Chapter 3 #2
"Is that so?" Eleanor's smile reminds me of a cat with a particularly juicy mouse. "Well, tight deadlines focus the mind wonderfully. Perhaps you'll join us for dinner tomorrow at The Haven? Hunter's preparing a special summer menu preview."
"I wouldn't want to impose—"
"Nonsense. Noah will pick you up at six." She pats my arm with surprising strength. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I need my grandson to hang some banners for the festival that are beyond my reach."
Just like that, I’m dismissed.
I stand there for a second, watching Eleanor guide Noah away with a deceptively gentle hand on his arm, her cane tapping against the pavement in brisk, decisive beats. It’s only as they move off that it settles in—how effortlessly she just maneuvered that entire exchange.
Welcome, wrapped in warmth that felt genuine.
A warning, tucked neatly beneath it, sharp enough to catch if you were paying attention.
And a dinner invitation that wasn’t really an invitation at all.
My gaze drifts to Noah’s back, broad and unyielding as he listens to his grandmother with the same quiet attention he’s always given the people who matter to him. He glances over his shoulder, catching my eye, something like apology flickering there.
Twenty minutes.
A timeline. A promise. A return.
Even that feels… deliberate.
“Lost things have a way of finding their way home…”
The words echo, settling somewhere deeper than they should. I exhale slowly, pulling my phone from my pocket, more for something to do than anything else.
Angel’s Peak hasn’t just changed on the surface.
It’s still a place where people see too much, say exactly what they mean without saying it outright, and move you into position before you realize you’ve been handled.
Dinner tomorrow. Six o’clock. With Noah.
Not a question.
Not really a choice.
I glance down the street at the storefronts polished into something new, something brighter, and start walking.
“Take your time,” I call after him, keeping my voice light, easy, like none of this has shifted anything inside me. “I’ll explore a bit on my own.”
Even as I say it, something’s already in motion, and I’m not entirely sure I’m the one setting the pace anymore.
As Noah follows his grandmother into a shop, I overhear her stage whisper: "Still just as pretty, but with some city polish now. No wonder you never got over her. The ones who got away always leave the deepest mark."
I pretend not to hear, but the words follow me as I wander the marketplace, taking photos and notes with hands that aren't quite steady.
By late afternoon, I've seen most of downtown and spoken with enough business owners to fill several articles. Noah's tour, resumed after his grandmother's interruption, proved invaluable—he knows everyone and everything about Angel's Peak's transformation.
Back at Mabel's, I settle in the window seat with my laptop, organizing my notes while the day's conversations replay in my mind. Particularly, Eleanor Morgan's parting comment: "The one who got away always leaves the deepest mark."
The guest house is quiet. Most guests are out enjoying the summer evening, making it the perfect time to use the small kitchenette Mabel mentioned during check-in.
Downstairs, the kitchen is quaint and cozy, with warm wood tones and vintage charm, and modern appliances designed to mimic their antique counterparts.
A Keurig machine sits proudly on the counter like a promise of salvation.
I make a beeline for it, opening drawers and cabinets in search of the coffee pods.
Nothing.
I check the baskets beside the mugs, the wire organizer tucked into the cabinet above. Still nothing.
With a growing sense of desperation, I crouch to check the lower cupboards.
There's a French press—useless without ground coffee—and what might be a milk frother shoved behind a stack of mismatched bowls.
I exhale through my nose, patience fraying.
The coffee pods are either hoarded by some caffeine-greedy guest or locked in a cabinet I can't access.
I need something hot. Now.
An antique-style electric kettle sits on the back counter, shiny and charming as a Pinterest photo. Above it, taped neatly to the tile backsplash, a handwritten note reads:
Please do not use the kettle—electrical issues.
I pause.
Rub my temples.
Weigh my options.
There's no second kettle, no staff on site this late, and nothing in the guestroom to boil water. I'm running on nerves, adrenaline, and fumes after this morning's firehouse interview and the emotional landmine that is Noah Morgan.
How bad can it be? Probably overkill. The kind of warning someone writes just to be safe.
I fill the kettle and flip the switch before rummaging for a tea bag. Something herbal, calming—maybe chamomile. God knows I need it.
Behind me, there's a faint pop, followed by the acrid tang of burning metal. A curl of smoke slithers up from the base of the kettle. Another pop, louder this time. The smoke thickens, turning black. My eyes sting.
"Oh shit."
I rush forward, yanking the plug from the wall just as sparks arc from the faulty cord, sizzling across the burner. The smell—sharp, chemical, and unmistakably dangerous—hits me full force.
Smoke pours out like a signal flare. The flames catch—small at first, then lick up the side of the drapes above the stove.
Panic surges. No no no—
My gaze flies around the kitchen. Fire extinguisher. There. Under the sink.
I drop to my knees, nearly crack my head on the cabinet door, and haul out the red canister. It's heavier than I expect. My hands tremble as I wrestle with the pin.
Footsteps echo down the hall. A cane taps sharply against the hardwood.
Mabel appears in the doorway, takes one look at the flames, and lifts her voice with terrifying command.
"Fire! Everyone out immediately.”
Shouts fill the house. I block it all out, laser-focused on the fire now clawing toward the wooden cabinets.
"Come on, come on," I mutter, finally freeing the pin. I aim, squeeze the handle, and blast the flame with a cloud of suppressant foam. The hiss is satisfying. The fire stutters and dies down. I keep spraying until there's nothing but scorched drapes and foam-soaked tile.
Silence.
Then, the distant wail of sirens.
Perfect.
I stumble back, coughing, hair clinging to my face with sweat and soot. My shirt sticks damply to my skin. I'm pretty sure I've never looked worse.
And of course, that's when Noah arrives.