Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Trudy
The bell over the door jingled, and I tried not to notice how quickly the air shifted. How the tension in the room tightened, and my lungs struggled to take in air.
It had been like that with my late husband Terry, only... less.
But the first time he walked into the shop with his friend, both new to town, his arrogance and the way he threw money around, as if he expected people to fall at his feet, soured my stomach immediately.
It was enough for me to ignore the way my pulse raced when his eyes lingered on mine.
The way my skin prickled with goosebumps as he raked his gaze up and down my body.
Six months ago...
It was an early fall morning; the shop had only been open for about thirty minutes. Pati, my granddaughter, had been here since four; her son Tyler, my great-grandson, would be getting ready for school shortly. I’d been puttering around the shop when the bell over the door jingled.
“Morning.”
The sound of his voice rolled over me in a way I hadn’t felt in a lifetime.
I looked up from the counter, and my breath hitched.
He was tall, my age or maybe a few years older, judging by the lines etched into his face.
He was still in shape; his wide shoulders and muscular arms caught my attention immediately.
“Good morning,” I answered quickly, praying he didn’t hear the stutter in my words. “What can I get you?”
“How about you, darlin’?” His smile was slow and dirty, as if he was already undressing me with his eyes. “You on the menu?”
“No.”
“Damn shame.” His friend laughed, and I narrowed my eyes at them both.
Despite being sixty-eight years old, I wasn’t too old to remember what men were like when they had their boys around them.
Especially men like this one, all swagger and testosterone.
His hands flattened against the counter as he stepped back and bent down to look into the display case.
“I’ll take a bear claw and a black coffee, sweetheart. ”
“And you?” I asked his friend, my voice tight.
“Black coffee and a cinnamon roll.”
I rang up the order, my jaw clenched. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and slid it across the counter as if it were nothing.
“What the hell is that?” I stared at the money like it might bite me.
His eyes glinted with amusement. “Payment, sweetheart. Unless you’d rather I work it off another way.”
Heat flooded my face—from anger or maybe something else I refused to acknowledge. “I can’t break that. It’s too early in the morning, and I don’t have change for your bullshit.”
“Keep it then.” He shrugged.
The man freaking shrugged, that cocky grin never wavering. As if throwing a hundred dollars away was nothing. As if it wouldn’t make or break his budget for the week. As if he had it to throw away.
“Not a chance in hell.”
He chuckled, low and rough. “Your blush, darlin’, tells me everything I need to know.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten, then twenty, my hands shaking slightly as I turned away.
I grabbed tissue paper with more force than necessary, wrapped the bear claw, and placed it in a bag.
Did the same with the cinnamon roll. Then I walked to the coffeepot and filled two cups with black coffee, my movements sharp and deliberate.
“It’s on the house,” I said through gritted teeth, setting the cups on the counter. “Now get out.”
I turned and walked into the kitchen, leaving them both staring after me, my heart pounding in my chest.
When I heard the bell jingle, I stepped back into the main room, and there, on the counter, was the hundred-dollar bill.
Ever since then, every time he came in, he ordered the same thing and left a hundred-dollar bill on the counter when I refused to accept it. I’d been putting them away toward Tyler’s college fund.
His name was Stephen Hartley, but everyone called him Popeye. He was a retired biker from New York.
And he was Grace’s father.
Grace, whom I hadn’t seen since the day the Death Dogs stormed in and kidnapped her and Karlyn from the store.
Without looking up I knew it was him. Six months of the same routine had trained my body to recognize the weight of his footsteps, the way the temperature seemed to climb a few degrees whenever Stephen Hartley walked into my shop.
“Morning, Trudy.”
That voice. Deep and smooth, with just enough gravel to remind me he’d lived a hard life. It rolled over my skin like warm honey, and I hated that I noticed.
“Good morning,” I said, my voice cold and clipped as I kept my eyes fixed on the register I was pretending to organize. “What can I get you?”
“Well, now, that depends.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “You finally gonna say yes to dinner?”
I looked up then, fixing him with my flattest stare. “No.”
“Breakfast then?”
“No,” I repeated, rolling my eyes.
“Lunch? I’m flexible, darlin’.”
“Stop calling me that.” I crossed my arms over my chest, ignoring the way his eyes tracked the movement. “What. Can. I. Get. You?”
He leaned against the counter, and damn him—he looked good doing it.
The leather jacket stretched across shoulders that had no business being that broad on a man of his age.
Silver threaded through his dark hair, and those lines around his eyes, the ones that deepened when he smiled, spoke of a life lived fully.
Dangerously.
Terry had been handsome in a quiet, steady way. Safe. Comfortable.
This man was neither of those things.
“Just a black coffee today.”
I blinked, thrown off my rhythm. “No bear claw?” I asked, then immediately wished I hadn’t. It sounded too much like I’d been paying attention. Like I cared about his routine. “You finally ran out of money?”
“Never.” His grin widened, and I wanted to slap it off his face. Or maybe kiss it off. I wasn’t sure which impulse was stronger, and that terrified me. “Just watching my figure. Gotta stay in shape if I’m gonna keep up with you.”
“There is no ‘keeping up with me’ because there is no ‘you and me.’” I turned my back on him before he could see the flush creeping up my neck and filled his cup with perhaps more force than necessary. Coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim.
“You sure about that? Because I’ve been coming here six months now, and you know exactly how I take my coffee. You notice when I don’t order my usual. Sounds like you’re paying attention to me, Trudy.”
“It’s not hard to remember black coffee poured into a cup,” I snarked as I snapped the lid on. “It’s called good customer service.”
“Mmm.” The sound was low, almost a purr. “But do you blush for all your customers?”
“I am not blushing.” I was absolutely blushing. I could feel the heat in my cheeks as I turned around, and the knowing look in his eyes made it worse. “That’ll be three-fifty.”
I heard him chuckle, but it didn’t sound the same. The usual warmth was missing, replaced by something hollow. When I looked at him, really looked, I noticed what irritation had kept me from seeing before.
The smile didn’t reach his eyes. His shoulders, usually held with that infuriating confidence, seemed weighted down. He stood on the other side of the counter, counting out bills, but his movements were mechanical... distracted.
Something was wrong.
I told myself I didn’t care. Told myself it was none of my business. Told myself that whatever was bothering this arrogant, insufferable man who’d been making my life difficult for half a year was his problem, not mine.
“Is everything okay with Grace?” The words escaped before I could stop them, and I wanted to snatch them back from the air.
His eyes snapped up to mine, and I saw it then: surprise, followed by something raw and vulnerable that he quickly tried to hide. But I’d seen it. That glimpse beneath the swagger and the smirks.
“Grace is fine.” His voice was softer now, missing its usual teasing edge. “She’ll be having that baby soon.”
I nodded and set the coffee on the counter, studying his face. The lines seemed deeper today, etched with worry or exhaustion or something else I couldn’t name. “You seem sad,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
What was wrong with me? Since when did I care about his emotional state?
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. He continued counting out his money with deliberate slowness. “You worried about me, Trudy?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I waved a dismissive hand, but my voice came out less sharp than I intended. “I can’t have people leaving here looking like they’re upset. Rumors would spread that Pati’s losing her touch in the kitchen.”
“Well, don’t you worry your pretty head about it.” There was the flirtation again, but it felt forced. Automatic. Like he was going through the motions because that was what he always did. “I won’t be leaving just yet.”
“I’m sixty-eight years old. My head stopped being pretty about two decades ago.”
He leaned forward, his eyes dark and hungry as they locked on mine.
“Bullshit, darlin’. You got more curves and fire in that body than women half your age could dream of.
And that mouth...” He dragged his gaze down to my lips, then back up, slow and deliberate.
“That mouth of yours could make a dead man rise. Trust me, I know what I’m lookin’ at, and what I’m lookin’ at is one hell of a woman. ”
“Stop.” I held up a hand, hating the way my pulse jumped. Hating that at my age, with everything I’d been through, this man could still make me feel like a foolish girl. “Just... stop.”
He set the money on the counter—exact change this time, I noticed—and turned his back on me. He walked to the window and sat down at the table.
That table.
The same table Grace and Karlyn had sat at all those months back, before the world fell apart. Before the Death Dogs. Before everything changed.
I watched him as he sat down and pulled a book out of the inside pocket of his jacket. Not a book, a journal, leather-bound and worn. He leaned on the table and opened it up, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he turned the pages.
I should have gone back to work. Should have left him alone. Should have done literally anything other than stand there staring at him like some lovesick teenager.
But I couldn’t look away.
I tried not to stare at him. Didn’t want him to think I was being nosy.
But the truth was, I was nosy as hell, and I wanted to know everything.
What was in that journal? Why did he look so lost?
What had happened to put that expression on his face, as if he were reading something that broke his heart and healed it at the same time?
I watched the smile spread over his face, soft and sad and achingly tender. And I wanted to know what had put it there.
Who had put it there?
A woman, probably. Some memory of a love lost or a life left behind. He was Grace’s father, which meant there had been a mother somewhere. Someone he’d cared about enough to create a child with.
The thought shouldn’t have bothered me. It did anyway.
“Stop being an idiot,” I muttered to myself, gripping the edge of the counter. “He’s just a customer. An annoying, arrogant, too-handsome-for-his-own-good customer who leaves ridiculous tips and says inappropriate things and?—”
And I was thinking about him way too much.
Before I could stop myself, before I could think about what I was doing or why, I reached into the display case and pulled out a bear claw. His usual. I set it on a plate, the porcelain cool against my palms.
This was stupid. This was breaking my own rules. This was showing him that I cared, that I’d noticed his routine, that his sadness affected me.
I didn’t care. I wasn’t affected. This was just... customer service. Good business practice. That was all.
I walked around the counter, my footsteps too loud in the quiet shop. Pati was in the back, and the morning rush hadn’t started yet. It was just him and me and the weight of six months of unspoken things hanging in the air between us.
I walked until I was standing in front of him. He looked up as I set the plate on the table, and our eyes met. Up close, I could see the silver in his stubble, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, the way his pupils dilated slightly as he looked at me.
I could smell his cologne, something woodsy and masculine that made me think of leather and motorcycles and bad decisions.
I walked away before I could do something truly stupid. Like asking him what was wrong. Like touching his shoulder. Like sitting down across from him and demanding to know why he looked so lost.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet. Sincere.
No flirtation. No crude words. No cocky grin or suggestive comment.
Just... thank you.
I nodded without turning around, busying myself with wiping down the already-clean counter.
He wasn’t acting like himself. He wasn’t flirting with me and making innuendos that made me blush and curse him under my breath. He wasn’t leaving hundred-dollar bills or asking me out or looking at me like I was the most interesting thing he’d seen all day.
It had become routine, our dance. He pushed; I resisted. He charmed; I deflected. Him seeing me, really seeing me, in a way I hadn’t felt seen since Terry died, and me pretending I didn’t notice.
And while I wouldn’t say I liked it, while I’d spent six months telling myself that his attention annoyed me and his presence irritated me and his smile didn’t affect...
I didn’t like this solemn version of the man I’d come to know.
I didn’t like it at all.