neck again. “We’re a good team,” I said carefully. “For the event.”
“And for your truck,” Mrs. McKenzie said. “He’s put in a lot of hours on that, hasn’t he?”
My mind flashed to his hands braced on either side of me, the way he’d murmured, “You’re not alone in this,” and meant every syllable. “Yeah,” I said softly. “He has.”
“Doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Mrs. Atkins said. “He’d do that for anybody in your situation.”
It was said so casually. No malice. Merely a simple statement of fact.
He’d do that for anybody.
My smile stayed plastered in place, but something low in my stomach clenched. I understood they meant it as a compliment. Look what a good man he is. Look how selfless. Look what a pillar of the community you’ve snagged there, sweetheart.
But the old, familiar voice in my head translated it differently:
You’re not special.
You’re not an exception.
He’d have shown up like this for whoever happened to own that truck when it burned.
Another story bubbled to the surface, uninvited.
You’re nobody to me.
The words didn’t land with the same sharpness they had the day I overheard them by the gym doors. That wound had been cleaned out, stitched up, his explanation laid over it like a careful bandage. I believed him. I did.
But apparently, there were layers to this particular scar.
Back then, I’d heard, “You’re nobody,” and translated it into “I imagined everything.”
Now, listening to these women who adored him, I heard he’d do this for anybody and translated it into you still might be imagining you’re different.
Logically, I knew that was unfair. He hadn’t exactly been subtle about wanting me.
That expression in his eyes when he’d said, “I’m done watching you walk away.
” The way he kissed me like I was the only thing on his mind.
The way he’d murmured, “I like feeding you,” and then gone pink when he realized what he’d admitted.
But fear doesn’t listen to logic.
Fear hears: of course he came through. Of course he put in hours. Of course, he made grand gestures. That’s what Powell does. For everyone.
Dorothy reached over and patted my hand. “Don’t look so worried, baby. Tomorrow’s going to be wonderful. And if anything goes sideways, you’ve got half the town at your back.”
I forced a breath out. “I know. I’m just… tired.”
“You’re allowed to be.” Lola came back around the counter to top off coffee, even though no one had asked. “You’ve walked through fire this month, figuratively and literally. You hold yourself together better than most people with ten times your resources.”
The kindness almost undid me more than the casual comments had.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Really. Just running on fumes.”
“Take care of that heart,” she said gently. “It’s doing a lot of work.”
I wasn’t sure which heart she meant—actual cardiac muscle or the one that felt as if it had been reconstructed with Powell-shaped sutures—but either way, I gave her a wobbly smile and pushed to my feet.
“Okay.” I smoothed my hands down my coat. “You’ve got the final schedule. If anything changes, I’ll send a text blast, but otherwise… we’re good.”
Lola squeezed my arm. “Go grab some lunch.”
“Or a nap,” Dorothy suggested.
“Or a kiss,” Mrs. Atkins added, not even pretending to be subtle.
“Goodbye,” I said firmly, before my head could combust, and made my escape.
The blast of cold air on the sidewalk jolted me, but it didn’t clear the fuzz in my chest. The town was festive and bright, with people waving, kids skipping.
I made myself wave back, smile, nod, and check off two more quick stops—a last-minute print pickup at the copy shop, a check-in with the volunteer coordinator about walkie-talkies.
On the outside, I probably looked like I always did before a big event: focused, a little keyed up, efficient.
On the inside, everything was… off balance.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d been tangled in Powell’s sheets again, his fingers tracing idle shapes on my side, his voice sleepy and low as he’d asked if I was okay. I’d felt seen. Chosen. Like we’d deliberately stepped onto the same path instead of orbiting each other forever.
Now the whisper at the back of my mind had shifted. Maybe this is simply… what he does. Maybe you’re folding meaning into the same pattern he uses for everyone else.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
POWELL:
How’s my favorite festival dictator? Everything good at Pie Hard?
Under normal circumstances, that would’ve made me smile so hard my face hurt.
Today, the word favorite snagged on that fresh, sore place.
He’d do that for anybody.
I stared at the screen for a few seconds too long, watching the text blur.
There was a version of me—braver, less dented—that would have texted back exactly what I was thinking. Old ladies are singing your praises, and my brain is being a jerk about it. Please reassure me I’m not some extended community service project.
Unfortunately, the version of me currently at the wheel was the one who’d spent a decade building a fortress around her feelings and did not enjoy exposing the wiring.
I typed carefully.
JESS:
Everything’s set. Lola & Co. are ready. I’m doing last-minute rounds. You good?
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
POWELL:
We’re good. Walk-through with volunteers at 4. You coming by, or do you want me to handle it and send notes?
Normally, I’d be there. Of course, I’d be there. My name was literally on the co-chair line. But the idea of standing next to him right now, with this weird new bruise forming in my chest, made my breath shorten.
JESS:
If you can take lead, that’d be great. I need a couple of hours to regroup & prep coffee stuff.
There was a longer pause this time.
POWELL:
You okay?
I closed my eyes. For a second, I almost told him the truth: I don’t know. I think so. Maybe. I’m kind of… spinning.
Instead, my fingers did what they’d been trained to do for years: they deflected.
JESS:
Fine. Tired. Big day tomorrow.
Another pause.
POWELL:
Copy that. Get some rest, boss. We’ve got this.
We.
The word should have been comforting. It had been, yesterday. Hell, it had been an anchor.
Right now, it seemed like something I didn’t quite know how to lean on.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket before I could obsessively stare at the screen waiting for another reassuring ping that would magically fix ninety feet of emotional scaffolding.
You’re being ridiculous, I told myself as I headed toward my car. They weren’t saying you don’t matter. They were saying he’s a good man.
I knew that. I’d always known that.
But the old reflex was strong. If the universe gave me an opening to believe I was one more line item on someone’s endless to-do list, my brain would do a full Olympic floor routine to land there.
I unlocked the car, slid into the driver’s seat, and sat there with my hands on the steering wheel for a long moment, watching my breath fog the windshield.
Tomorrow, there would be no time for this. Tomorrow I’d be too busy managing crowds and keeping cocoa from boiling over and making sure nobody glued their fingers together in the ornament workshop.
Today, apparently, was for remembering that letting someone in meant giving them the power to hurt you—even if they never meant to.
I took a steadying breath, started the engine, and told myself—firmly—that I could deal with it later.
After the Twelve Stops. After I had proof, one way or another, that this thing with Powell was more than another item on his very long list of good deeds.
For now, I had a festival to finish.
And if my chest ached a little as I pulled away from the curb, well. I was used to working around pain.