3. Chapter 3 Welcome Back, Trouble
Suzanne
Iflip the sign to OPEN with hands that won't stop trembling.
The espresso machine hisses, and my stomach clenches. Just steam. Normal steam. Not gas, not danger, not someone trying to burn down the only thing I have left of Grandma.
I crack the windows anyway. Fresh air floods Butter & Bean, carrying the scent of autumn in Whiskey Bend woodsmoke, wet leaves, and something clean I can't name. Better than the phantom smell of gas that's been stuck in my nose since yesterday.
"You good, honey?" Mrs. Kemper peers at me from the counter, her knitting needles clicking.
"Perfect." I flash her my brightest smile, the one that says everything's fine, nothing to see here. "Just airing out the shop."
She doesn't buy it. Nobody in this town buys anything, but they're kind enough to pretend.
I pull her usual Earl Grey, extra hot, splash of cream, and my hands only shake twice. Progress.
The bell above the door chimes. I glance up, expecting another regular.
Cole Harper fills the doorway instead.
He's not in his turnout gear today. Just jeans that fit too well and a navy shirt with the fire department logo stretched across the shoulders that look like they were built for carrying people out of burning buildings.
His jaw is set in that permanent scowl, dark eyes scanning the shop like he's looking for threats.
My pulse kicks up for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
"Morning." He doesn't wait for an invitation, just walks straight to the counter.
"Firefighter." I keep my voice light and professional. "What can I get you?"
"Fire-safety inspection."
I blink. "You were literally here yesterday. Shutting off my gas line."
"Follow-up." He's already moving past me, eyes on the espresso machine, the electrical panel, the back hallway.
Heat crawls up my neck. Not the good kind.
"You can't just barge into my shop and…"
"I can if there's a safety concern." He crouches near the gas line, running his fingers over the new coupling Marshall installed. "The new valve looks good. Locks on the back door?"
"Same as they've always been."
His gaze cuts to me, sharp. "That's the problem."
I cross my arms. "I've been gone for five years, Harper. Nobody's been breaking into Butter & Bean."
"Nobody tampered with your gas line five years ago either."
The air goes tight between us.
He straightens, and I realize how much space he takes up in here. The shop suddenly feels smaller, warmer. His presence presses against my fake confidence like a hand testing a bruise.
"I'm upgrading your locks," he says. Not asking. Telling.
"Excuse me?"
"And installing a camera at the back entrance. Maybe one out front, too."
My laugh comes out sharp. "You think I can afford cameras right now? I'm running on Grandma's savings and hope."
"I didn't ask you to pay for them."
I stare at him. He stares back, unmovable as a mountain.
"Why?" The word slips out before I can stop it.
His jaw ticks. "Because someone doesn't want you here."
The truth of it sits heavy in my chest. I've been trying not to think about it, trying to pretend the gas leak was random, an accident, anything but deliberate.
"Maybe it was just…"
"It wasn't." His voice drops, rough and certain. "And until I know who and why, you're getting better security."
I should argue. I want to argue. But the espresso machine hisses again, and my hands go cold.
Cole notices. Of course, he notices.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asks.
"I, what?"
"You're shaking." He nods toward my hands. "And you've got that look people get when they're running on adrenaline and spite."
"I don't have a look."
"You do." His mouth doesn't quite smile, but something softens near his eyes. "Willa has it too when she's being stubborn."
The mention of his sister makes my chest ache. Willa was the first person I called when I decided to come back. She didn't ask questions, didn't push. Just said, Come home. We'll figure it out.
I owe her everything.
Which means I owe her brother basic decency, even when he's being a controlling, overprotective pain in my ass.
"Fine," I mutter. "Cameras. Locks. Whatever makes you sleep at night."
"I don't sleep much anyway."
The admission catches me off guard. There's something raw in it, something that makes me look at him differently. Not just the grumpy firefighter who barks orders. Something underneath.
Before I can ask, the bell chimes again.
A flash of red and brown rockets past Mrs. Kemper's ankles.
"Oh for the love of…" I lunge, but I'm too slow.
General Tso lands on the counter with a triumphant squawk, his beady eyes locked on the tray of fresh-baked scones.
"No. Absolutely not." I reach for him, but he sidesteps like he's choreographed this.
The rooster snatches a cranberry scone in his beak and launches himself off the counter.
Straight at Cole.
Cole doesn't flinch. He just watches the bird land near his boots, scone crumbs raining down like confetti.
General Tso drops the scone, fluffs his feathers, and pecks at Cole's laces.
Once. Twice. A third time for good measure.
"He's... assaulting your shoes," I say, biting back a laugh.
"I see that."
General Tso tilts his head, examining Cole like he's deciding whether to escalate or accept him into the flock.
Cole crouches slowly, meeting the rooster at eye level.
"You the town mascot?" His voice is low, almost amused.
General Tso ruffles, considering.
Then he pecks Cole's boot again and struts toward the door like he's won something.
I lost it.
The laugh bursts out of me before I can shove it down, bright and too loud in the quiet shop. Mrs. Kemper chuckles into her tea.
Cole stands, brushing scone crumbs off his jeans, and when he looks at me, his gaze goes molten.
Not anger. Not irritation.
Heat.
The kind that makes my skin prickle and my breath catch.
"You should do that more," he says quietly.
"Do what?"
"Laugh."
My heart stumbles. I don't know what to say to that, so I grab a towel and start wiping down a counter that doesn't need it.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Cole says, already moving toward the door. "To install the locks."
"Can't wait," I mutter.
He pauses, one hand on the doorframe, and glances back. "Suzanne."
I look up.
"Keep the windows open. And lock the back door. Every time."
Then he's gone, the bell chiming in his wake.
My shoulders drop. I didn't realize they'd crept up around my ears.
Mrs. Kemper hums knowingly into her knitting.
"Not a word," I tell her.
She just smiles.
I turn back to the counter, reaching for my composure, and that's when I see him, across the street. A man in a charcoal suit, too clean for Whiskey Bend, too still. He's standing near the hardware store, not looking in the window, not walking. Just... watching.
Watching my shop and watching me.
My hands go numb. He shifts, pulling a phone from his pocket, and lifts it.
The angle is unmistakable. He's taking my picture.