7. Chapter 7 Butter & Bean After Hours
Suzanne
The rag in my hand has made three passes over the same spot on the counter. The stainless steel gleams under the overhead lights, spotless, and I dip the cloth back into the sanitiser bucket anyway.
Eleven thirty. The shop's been closed for two hours.
I should go upstairs. Crawl into bed. Pretend sleep is an option.
Instead, I scrub.
The hum of the refrigerator is easier than silence. I dip the cloth back into the bucket. Don't think about Nash's face over the engine. Don't think about Cole.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
I grab it, ready to silence whatever spam call this is, and freeze.
Cole: You still there?
I glance toward the front windows. The street outside is dark except for the glow of the old-fashioned lampposts Beau Harper installed last year. No movement. No trucks.
How does he know I'm still here?
Me: Define "there."
Three dots appear immediately.
Cole: Lights are on. Don't lie to me.
My jaw tightens. I set the phone down and grab a fresh rag.
Me: Not lying. Cleaning.
Cole: It's midnight.
Me: Congratulations on telling time.
The dots disappear. I wait, scrubbing the espresso machine's steam wand with more force than necessary.
Five minutes pass.
Then I hear it. The low rumble of an engine pulling into the alley behind the shop.
I freeze, rag still in hand, heart kicking against my ribs.
Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.
A knock rattles the back door.
"Suzanne. Open up."
I exhale hard and cross to the door, flipping the deadbolt. Cole stands on the threshold, still in his department-issued pants and a fitted black tee that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders. A duffel bag hangs from one hand.
"Are you following me now?" I step aside to let him in.
"You're alone in a shop that had a gas leak two days ago." He moves past me, setting the bag on the prep counter. "And your car was sabotaged six hours ago. So yeah. I'm following you."
"I'm fine."
"You're reckless."
I slam the door harder than I need to. "I'm fine."
"You're hiding."
The word lands like a slap. I turn to face him, arms crossed. "Excuse me?"
I picked up the sanitizer spray. Set it back down. He's watching me do it.
"You've wiped down that counter four times since I pulled up. The floor's mopped. The espresso machine looks like it just rolled off the factory line. You're not cleaning, Suzanne. You're stalling."
My throat tightens. "Maybe I just like a clean shop."
"Maybe you're scared to go upstairs alone."
Silence.
I hate that he's right. I hate that he sees it.
"What's in the bag?" I gesture toward the duffel, desperate to shift the focus.
Cole unzips it without breaking eye contact. "New locks. Cameras. Motion sensors for the back hallway."
"I didn't ask for that."
"You didn't have to."
"Cole…"
"Someone tampered with your car, Suzanne. Someone who knows where you work. Where you park. Where you live." His voice drops, rough and low. "You think I'm just gonna let you sit here alone and hope for the best?"
"I don't need you to protect me."
"Too bad."
The sheer audacity of it makes my blood boil. "You don't get to just decide that."
"Watch me."
I step closer, chin lifted. "You're being controlling."
"You're being stubborn."
"I've been taking care of myself for a long time, Harper. I don't need some grumpy fireman swooping in like I'm a damsel in distress."
His jaw ticks. "You're not a damsel. You're a woman with a target on her back who won't tell me why."
The air shifts. Goes tight.
We're standing too close now. Close enough that I can see the scar above his left eyebrow. Close enough to smell the faint trace of smoke that clings to his skin, no matter how many showers he takes.
"I don't owe you my life story," I say, but my voice has lost its edge.
"No. You don't." His gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up. "But I'm not leaving you here alone. So you can either let me install these locks, or I can stand outside your door all night. Your choice."
My pulse hammers in my throat. "That's not a choice."
"It's the only one you're getting."
I should push back. Tell him to leave. Prove I don't need him hovering over me like I'm fragile.
But the truth is, I am scared.
And having him here makes the fear feel smaller.
"Fine," I mutter. "Install your locks."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "Good girl."
Heat floods my cheeks. That shouldn't have done what it did to me. I turn away before he can see it, grabbing my rag and scrubbing the counter again just to have something to do with my hands.
Behind me, I hear the clink of tools. The soft scrape of metal on metal as Cole gets to work.
I risk a glance over my shoulder.
He's crouched by the back door, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hands moving with steady precision. His forearms are corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair, and I watch the way his fingers grip the screwdriver like it's an extension of his body.
Those hands could break someone in half.
Or hold someone together.
I swallow hard and look away.
"You gonna stare all night, or you gonna help me?" Cole's voice cuts through the silence, low and amused.
"I wasn't staring."
"Sure you weren't."
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and cross to where he's working, leaning against the doorframe. "What do you need?"
He glances up, eyes dark and unreadable. "Hold this."
He needs both hands on the strike plate. I step in without thinking, pressing my palm flat against the metal to hold it steady.
Cole's hand closes over mine.
He just means to adjust my angle. I know that. But he doesn't move right away, and I don't pull back, and for three seconds, neither of us does anything but breathe.
Then he clears his throat and reaches for the drill.
We fall into a rhythm after that. Him installing. Me handing him tools. The silence between us shifts from tense to something else. Something heavier.
"Why'd you come back?" he asks after a while.
I freeze. "What?"
"To Whiskey Bend. You left after high school. Didn't come back for years. Then suddenly you're here, taking over your grandma's shop." He doesn't look at me, just keeps working. "Why now?"
I weigh my answer carefully. "I needed a change."
"From what?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah." He sets down the screwdriver and turns to face me fully. "It does."
The intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch.
"I needed somewhere safe," I say finally. "Somewhere I could breathe without looking over my shoulder."
Cole's expression softens, just barely. "You find that here?"
"I don't know yet."
He nods slowly, like he understands more than I've said. Then he stands, brushing past me to test the new lock. His shoulder grazes mine, and I feel the heat of him even through our clothes.
"There." He steps back. "Deadbolt, reinforced strike plate, and a chain lock. No one's getting through that without making noise."
"Thank you."
He looks at me, really looks at me, and something in his expression cracks open. "You don't have to do this alone, Suzanne."
"I've been doing it alone for a long time."
"That doesn't mean you have to keep doing it."
My chest tightens. I open my mouth to respond, but no words come.
Cole's gaze drops to my mouth again. Stay there.
I watch his throat work as he swallows.
The space between us feels impossibly small. Electric.
I should step back. I don't.
His hand lifts, fingers brushing my jaw, rough and warm and achingly gentle.
"Tell me to leave," he murmurs.
I can't.
Then we both hear it. Footsteps. Outside the back door. Slow. Deliberate.
They scrape against the pavement, heavy and measured, and then they stop.
Right outside.
Cole's entire body goes rigid. His hand drops from my face, and he shifts, putting himself between me and the door.
"Stay behind me," he says, voice low and deadly calm.
My heart slams against my ribs.
The footsteps don't move.
Whoever's out there is just… waiting.
Cole reaches for the handle.
And the night outside goes silent.