Sneak Peek #2
Wyatt swings his legs under the table. “Can I have pie?”
“Yes,” Georgia Mae and I say at the same time.
Georgia Mae squeezes my shoulder as she walks away. “I tried to slow it down,” she murmurs. "I'm certainly glad I warned you before the Maple sisters got a hold of you."
I nod. I know she did.
But it’s too late. The name is out. The questions are circling. And somewhere between the smell of coffee and pie, I feel it settle deep in my bones.
Brooks McCallister is not just back.
He is already part of the story again.
I am halfway through Wyatt’s pie negotiations when the café goes quiet.
Not silent. River Bend is never silent. But the pitch changes, like someone turned down the background noise just enough for something important to step forward.
I feel it before I see it, which is unfair considering my day has already exceeded its emotional quota.
Wyatt stops swinging his legs. Elaine’s spoon pauses mid stir. Even the bell above the door seems to hold its breath.
Then Georgia Mae’s gaze lifts past my shoulder.
“Oh,” she says. Soft. Meaningful.
I don't turn around.
I have learned many survival skills in my life. Delivering calves in a storm. Calming panicked pet owners. Convincing a five-year-old that pants are, in fact, non-optional. Avoidance is another one.
“Summer,” Georgia Mae adds gently. “Don’t panic.”
That is never comforting.
I take a slow sip of sweet tea and finally look.
Brooks McCallister stands just inside the café, one hand hooked in the pocket of his jeans, the other holding the door open as someone slips past him.
He looks bigger than I remember. Broader. Like the years stretched him instead of wearing him down. Dark shirt, dusty boots, black Stetson, familiar posture that says he belongs anywhere with dirt under his feet.
Of course he looks good.
Because why wouldn’t the universe stack the deck?
I catalog details the way I do with nervous animals. Distance. Exit points. Heart rate. Mine, not his.
He has not seen me yet.
The Maple Sisters have, though. Loretta’s smile spreads like she just won bingo. Patty straightens her purse. Elaine watches him like a spectator sport.
Wyatt squints. “Mom,” he whispers loudly. “That man looks like he wrestles cows.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
“Yes,” I murmur. “That’s a solid observation.”
Georgia Mae appears at Brooks’ side in seconds, because of course she does. She gestures toward the counter, says something I cannot hear. Brooks nods, polite, restrained. City polish layered over ranch boy instincts.
He laughs at something she says, and the sound hits me square in the chest.
Soo unfair.
I glance down at my reflection in the window. Ponytail frizzing. Scrubs with a faint paw print on the thigh. I smell like antiseptic and pie.
Excellent.
Brooks turns slightly, scanning the room.
I duck behind my menu like it offers protection.
Wyatt leans out of the booth. “Mom, that’s the vet asking guy.”
“Shh,” I hiss.
Too late.
Brooks’ gaze lands on us.
For half a second, his expression goes blank. Then his eyes widen. Surprise flickers across his face, followed by something softer. Warmer. Something that makes my stomach do an unhelpful flip.
I lift my chin.
If he is going to see me, he is going to see me standing.
I slide out of the booth and turn fully toward him, past and present colliding in the space between us. Seven years collapse into one long breath.
Brooks McCallister is back.
And this time, there is no avoiding him.
I make it exactly three steps toward the door before River Bend betrays me again.
“Summer.”
His voice comes across with a little reluctant tone to it.
It's lower than I remember. Smoother. Like time ran it through gravel and polish at the same time.
I stop. Running would be obvious, and I have already embarrassed myself by hiding behind a laminated menu.
I turn slowly.
Brooks McCallister stands a few feet away now, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes and the faint crease between his brows. He looks unsure which is new. Brooks was never unsure about anything.
“Hi,” he says.
Seven years. That's all he has?
“Hi,” I reply, because apparently, I am polite even in emotional emergencies.
An awkward pause stretches between us. The café holds its breath. I am suddenly very aware of my son watching this like it is premium entertainment.
“Well,” I say brightly, because panic makes me chipper, “this is… unexpected.”
Brooks huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
His gaze flicks past me, lands on Wyatt, and something unreadable crosses his face. Curiosity. Interest. A softness he doesn’t try to hide.
Wyatt waves.
“Hi,” Wyatt says cheerfully. “Do you wrestle cows?”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Brooks blinks. Then he smiles, slow and genuine. “Sometimes.”
Wyatt nods, satisfied. “Cool.”
I clear my throat. “We should go.”
Georgia Mae appears instantly, hands on hips. “You just got here.”
“Yes,” I say. “And now we are leaving.”
Brooks lifts his hands slightly, like he is trying not to spook a skittish animal. “Summer, I was hoping we could talk.”
I glance at him. Really look. The familiar face. The unfamiliar distance. The weight of everything we haven’t said.
“Now is not a good time,” I say, which might be the understatement of the year.
He nods, accepting that faster than I expect. “Okay. Another time.”
That should make me feel better.
It doesn't.
I herd Wyatt toward the door, mumbling goodbyes, ignoring the Maple Sisters’ identical expressions of delight. The bell jingles behind us like a warning.
Outside, the late afternoon sun hits my face, warm and blinding. I breathe in freedom and exhaust fumes and pretend my hands are not shaking as I unlock my truck.
“Mom,” Wyatt says as I buckle him in. “That guy likes you.”
“He does not,” I say, too quickly. "He used to live here, and he knows me is all"
Wyatt shrugs. “Okay.”
I slam the driver’s door shut and turn the key.
That is when I see him.
Brooks stands on the sidewalk, watching us. Then he starts walking. Not toward the café. Toward my truck.
My pulse spikes.
“Nope,” I mutter.
I throw the truck into gear and pull away just as he reaches the door. In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of his surprised smile.
I press the gas a little harder than necessary.
I don't look back.
Brooks McCallister may be back in River Bend.
But I am not ready to stop being mad yet.