Chapter 4
SAbrINA
The next morning, I showed up at Morning Wood an hour earlier than usual, hoping to get ahead of the day before it got ahead of me.
The familiar ritual of grinding beans and steaming milk should have been soothing, but my hands shook as I measured out the coffee.
Every sound made me jump… the espresso machine's hiss, the front door's wind chime, even my own breathing.
I'd barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Trace leaning against my counter like he was asking for honesty I wasn't sure I could give.
By six-thirty, the shop smelled like my signature dark roast and brown sugar scones. I'd made extra, partly because stress baking was my coping mechanism, and partly because I had a feeling I'd need the extra sugar to get through another day with Mimi.
My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Marla.
Marla: Mimi moved the meeting to 10am. Can you bring coffee and breakfast pastries for 6?
I stared at the screen. Six people. There were only three of us, four if I counted Trace. That meant the podcaster and his producer would probably be there.
Another buzz.
Marla: I asked Trace to stop by to help you bring things over. Thanks, honey!
Of course she did. Because the universe had a sick sense of humor. I was about to text back to tell her I could handle it on my own, but Paige burst through the back door, her cheeks flushed from the cold. “You are not going to freaking believe what I just heard at the gas station."
Another day meant more gossip. I shoved my phone in my back pocket and crossed my arms over my chest. “Try me."
"The podcaster checked into the Inn last night. With a whole crew." She unwrapped her scarf, her eyes bright with excitement. "And get this… apparently the celebrity bride is someone huge. Like, People Magazine cover huge."
My stomach dropped. “Who?”
“I don’t know yet. But supposedly she’s got more followers than the Kardashians.”
“Seriously?”
“Can you imagine?" Paige grinned. "This town's about to become the most famous wedding destination in Montana."
My pulse hammered. If Hard Timber was hosting a wedding for someone with a following the size of a Kardashian, it would make news everywhere—social media, entertainment news, probably livestreamed. Which meant the podcaster's coverage would reach a massive audience.
Which meant when the truth about the Ex-List came out, it wouldn't just humiliate me and Trace locally. It would be national entertainment.
"Are you okay?" Paige frowned. "You look like you're gonna be sick."
"I'm fine. Just tired." I forced a smile. "Can you handle the morning rush? I need to prep for a catering order."
"Sure thing. But hey—" She caught my arm as I headed for the back room. "Whatever's eating at you, it'll work out. It always does."
I smiled and nodded and wished Paige could be right. If only it were that simple.
I spent the next hour preparing thermal carafes and boxing pastries, my mind spinning through worst-case scenarios. By the time Trace's truck pulled up outside, I'd worked myself into a quiet panic.
He came through the front door carrying that confidence he wore like permanent armor, but I caught the tension around his eyes. He'd barely slept either.
"Morning," he said, his voice carefully neutral.
“The coffee's ready." I gestured to the carafes lined up on the counter. "Dark roast, medium roast, and decaf. Plus milk, sugar, and some of those little flavored creamers everyone seems to love."
He nodded, then looked at me. Really looked. "You sure you're okay? You seem—"
"I'm fine." The words came out sharp enough to cut through steel. “I just want to get this wedding over with."
“That makes two of us."
We loaded the supplies into his truck in silence, our movements efficient and practiced. We'd done this dance a hundred times before… coordinating, anticipating each other's needs, working as a team. But now it felt stilted, like we were both trying not to occupy the same space at the same time.
As he secured the last carafe into a cardboard box, I finally asked, "Do you know what you're going to say? If he interviews you?"
Trace's hands stilled. “I’ll tell him the truth."
"Which truth?"
He turned to face me, his expression impossible to read. "The only one I know. That I never meant to hurt anyone, and I sure as hell didn't deserve to be made into a fucking warning label about commitment."
Guilt twisted in my chest. "Trace—"
"I know you think I'm the guy who can't stick around. Maybe I am. But I never lied to anyone about what I could offer." His voice was quiet and steady. "I just wish I knew why that made me the villain."
I wanted to tell him right then. The words crowded in my throat… hesitated on the tip of my tongue… I wrote your name. I called you The Heartbreaker. I'm the reason you're dealing with any of this.
Instead, I said, "You're not the villain."
"Then why does it feel like I'm paying for mistakes I didn't make?"
Before I could answer, my phone rang. Marla's name flashed on the screen.
"We’d better go," I said, swiping to decline the call. "She'll send a search party if we're late."
The ride to the Inn was quiet except for the radio and the hum of tires on asphalt. Trace drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. I studied his profile, memorizing the strong line of his jaw, wishing I was brave enough to ask for forgiveness.
I'd loved this man since I was a kid. And in a few hours, when the podcaster started digging, there was a good chance I'd lose him forever.
The Inn's parking lot was busier than I'd seen it in months. A news van sat next to the main entrance, its satellite dish extended like it was ready to broadcast my biggest mistake to the entire world.
"Showtime," Trace muttered, cutting the engine.
Inside, the lobby buzzed with activity. Marla directed traffic from behind the front desk while strangers with cameras and recording equipment set up in the dining room.
Mimi gestured wildly at a man I recognized from the podcast's promotional photos. He’d spent time in Hard Timber before, but thankfully I hadn’t run into him.
He was younger than I'd expected, maybe early thirties, with styled hair and the kind of smile that probably charmed unsuspecting sources into spilling their secrets. When he spotted us, his eyes lit up.
"You must be Trace Quade," he said, extending a hand. "I'm Nico Solomon from 'The Ex-List: Hard Timber Uncut.' I've been hoping we could chat."
Trace's handshake was brief and professional. "I'm here to work, not talk."
Nico grinned like he’d been expecting that kind of response. “Come on, man. Just a few questions. Your perspective could really balance the story."
"My perspective is that some stories don't need to be told."
Nico’s smile didn't shift. "But this one's already been told, hasn't it? I'm just giving you a chance to set the record straight."
I stepped closer to Trace, my pulse hammering. "He's not interested."
Nico turned his attention to me, and I felt like a deer caught in the crosshairs. “You're Sabrina Meyer, right? Owner of Morning Wood Coffee?"
"That's right."
"I'd love to get your take on Hard Timber's dating scene. As a local business owner, you must have a unique perspective on how the Ex-List has affected the community."
Every word felt like a trap, just waiting to snare me. "I think people's private lives should stay private."
"Even when they're dating in a town this small?” Nico’s smile widened. “Come on, you must have opinions about the men on that list."
Trace's jaw tightened. I could feel him watching me, waiting for my answer.
"I think," I said carefully, "that lists like that are usually written by people who are hurting. And hurt people don't always make the best judges of character or the right decisions.”
Something flickered in Nico’s eyes… interest, maybe even suspicion. "That's an interesting perspective. Almost like you have personal experience with that kind of hurt."
All of the air seemed to get sucked out of the room. Trace stared at me, and I could practically see the questions forming in his head.
"I think," Marla's voice cut through the tension, "we should focus on the wedding. After all, that's why everyone's here."
Nico nodded, but his gaze lingered on me a beat too long. "Of course. The wedding. Though I have to say, the romantic drama in this town makes for a compelling narrative.”
I tried to ignore him as the next hour passed in a blur of logistics and forced smiles. We discussed catering timelines, setup requirements, and contingency plans for weather. But underneath it all, I felt Nico watching, listening, and cataloging every interaction between Trace and me.
When the meeting finally ended, I bolted for the porch, desperate for air and space. But Trace caught up with me before I reached the front door.
"What was that about?" he asked.
"What was what about?"
"The way you answered his questions. Like you were walking through a minefield."
I pulled the door open and stepped outside, not trusting myself to look at him. "I just don't trust him."
"Sabrina." His voice was gentle but firm. "What aren't you telling me?"
I turned then, meeting his eyes. They were the same dark brown they'd always been, but there was wariness there now. Distance. And it was my fault.
"Nothing," I lied. "I'm just worried about what he'll stir up."
Trace studied my face for a long moment. "You know something."
It wasn't a question.
"I know that podcaster is going to make this town look like a soap opera," I said. "And I know you don't deserve to be in the middle of his drama. None of the guys on the list do."
"But there's more."
My phone buzzed before I could answer. A text from an unknown number.
Nico: Great meeting you today. I'd love to chat more about your perspective on the Ex-List. How about coffee later?
Trace held out his hand. "Let me see."
"It's nothing—"
"Give it to me.” His voice carried a warning.
Reluctantly, I handed him the phone. I watched his expression darken as he read.
"He's fishing," Trace said, handing it back. "Don't take the bait."
"I won't."
"Promise me."
I met his eyes. "I promise."
It was another lie. Because as he drove me back to the coffee shop, one thought kept circling through my mind. Maybe talking to Nico was exactly what I needed to do. Maybe if I could control the narrative, spin it the right way, I could protect Trace from the worst of it.
Maybe I could finally find a way to fix what I'd broken. And that meant facing him sooner rather than later.
Back at the shop, I deleted Nico’s text and tried to focus on work. But every time the door chimed, I looked up expecting to see him. Or Trace. Or someone else ready to drag my secrets into the light.
By closing time, my nerves were shot. I was wiping down tables when my phone rang. Nellie's name showed up on the screen.
"Sugar," she said without preamble, "I just heard that podcaster's been asking questions about who wrote that list."
My blood turned to ice. "What kind of questions?"
"The kind that make me think he's figured out it wasn't anonymous after all."
I sank into the nearest chair. "Nellie—"
"I know, honey. I know." Her voice was gentle. "But secrets have a way of coming out, especially when there's money to be made for the folks spilling them."
"What am I going to do?"
"You're going to tell Trace before that man does it for you."
I closed my eyes. "What if he hates me?"
"Then he hates you. But at least he'll hear it from someone who loves him."
After I hung up, I sat in the empty coffee shop, surrounded by the scent of espresso and the weight of my choices. Outside, Hard Timber settled into evening quiet, streetlights flickering on as the sun disappeared behind the mountains.
Tomorrow, I would have to find the courage to tell Trace the truth. All of it.
Tonight, I would let myself pretend for a few more hours that I hadn't already lost him.