1. Chapter 1 Sirens at Butter & Bean
Suzanne
The ladder wobbles under my weight, and I grip the edge of Grandma's cracked menu board tighter.
Three more inches to the left and it'll be perfect. Centered over the espresso bar, right where it always hung before she got too tired to keep climbing up here herself.
My chest goes tight.
I push the thought away and adjust my grip. The board's heavier than I remember, painted wood worn smooth at the corners from decades of her hands touching it. Butter & Bean curves across the top in faded gold script, and underneath, the daily specials she used to chalk in by hand.
I haven't filled those in yet.
Haven't decided if I'm brave enough to make this place mine or if I'm just pretending until I run out of money and excuses.
The espresso machine hisses behind me. Not the normal hiss. Wrong pitch. Sharp.
I freeze, one hand still braced against the board, and turn my head just as the smell hits me.
Gas.
Thick and chemical, rolling out of the back hallway like fog.
"No, no, no."
I scramble down the ladder, feet hitting the tile too hard, and keep moving. The smell's getting stronger, pouring from the prep room where the machine connects to the main line.
My hands shake as I shove the hallway door open wider.
The shutoff valve. I need to find the shutoff valve.
Grandma showed me once, years ago, when I was still in high school and spending summers here instead of hiding from my mother's disappointment. But that was a lifetime ago, and my brain's moving too fast, skipping over details like where the hell the valve actually is.
I cough. My eyes water.
The back door.
I lunge for it, slamming my palm against the push bar, and it flies open just as something solid blocks the entire doorway.
I collided chest-first into a wall of a man.
Turnout gear. Broad shoulders. A face I haven't seen in years but would recognize anywhere because Whiskey Bend doesn't forget its heroes, and Cole Harper's the kind of man who runs into fires while everyone else runs out.
His hands close around my upper arms, steadying me before I can bounce backward.
"Gas leak," I blurt. "The espresso machine."
"I know." His voice is low, rough, all business. "Get outside." "I need to shut off the valve."
"Outside." Not a suggestion.
He's already moving past me, taking up space like he owns the emergency, and maybe he does. This is what he does. What he's always done.
I should listen. I don't.
I follow him back inside because this is my shop, my grandma's legacy, and I'm not going to stand on the sidewalk wringing my hands while someone else fixes my problems.
Cole's halfway to the prep room, moving fast but controlled, when a blur of feathers and fury dive-bombs his helmet.
"What the hell!"
General Tso.
The rooster hits Cole's helmet with a screech that could wake the dead, talons scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface. Cole swears, ducking, and the bird launches off him to land on the espresso bar, flapping and squawking like he's personally offended by the intrusion.
"Tso, no!" I start toward the rooster, but Cole's hand shoots out, blocking me.
"Do not touch the bird."
"He's scared."
"He's feral." Cole's eyes cut to me, sharp and blue and not even a little amused. "And you're supposed to be outside."
"It's my shop."
"It's a gas leak."
"I'm aware."
His jaw ticks. Just once. But I see it.
"Are you always this stubborn?"
"You're always this bossy?"
For half a second, his expression shifts. Not quite a smile. More like he's deciding whether to throw me over his shoulder or let me drown in my own mess.
He chooses neither.
Instead, he turns on his heel and heads straight for the prep room. I hear metal scraping, the hiss of gas cutting off mid-stream, and then silence.
General Tso stops squawking.
My heartbeat's too loud in my ears.
Cole reappears in the doorway, soot smudged across one cheekbone, his expression unreadable. He looks at me like he's cataloging every bad decision I've ever made and adding this one to the list.
"You should've run," he says quietly.
"I don't run."
Not anymore. Not from anything.
His gaze holds mine for a beat too long, and I feel it low in my stomach. Awareness. Heat. A pull I have no business feeling when I'm standing in a room that almost exploded.
Then he moves past me. Close enough that I catch smoke and soap and something warmer underneath, the kind of scent that stays with you. He starts checking the windows like he didn't just walk through my entire nervous system.
"The building's clear," he says over his shoulder. "But I'm calling in a tech to check the line."
"I can't afford a tech visit."
"Not your call."
I open my mouth to argue, but he's already pulling out his phone, and I realize with a sinking feeling that I've lost this round.
General Tso hops down from the counter and struts toward the door like he's done his civic duty.
Cole watches him go, then turns back to me. His expression shifts and hardens.
"Suzanne."
The way he says my name, low and careful, makes my spine go straight.
"Yeah?"
He nods toward the prep room. "Come here."
I follow him, dread pooling cold in my gut.
The shutoff valve is still in his hand, but he's crouched now, fingers tracing the connection point where the line feeds into the espresso machine.
"What is it?"
He doesn't answer right away. Just runs his thumb over the coupling, then stands and faces me.
His eyes are flat. Cop-flat. Firefighter-who 's-seen-too-much flat.
"This wasn't an accident." The words land like a slap.
"What do you mean?"
Cole holds up the valve. There are marks on it, small, precise scratches that don't belong. "Someone loosened this. Recently."
My breath catches.
"That's not possible." I stop. Start again. "Are you sure?"
His gaze doesn't waver. "Yeah. I'm sure."
The room tilts. Someone did this. On purpose. Someone wanted Butter & Bean to blow. Or wanted me to blow with it.
I must have made a sound because Cole's hand is suddenly on my elbow, warm and steady, grounding me when the floor feels like it's slipping sideways.
"Hey." His voice drops, gentler now. "You're okay."
I'm not. But I nod anyway because that's what you do when you've spent the last six months learning how to lie with a smile on your face.
Cole's eyes narrow like he sees straight through me.
"We need to talk," he says.
"About what?"
"About who you're running from."