9. Chapter 9 Off-Limits Doesnt Stop Want
Suzanne
The crash of glass shattering tears through the silence.
I jolt, my heart slamming against my ribs. Cole's already moving, one hand still on my arm as he pivots toward the front of the shop.
"Stay here," he barks.
Like hell.
I follow him through the stockroom, into the main café space where moonlight spills through the windows. One of them is broken. Jagged glass glitters on the floor near the display case, and a rock the size of my fist sits in the middle of the shards.
Cole's jaw goes tight. He pulls out his phone, flashlight cutting through the darkness as he scans the street outside.
Nothing. No one.
Just the rock and the broken window and my racing pulse.
"Suzanne." His voice is low. Controlled in that way, which means he's barely holding it together. "You need to tell me what's going on."
I wrap my arms around myself. The night air pushes through the broken window, cold against my skin.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Bullshit."
The word snaps between us, sharp enough to make me flinch.
Cole turns to face me fully, and the look in his eyes is hard. Not angry. Worse. Worried.
"Someone tampered with your gas line," he says. "Sabotage your car. Just tested your back door and threw a rock through your window." He steps closer. "That's not random vandalism. That's targeted."
My throat goes dry.
"It's nothing."
"Try again."
I open my mouth. Close it. The lies I've been telling myself for months taste like ash.
Cole waits. Patient in that infuriating way of his, like he's got all night to stand here while I unravel.
"It's an ex," I finally say.
His expression doesn't change. "Keep going."
"He's not happy I left."
"Most exes aren't." Cole crosses his arms. "Most exes don't hire people to stalk you in small towns."
The suited man's face flashes through my mind. Polished. Cold. The kind of man who gets paid to make problems disappear.
"He has money," I whisper.
"How much?"
"Enough."
"Suzanne."
God, the way he says my name. Like a command and a plea wrapped together.
I look away, staring at the broken glass instead of his face. "Enough to hire fixers. Enough to make sure I can't run far enough to matter."
Silence stretches between us. Then Cole moves, closing the distance until he's right in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"Name," he says.
It's not a question. It's a demand, rough and low, and my body responds before my brain catches up. Heat pools low in my belly, and I hate myself for it. I hate that even now, even scared, I'm aware of how solid he is. How safe he makes me feel just by standing there.
"Daniel Harrison."
Cole's jaw ticks. "The congressional candidate."
I nod.
"The one running on family values."
Another nod. My hands are shaking now, and I clench them into fists to make it stop.
Cole pulls out his phone and types something fast. His expression goes darker with every second that passes.
"He's married," he says flatly.
"I know."
"Two kids."
"I know."
"Campaign slogan is Integrity. Leadership. Family."
I laugh. It comes out bitter and wrong. "Ironic, right?"
Cole pockets his phone. When he looks at me again, there's something dangerous in his eyes. "How long were you with him?"
"A year. Maybe less." I swallow hard. "I didn't know he was married at first. By the time I found out, I was already in too deep."
"And when you left?"
"He told me I was making a mistake. That I'd regret embarrassing him." My voice cracks. "I thought coming back to Whiskey Bend would be far enough. That he'd let it go."
"Men like that don't let things go." Cole's hands curl into fists at his sides. "They control the narrative. They tie up loose ends."
"I'm a loose end."
"You're not a goddamn loose end." The words come out rough. Fierce. "You're a person who deserves to feel safe."
Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back hard because I've cried enough over Daniel Harrison. I won't give him more.
"I can't stay here tonight," I say quietly.
"No. You can't."
Relief floods through me. I was half-afraid he'd argue, tell me I was overreacting. But Cole just nods once, decisive.
"Go upstairs and pack a bag," he says. "You're coming with me."
"Cole…"
"Not negotiable."
My fingers curl into the cuffs of my sleeves. The old instinct, the one that says handle it yourself, rises and dies before it even gets going. I don't have the fight left in me tonight.
"Okay," I whisper.
Something shifts in his expression, and softens just slightly.
"I'll call Nash to board up the window. Be ready in twenty."
I turn toward the back stairs that lead to my apartment, then pause. "Thank you."
Cole doesn't answer. He's already on the phone, voice low and clipped as he talks to his brother.
My apartment feels too quiet after everything downstairs.
I move through the rooms on autopilot, grabbing clothes from my dresser and toiletries from the bathroom. My hands won't stop shaking. I shove jeans and sweaters into my duffel bag, not bothering to fold anything.
Three weeks. I've been in Whiskey Bend for three weeks, and Daniel has already found me.
I knew he would. I just thought I'd have more time.
The bag fills fast. I grab my phone charger, my grandmother's recipe book from the nightstand, and a photo of Willa and me from high school. Things that matter. Things I can't replace.
When I zip the bag closed, I catch my reflection in the mirror above my dresser.
I look scared, and I hate it. I grab the bag and head downstairs.
Nash is already there when I step outside. He's boarding up the broken window, moving with the kind of efficiency that makes me think he's done this before. Cole watches from the sidewalk, arms crossed, watching the street like he's still cataloging exits.
When Nash finishes, he turns to me. "You should file a police report."
"What good will that do?"
"Creates a paper trail." His eyes are sharp and assessing. "If this escalates, you'll want documentation."
If there's any question.
I nod, because it's easier than arguing.
Nash claps Cole on the shoulder. "I'll swing by tomorrow. Check the perimeter."
"Thanks."
Nash leaves without another word, and then it's just me and Cole standing under the streetlights.
A soft whine breaks the silence. I look down to find Smokey trotting up the sidewalk, tongue lolling out like this is the best night of his life.
"Nash brought him," Cole says, taking my bag from my shoulder before I can protest. "Figured you could use the company."
I crouch down, scratching behind Smokey's ears. He leans into the touch, tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggles.
"Good boy," I murmur.
When I look up, Cole's watching me. The streetlight catches his face, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. He's all hard angles and rough edges, but the way he's looking at me right now is soft, careful, and like I'm breakable.
I stand fast, turning toward the sidewalk before he can see the heat creeping up my neck.
"Ready?" Cole asks.
I nod. Words feel too heavy right now.
We walk in silence. Past the closed storefronts. Past the park where General Tso likes to terrorize the morning joggers. Past the corner where the streetlight flickers.
Smokey stays close, pressing against my leg every few steps like he knows I need the contact.
Main Street is quiet this time of night, most of the shops dark except for the bar two blocks over. The Watering Hole's neon sign glows red against the night sky.
"How long have you been back in Whiskey Bend?" Cole asks.
"Three weeks."
"And Harrison found you in three weeks."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I knew he would eventually. I just thought I'd have more time."
"To do what?"
Hide. Disappear. Figure out how to protect myself and the life growing inside me.
But I don't say that. Can't say that. Not yet.
"To settle in," I say instead. "Get Butter & Bean up and running. Maybe save enough to move somewhere he wouldn't think to look."
Cole makes a sound low in his throat. "You shouldn't have to run."
"Maybe not. But it's better than the alternative."
"What's the alternative?"
I hug my arms tighter around myself. "Going back."
Silence falls between us, heavy and thick. I can feel Cole's eyes on me, but I don't look over. If I look at him right now, I'll break.
"He hurt you," Cole says quietly.
"Not the way you're thinking."
"That's not an answer."
My throat tightens. "It's the only one you're getting tonight."
Smokey whines softly, nudging my hand with his nose. I scratch behind his ears, focusing on the soft fur instead of the memories clawing at the edges of my mind.
"Suzanne."
Something in my chest gives way. He's not pushing anymore. He's just here.
"He didn't hit me," I whisper. "But he made me feel small. Like I was only worth what I could do for him." I swallow hard. "When I found out about his wife, about the campaign, I realized I was never a person to him. Just a secret. A liability."
Cole goes very still. "Where does he live?"
"DC."
"Good. That's far enough for now." His shoulders go rigid. "But if he sends anyone else—"
"I know." I glance at him. "You'll handle it."
"Damn right I will."
The certainty in his voice wraps around me like armor. For the first time in months, I don't feel quite so alone.
Cole's place is on the edge of town. A small craftsman with a front porch and flower beds that look like someone actually tends them. Probably Willa.
Smokey bounds up the porch steps ahead of us, then doubles back, squeezing between our legs to get to the door first. Cole's hand lands on my shoulder to steady me, and for a second neither of us moves, his palm warm through my sweater, his chest close enough that I can feel the rise and fall of it.
He clears his throat and unlocks the door, flipping on the lights as we step inside.
The house is clean. Neat in a way that surprises me. I don't know what I expected, maybe bachelor chaos, but this is organized. Comfortable. A couch that looks broken in. A coffee table stacked with books. Smokey's bed is near the fireplace.
Smokey trots straight to his bed and circles twice before flopping down with a satisfied huff.
"Guest room's upstairs," Cole says, setting my bag near the stairs. "First door on the right."
I nod, but I don't move.
We're standing too close. Close enough that I can see the scar on his chin. The way his pulse jumps in his throat.
The silence stretches. He shifts his weight, and I realize he's giving me space. Waiting for me to take the out. To go upstairs and close the door between us.
But I don't want space.
I'm tired of space. Tired of distance. Tired of pretending I don't feel this pull between us every time he's near.
"Cole," I start.
He takes a step back. "You should get some sleep."
"I'm not tired."
"Suzanne…"
"Don't." I close the distance he just created. "Don't do that."
His jaw ticks. "Do what?"
"Retreat. Pull away." I look up at him, forcing myself to hold his gaze. "I know I'm off-limits. I know this is complicated. But don't treat me like I'm fragile."
"You're not fragile." His voice is rough. "You're the strongest person I know."
"Then stop acting like I'll break if you get too close."
His eyes darken. "That's not what I'm worried about."
"Then what?"
He cups my face. Both hands, warm and calloused, framing my jaw like I'm precious.
My breath catches.
"Tell me to leave," he says quietly.
It's the opposite of what I expected. He's not leaving. He's asking me to send him away and giving me the power, the choice.
My pulse stutters, then trips over itself.
His eyes search mine. "Suzanne…"
"Don't leave."