17. Chapter 17 A Town That Watches
Suzanne
The morning rush saves me.
Hands busy, eyes forward, smile fixed. Order up, thank you, have a good one. Repeat. The espresso machine hisses and steams, and I let the noise fill my head until there's no room for anything else.
Butter & Bean is mine. The scratched counter where Grandma Ruth used to rest her elbows. The crooked chalkboard menu I rehung myself. Dark roast and brown sugar soaked into the walls.
Daniel doesn't get to take this from me.
I pull a shot, watch the crema bloom, and tell myself that three times.
General Tso is curled on the windowsill in a patch of sun, eyes half-closed, doing his best impression of a normal bird. It won't last.
"Suzanne."
I look up. Mrs. Pettigrew, our retired librarian. Regulars don't get more regular than her. She's squinting past my shoulder toward the front window.
"That man's been out there since before I sat down."
I don't turn around. I already know. A Dark sedan, street-side parking, and engine idling. Nash confirmed it was surveillance last night. This morning, it's back, slightly different spot, but same threat.
"He's waiting on someone," I say, and slide her coffee across the counter. "Probably lost."
She doesn't look convinced. But she takes her mug and shuffles to her corner table, and I breathe.
The bell over the door chimes twenty minutes later, and I don't have to look up to know who it is.
Cole Harper fills a doorframe differently than other men. It's not just the size. It's the way he moves, like he's already clocked every exit and decided you're safe.
"Fire inspection," he says.
"You were here Tuesday."
"New concerns."
He's carrying a paper cup from the gas station down the street, which is almost offensive given that I own a coffee shop, but I've stopped pointing that out because it means he bought himself something bad on purpose just to have a reason to show up.
I hate that I find that sweet.
He sets the cup on the counter for me without asking, then turns slowly and scans the room. Every table. Every face. His jaw is doing that thing where it goes tight on one side.
"Back left," I say quietly. "Been nursing the same drip coffee for forty minutes."
Cole's eyes cut there. The man doesn't look up, but his shoulders shift.
"He'll leave."
"He's not doing anything."
"He will." Cole picks up his gas station cup, takes a sip like we're just chatting, and stares at the guy for ten solid seconds.
The man leaves four minutes later.
I should feel relieved. Mostly, I feel watched from both directions.
By noon, the gossip had already started.
Patsy from the flower shop stops in for her Thursday lavender latte and mentions, very casually, that she's noticed Cole Harper dropping by an awful lot.
"He's being thorough," I say.
"Mmm." She stirs her drink. "He stayed twenty minutes last time. Fire inspections don't usually include sitting at the counter."
"He was reviewing the new extinguisher placement."
"Honey." She pats my hand. "This is Whiskey Bend. We notice things."
I smile until she leaves.
The thing about small towns is that the attention cuts both ways.
Half the reason Daniel's fixer hasn't tried anything in public is that someone would see.
But the other half is that whatever Cole and I are doing, whatever this is between us, it's only a matter of time before someone decides to make it a story, and stories travel.
I'm wiping down the espresso bar. As a couple leaves through the front door, General Tso struts through behind them like he owns the place.
"You're not a health code violation," I tell him. "You're a health code catastrophe."
He ignores me and stations himself near the front window, ruffling his feathers and fixing his small, mean eyes on the street.
The dark sedan is back. Different block, angled so the driver has a line of sight to the door.
General Tso sees it too.
He's out the door before I can grab him.
I watch through the window as he charges across the sidewalk in full rooster fury, all puffed chest and stabbing beak, going straight for the sedan's front tire like it personally insulted his ancestors.
He pecks it. Hard. Then circles and pecks the rear tire.
Then positions himself in front of the driver's side door and just screams.
The sedan pulls out fast.
General Tso chases it half a block, then struts back toward the shop with his head high like he's just won a war.
Cole is suddenly beside me at the window. I have no idea when he came back.
"Did that rooster just run off a surveillance vehicle?"
"He takes his patrol duties very seriously."
Cole makes a sound that's almost a laugh. Almost. His arm is warm against mine, and I don't move away.
For one heartbeat, I want to turn into him fully, let his arm come around me the way it did last night. Across the street, Patsy is very obviously not looking at us. I don't move. Neither does he.
We stand there a minute, watching General Tso preen on the sidewalk.
"He's going to get himself hurt," Cole says.
"He's going to get himself a statue in the town square." I lean into Cole's arm just slightly. "He's the only one in Whiskey Bend who doesn't overthink anything."
Cole looks down at me. Something passes over his face, quiet and complicated.
"How are you doing? Actually."
I want to say fine. The word is right there, smooth and automatic.
"I keep watching the door," I admit. "Every time the bell goes off, my stomach drops."
He doesn't say anything. He just shifts so his shoulder is behind mine, solid and steady, like a wall I didn't ask for but can't bring myself to step away from.
"You're not watching it alone," he says.
The bell chimes. A customer steps inside, and Cole shifts back, putting careful space between us before they even reach the counter. Fire Captain Harper again. Just doing his job.
The afternoon slows down the way Thursday afternoons do.
I restock the pastry case, wipe the tables, and run the numbers from last week. Good numbers. Better than I projected when I first unlocked the door three weeks ago. Grandma Ruth built something real here, and I'm determined not to lose it.
Cole leaves around two but texts at three: Nash and Jett have eyes on the street tonight. You're covered.
I text back: Tell Nash I said thank you.
A pause. Then: Tell him yourself. He'll hate it.
I laugh out loud, alone in my kitchen, and press my hand to my belly. Small. Still so small.
"We're going to be okay," I say.
I don't know if I'm talking to the baby or to myself.
I'm locking the front door at closing when I see the envelope.
It's on the mat. Plain white. No return address. My name on the front in printed block letters, neat and deliberate.
I pick it up.
Underneath my name, in smaller print, there's a second line.
And the baby.
My fingers go cold.
I should wait for Cole. I know I should wait for Cole. But my hands are already tearing the flap open. Dread is like that. It makes you move before your brain catches up.
One line. Printed. Centered on the page like a headline.
You will regret this.
The envelope drops. I catch the wall with one hand and stand there in my locked coffee shop, alone, while General Tso screams somewhere outside like he can feel it too.
They know about the baby.
They've known this whole time.