Chapter 2
Chapter two
Brooks
Idon't go home after my shift ends.
Instead, I'm in my truck outside the training facility with the engine idling, rain drumming against the roof. Elijah's voice rattles around in my head from this morning, something about Elorie's coffee being the best in Pine Valley, how she always remembers everyone's order.
That's not why I'm thinking about going back.
Elorie Harper. Her name sits in my chest like something I'm not supposed to touch.
She's soft in all the ways I've learned to avoid.
Curves that would fit against me perfectly.
Eyes that went wide when that outlet sparked, fear flashing across her face before she tried to hide it.
I noticed everything. The tremble in her hands when she pointed toward the breaker box.
The way she hummed under her breath when thunder hit, trying to soothe herself.
The flush that crept up her neck when our eyes met, turning her skin warm and pink.
The way her hand felt under mine when I pushed the business card across the counter.
That moment loops in my head on repeat. How small her hand looked next to mine. Our fingers brushing. The sparks that radiated under my skin. How she pulled back but not immediately, as though she felt it too and needed an extra second to process.
I've replayed that half-second of contact a hundred times since then.
The vanilla scent that surrounded her. The catch in her breathing when I said she shouldn't be alone in the dark. The way she looked at me like I was safe when I'm anything but.
I start the truck and turn toward Pine Valley. Checking the wiring, making sure the outlet’s truly dead, that there's no risk of another spark. Responsible. Professional.
I'm a terrible liar. Even to myself.
The mountain roads are slick from the rain, and every turn brings me closer to her. Storm clouds hang low over the mountains, turning everything gray and heavy. The world narrows down to headlights cutting through mist and the certainty that I'm making either the best or worst decision of my life.
By the time I reach Pine Valley, Main Street is quiet, most shops already dark. But The Reading Nook glows softly through rain-streaked windows, fairy lights casting warm shadows across exposed brick.
I pull into a parking spot and kill the engine.
She's inside, moving between tables. Her curls are loose now, falling around her shoulders as she wipes down surfaces and stacks chairs.
She's changed out of her apron, wearing jeans and a soft sweater that clings to her curves. The way she moves is efficient, as though she’s used to cleaning up after other people.
I sit there watching her, hands gripping the steering wheel. What the hell am I doing here? She deserves better than a guy who can't make it twenty-four hours without finding an excuse to see her again. Better than someone carrying around seven years of guilt and a list of people he's failed.
I grab my toolkit and step out into the drizzle.
Rain falls around me as I cross the street.
My boots are heavy on the wet pavement, and each step feels like walking toward something I can't take back.
Through the glass, she startles when I knock.
Her hand flies to her chest. Then she sees me, and relief washes across her face.
She crosses to the door, unlocks it, and pulls it open partway.
"Brooks?" Her voice is soft, confused. Backlight from the bookstore turns her curls into a halo. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to double-check the outlet." I lift the toolkit slightly. "Make sure it's not going to cause any more problems."
She blinks at me, rain dripping from my cap onto the threshold between us. Her eyes search my face, deciding whether to believe me.
"It's almost ten," she says.
"I know."
"You came back to check the electrical stuff?"
"Yeah."
The silence stretches. She's still holding the door half-closed, her body angled like she's unsure whether to let me in or send me away. Her hand lingers on the doorframe, fingers curled tightly against the wood.
Then she steps back and opens the door wider. "Okay. Come in."
The bookstore is warm after the cold drizzle. It smells like coffee and old books, and vanilla hits me as I pass close to her. The fairy lights cast everything in soft gold. I set my toolkit down near the counter and crouch by the outlet, pulling off the cover.
I don't need to check the connections. They're dead. But I go through the motions anyway, testing circuits and tightening screws, because it's easier than admitting why I'm really here.
She hovers a few feet away, arms crossed. Her gaze burns into my shoulders while I work, and the back of my neck heats. The warmth of her proximity radiates down to where I'm crouched, and I'm hyperaware of her shifting weight, the soft sound of her breathing.
"You didn't have to come back," she says.
"I know."
"But you did anyway."
I glance up at her. The fairy lights highlight her curls, and my hands go still. Her eyes are cautious but curious, like she's trying to solve a puzzle she's not sure she wants the answer to.
"Yeah," I say. "I did."
She doesn't say anything else. When I finish and stand, the silence between us feels charged. My hands are steadier than they should be, considering how close she's standing now.
"Should be fine," I say. "But you still need an electrician."
"Okay." She tucks a curl behind her ear, and the movement draws my attention to the curve of her jaw, the softness of her neck. Vanilla surrounds me, warm and sweet. "Thank you again."
"It's not a problem."
"It kind of is." A small smile tugs at her mouth. "You keep saving me from things."
The words hit differently than she means them to. Saving people is what I do, well, what I’m supposed to be good at. Except I have a track record of being too late, making the wrong call, and watching people slip through my fingers.
"Storms and faulty wiring aren't your fault," I say, rougher than I intend.
Her smile falters. She shifts her weight, and vanilla wraps tighter around me. "I'm not usually this much of a mess. It's been a long day."
"You're not a mess."
She laughs, quiet and self-deprecating. "You don't know me well enough to say that."
"Maybe not." I take a step closer. Not quite within reach, but close enough that her breathing changes. "But I know you didn't panic when that outlet sparked. You stepped back, assessed the situation, kept yourself safe. That's smart."
Her cheeks flush. She looks away, focusing on the books piled near the register. "I haven’t felt very smart lately."
"Why not?"
She hesitates, weighing whether to answer. Whether to let me in or keep the walls up. I wait, patient, because pushing feels wrong.
"I recently left a job in Denver," she says finally. Her voice is steady, but rawness bleeds through underneath. "A career, actually. PR work. I was good at it."
She pauses. I nod, encouraging her without words.
"But I caught a mistake, and my boss, also my fiancé, made sure everyone believed it was my fault.
Work came first for him." Her voice wavers slightly.
My jaw locks. Heat surges through my chest, sharp and immediate.
"He took credit for everything I did right and blamed me for everything that went wrong.
And I let him. I stayed. I believed him when he said I wasn't good enough. "
My hands curl into fists before I force them flat against my thighs. I don't know this man. Don't know his name or his face. But I want to find him and make sure he never says her name again. Some guy had her and threw her away like she was nothing. The thought makes my jaw ache.
"That's not on you," I say, and the words are hard in my mouth.
"Isn't it?" She looks at me, eyes bright with hurt and hope tangled together.
"No." I take another step closer, near enough to touch now, but I keep my hands at my sides. Every muscle locks against the urge to reach for her. "You left. That's fighting back."
She shakes her head but doesn't argue. Instead, she crosses her arms tighter, like she's holding herself together.
I want to pull her against me and tell her she doesn't have to carry this alone.
But I stay where I am because I'm not sure she'd want that.
Not sure I'd know how to stop once I started.
"The outlet’s dead. Why'd you really come back?" she asks.
I meet her eyes. Vulnerability stares back: hope, fear, trust. She told me her truth. Showed me her wounds. The least I can do is give her mine.
"Because I couldn't stop thinking about you."
Her lips part. Her hand trembles where it rests against her ribs. Her pulse flutters at the base of her throat. I track it like I'm cataloging proof she feels this, too. She sways forward. Just an inch. But I feel it like gravity shifting.
My hands ache to touch her. To cup her face and close the distance between us. To see how it feels to kiss her. Every instinct screams at me to move.
But I don't.
Not when she's raw from Denver. Not when she's trusting me with her wounds. She deserves better than me having my way with her when she's vulnerable. She should be mine to protect. Mine to—
I stop the thought before it finishes.
"I should go." The words taste wrong. My hands curl at my sides. They’re the only thing keeping me from reaching for her.
I take a step back, and leaving feels like ripping skin. The loss of her warmth is immediate and painful.
"Brooks—"
"Lock the door behind me." My voice comes out too rough. "And get that wiring checked."
She nods, but she doesn't move. Neither do I.
Thunder cracks overhead, loud enough to rattle the windows. She flinches in a full-body jolt she tries to hide by crossing her arms tightly around herself. But I see it. See the way her breathing goes shallow. See the fear flash across her face before she banks it.
My hand drops from the door handle.
"You okay?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.