12. Chapter 12 The Fixer
Cole
I'm in the middle of equipment checks when my phone buzzes. Suzanne's name lights up the screen, but when I answer, all I hear is breathing.
"Suze?"
"I'm fine." Her voice comes out tight. Wrong. "Just, can you come by the shop?"
I'm already moving toward my truck. "Two minutes."
The drive to Butter & Bean takes ninety seconds. I park in the red zone because fuck it, and push through the door hard enough that the bell screams.
Suzanne stands behind the counter, phone clutched in both hands. Her smile is bright. Too bright. The kind of bright that makes my chest go tight.
"Hey." She laughs, but it sounds like glass breaking. "Sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out. I just wanted to show you something funny."
I round the counter, moving into her space until I can see her screen.
It's not funny.
It's us, last night, when we were kissing. My hand cupped around her jaw, her fingers twisted in my shirt. The angle is clear. Professional. The timestamp reads 11:47 PM.
Below it: Whiskey Bend is watching.
"Someone sent this?" My voice comes out flat.
"Anonymous number." She sets the phone down like it might bite her. "Probably just some bored local with too much time. You know how small towns are."
She's lying. I can see it in the way her shoulders pull back, the way she won't quite meet my eyes. She's been trained to minimize. To smile through threats.
I hate whoever taught her that.
"Suze." I take a screenshot of the message, forward it to Beau and Nash, and then take the phone. "This isn't gossip. This is surveillance."
"You don't know that."
"I do." I pull up the image again, zoom in on the angle. "This was taken from across the street. Telephoto lens. Someone waited for us."
Her hands start to shake. She folds them together, knuckles going white.
"I need to call Beau's PI." I move toward the stockroom, already dialing.
"Cole." Her voice stops me. "Please don't make this bigger than it is."
I turn back, and the look on her face nearly breaks me. She's terrified. Not of the photo. Of me making it real by acknowledging it.
"It's already big," I tell her. "We're just catching up."
Beau's PI calls back in under an hour.
I take it in the alley behind the shop, watching the back door while Suzanne moves through the motions of closing up inside. She's scrubbing the same counter for the third time.
"Cole Harper?" The voice is crisp. Professional.
"Yeah."
"Michael Chen. Mr. Harper hired me to look into the incidents surrounding Miss Lane. I've traced the number that sent the photograph."
I shift my weight, scan the alley again. "And?"
"It's registered to a consulting firm based in Chicago. Hartfield Solutions. On paper, they provide corporate crisis management. Off paper, they clean up messes for people with money and reputations to protect."
My jaw ticks. "What kind of messes?"
"The kind that involves making problems disappear. Leverage. Intimidation. Quiet pressure that never shows up in a police report. No violence on record, but plenty of settlements sealed under NDAs."
"You're telling me someone hired a professional fixer to go after a coffee shop owner in Whiskey Bend."
"I'm telling you, Miss Lane's ex isn't just powerful, he's connected, and he's paying top dollar to control the narrative."
I close my eyes. Breathe through the rage building in my chest. "Name."
"Not yet. I need more before I can confirm it's him directly. But the firm? They don't work for nobodies. Whoever wants Miss Lane back under control has the resources to make her life very difficult."
"Too late." I end the call, pocket the phone, and head back inside.
Suzanne looks up when I enter. "Well?"
"We're going to the station."
Her brow furrows. "What? Why?"
"Safety review. Fire code compliance. Whatever I need to call it to get you somewhere with cameras and witnesses."
"Cole, I have a business to run."
"You also have someone watching you." I move closer, keeping my voice low. "Someone who knows where you live, where you work, who you're with. That photo wasn't a warning, Suze. It was a demonstration. They want you to know they can get to you whenever they want."
Her throat works. "So hiding at the fire station is supposed to fix that?"
"No. But it buys us time while Beau's guy digs deeper. And it keeps you visible. Public. Harder to corner."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing options. Calculating risks. Trying to figure out if trusting me will cost her more than staying alone.
"Okay," she says finally. "But I'm driving myself."
"Nash dropped your car off this morning. Said the wiring's fixed."
Her eyebrows lift. "He did?"
"Yeah. And I'm still following you. Non-negotiable."
She huffs out a breath, but nods. "Fine. Let me lock up."
The fire station is quiet when we arrive. Afternoon shift hasn't started yet, and the bay sits empty except for Engine 4 and the rescue rig.
I lead Suzanne through to the conference room, the one with windows facing the street and a direct line of sight to dispatch. Captain Torres glances up when we pass his office, raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment.
"Coffee?" I gesture to the ancient pot in the corner.
"I own a coffee shop, Cole. I'm not drinking that sludge."
I almost smile. Almost. "Fair."
She sits at the table, fingers drumming against the surface, restless and caged. I want to pull her into my lap and tell her it's going to be fine, but I'm not in the business of lying to people I care about.
"How long are we doing this?" she asks.
"Until Beau's PI reports come back. Or until whoever's watching you makes a move we can see coming."
"So I'm bait."
"You're protected."
She laughs, sharp and bitter. "There's a difference?"
Before I can answer, the station door opens. Footsteps echo through the bay, measured, confident, and wrong.
I move to the doorway, putting myself between Suzanne and whoever just walked in.
A man appears in the hall. Suit with expensive shoes. The kind of haircut that costs more than my truck payment. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on Suzanne, and holds.
"Miss Lane." His voice is smooth and polished. The kind of voice that makes promises it has no intention of keeping. "We need to talk."
Suzanne goes still. I feel her freeze behind me, with every muscle locking down.
I step forward, blocking his line of sight. "Can I help you?"
The man's eyes flick to me, assessing and dismissing. "I'm here for Miss Lane. This doesn't concern you."
"She's under fire department protection pending a safety review. So yeah. It concerns me."
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure we can work something out. If Miss Lane and I could just have a few minutes alone."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I cross my arms, widening my stance. "You want to talk to her, you do it here. With me present."
The man tilts his head, studying me like I'm a problem he's calculating how to solve. Then he reaches into his jacket, slow and deliberate, and pulls out a business card.
"Vance Adams. Hartfield Solutions. I represent a client who has a vested interest in Miss Lane's well-being."
I don't take the card. "Funny way of showing it. Tampering with gas lines. Sabotaging cars. Sending threatening photos."
His expression doesn't change. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. My client simply wants to ensure Miss Lane has the support she needs during this... difficult time."
"Support." I let the word hang there. "That's what you call stalking?"
"I call it concern." He finally looks past me, addressing Suzanne directly. "Miss Lane, I think you know why I'm here. My client is willing to be very generous. All he asks is that you come home. Have a conversation. Like reasonable adults."
"It's Suzanne." Her voice cuts through the room, steadier than I expected. "Not Miss Lane. Suzanne."
Adams's mouth curves, unbothered. "Suzanne, then."
"Tell your client I'm not interested."
Adams sighs. "I was hoping we could avoid unpleasantness."
"Me too," I tell him. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to leave. Now. And if you come near her again, I'm filing a formal complaint with the sheriff."
"On what grounds?"
"Harassment. Trespassing. Take your pick."
For the first time, something flickers in his expression. Not fear, irritation. Like I'm a fly buzzing around his perfectly pressed collar.
"Mr. Harper." He says my name like he's already memorized it. "I understand you're trying to be chivalrous. Admirable. But you're inserting yourself into a situation you don't fully understand. Miss Lane has obligations. Responsibilities. And my client has resources you can't begin to imagine."
"Good for him." I take a step closer, lowering my voice. "But she's not going anywhere with you. Not today. Not ever. So, unless you want me to have you escorted off the property, I suggest you walk out the same door you came in."
Adams holds my gaze for another beat. Then he slides the business card onto the nearest surface and turns to leave.
At the doorway, he pauses and looks back at Suzanne.
"He's willing to do worse," he says quietly. "Much worse. I hope you'll reconsider before it comes to that."
Then he's gone.
The silence he leaves behind feels like a held breath.
I turn to Suzanne. She's pale and shaking. But her chin is up, and her eyes are dry.
"You okay?"
She nods. Once. Sharp.
"Suze."
"I'm fine." She stands, smoothing her hands down her jeans. "Can we go now?"
"Yeah." I move toward her, slow and careful, like she's something fragile I might break. "Yeah, we can go."
But when I reach for her hand, she pulls away.
"I need to call Willa," she says. "Make sure she knows I'm okay. She worries."
It's not about Willa. It's about distance and creating space between us before the fear wins.
I let her have it for now.
Because Vance Adams just made one thing very clear: Suzanne's ex isn't going to stop. He's escalating. The next move won't be a polite conversation in a fire station lobby.
It'll be something worse. Much worse.
And I'll be ready for it.