Chapter One
Hannah.
The first thing I notice is the light.
Not the harsh, sterile kind that bounces off Riverton high-rises, but something gentler—like honey spilled across old wood. It slips through the lace curtains Aunt May hung twenty years ago and forgot to take down. For a moment I don’t move, afraid it’ll stop if I acknowledge it.
The ceiling fan hums in lazy circles. Outside, the square hasn’t fully woken; I hear one car roll past, a dog bark twice, the faint clink of a mailbox closing.
My whole body aches in that travel-weary, emotion-hungover way that feels like I’ve been crying for days—even though I only let myself cry once.
Last night. In front of people who remembered me when I was a half-feral thirteen-year-old girl with chipped blue nail polish and grief stuck in her throat.
The sheets smell faintly of cinnamon and laundry powder. Aunt May’s quilt—crooked maple leaves stitched with stubborn love—has slid halfway off the bed. I tug it back over my legs and stare at the ceiling until the quiet starts to feel too big.
It hits me again.
I’m here.
Back in Willow Creek. Back in the little apartment above the café.
Back where everything started and stopped.
A floorboard creaks near the window. For a second my heart tries to sprint, but it’s only the wind. The curtains sway. The air smells like rain that hasn’t quite decided whether to fall again.
I sit up, stretching until my spine pops, and squint at the clock.
6:12 a.m. I used to be up before sunrise when Aunt May was alive.
She believed in catching the first batch of light and the first batch of muffins before the rest of the world realized it was hungry.
My body remembers even if my mind pretends it doesn’t.
When my feet touch the wood floor, it’s cool enough to shock me awake. Our cat, Cherry’s collar jingles faintly in my memory, though she’s miles away with Nathan now. She was his before she was ours, a fact I couldn’t change. You’re sentimental before caffeine, I scold myself. It doesn’t help.
I shuffle to the kitchenette and fill the kettle. The plumbing groans in recognition, like it missed being useful. I pull a chipped mug from the cabinet—cream with a faded peach rim—and grab the tin labeled “Tea (Emergency Only).” Apparently, today counts as an emergency.
The kettle whistles. Steam curls into my hair, and for a moment I close my eyes, letting it soften the tight edges of my chest.
Downstairs, the café waits—empty tables, ghost of lemon oil, the faint hum of the refrigerator keeping time with my pulse.
The to-do list starts forming before I can stop it:
Call the supplier.
Order flour, butter, coffee beans, milk.
Decide if I’m brave enough to keep Aunt May’s menu or start over.
Pretend I know what I’m doing.
My pen hovers over the pad. The nib scratches across the paper, forming neat little lies like Scones—Blueberry? Cranberry? Courage-flavored?
I snort. If Tessa saw this, she’d write, add whipped cream to everything and draw a smiley face.
A knock rattles the back door before I can think too hard. One, two—steady, familiar. I know that knock. I don’t even have to look.
I pad down the stairs, mug in hand, and unlatch the door. Luke stands there, taller than the doorframe should allow, morning chill caught in his hair. He’s wearing the same flannel as last night, sleeves rolled up, a paper bag balanced on his arm.
“Morning,” he says, voice still wrapped in sleep.
“It’s barely morning,” I mutter, stepping aside so he can come in. “You fix things on an empty stomach now?”
“Only if there’s coffee after.”
He sets the bag on the counter. The smell hits me first—fresh biscuits, butter, and honey. My throat tightens. “You didn’t have to—”
He shrugs one shoulder, eyes soft, and my heart responds as if it knows what it’s doing. “Tessa said you’d forget breakfast.”
“Tessa’s a narc.”
“She’s also right.” His smile flickers—quick, real. “Thought you could use something warm.”
There’s a silence after that—not awkward, just dense with things we don’t know how to name yet.
He moves toward the back latch like muscle memory, testing it, frowning slightly at the way it sticks.
I lean on the counter and sip my tea, watching his shoulders move under that worn flannel, wondering when it became so easy to forget to breathe.
He glances back once. “The hinge’ll hold for now. I’ll bring tools later.”
“Of course you will.”
Before he can answer, the front bell jingles. We both freeze.
It’s 7:01, the café is not even open, but Tessa never believed in schedules when meddling was involved.
“Don’t shoot, it’s me!” her voice sings from the front. “I come bearing caffeine and judgment!”
I grin before I can help it. “The door’s open!”
Luke mutters, “Mistake,” under his breath, but he doesn’t move away from the latch, and I swallow the small smile that’s ignited somewhere deep inside.
Tessa bursts in like a snowglobe someone just shook too hard—curly auburn hair escaping a messy bun, scarf twice her size, holding two coffees and a bag of something that smells suspiciously like cinnamon rolls.
“Sweetheart,” she exclaims, thrusting one cup into my hand and one into Luke’s. “You look human. I was worried.”
“I’ve been up for a while, and besides, you two must not have gotten the memo. This is a café, I’m supposed to supply the cakes.”
She aims a lopsided smile my way, drops her bag on the counter, and surveys the place like a general taking inventory of her troops. “All right. It smells like ghosts, but not the tragic kind. We can work with that.”
“Good morning to you too,” Luke says, but his mouth curves as he wipes sawdust from his hands.
Tessa beams. “Luke. You still emotionally unavailable, or did therapy finally take?”
He raises a brow. “Do you ever lead with hello?”
“No fun in that.” She looks at me, conspiratorial. “Tell him, City Mouse.”
I groan. “You’re not bringing that back.”
“Oh, it never left.” She snatches my list from the counter and squints. “Courage-flavored scones? That’s bold.”
“Better than fear-flavored,” I mumble into my tea.
Luke chuckles low. “She’s not wrong.”
Tessa leans on the counter, eyes gleaming. “All right, Hannah. What’s the plan? You reopening soft or grand?”
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “Maybe a week to clean, restock, remember how to breathe. Maybe longer.”
“Good. Gives us time to make the new chalkboard sign.” She grins, already pulling a marker from her bag. “And to get you gossip-ready.”
I roll my eyes. “Gossip-ready?”
“Mm-hm. You think no one noticed three men walking you home last night? Half the town’s already composing theories. Mrs. Calloway cornered me at the post office. Asked if we’re renaming the café Poly & Honey.”
Luke chokes on his coffee. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish.” Tessa sips her latte, unbothered. “I told her we’re too classy for rebranding.”
My face goes hot. I’m not ready for gossip. Or maybe that’s just what I'm telling myself so that I can ignore my heart’s reaction to the passing comment. “They’ll get over it.”
“They always do,” Luke says, quiet but certain. “They did with us.”
That shuts me up for a moment. Because he’s right—and because he still says ‘us’ like it’s something solid. Something he tucked inside his flannel and never let go of.
Tessa saves me from thinking too hard. “So. We’ll start with the menu, then a new paint coat. Maybe hang fairy lights—”
“No,” Luke and I say at the same time.
She gasps. “Traitors.”
“Fire hazard,” he explains.
“Overdone,” I add.
She clutches her heart. “I can’t work under these conditions.”
I smile despite myself. It feels good, this chaos. It feels like home.
When Luke finally leaves—promising to return later with his tool bag—I walk him to the door. He pauses just outside, one hand braced on the frame. Morning sun spills over his shoulder, catching the gray hints in his hair as our eyes meet.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says softly.
“I know.”
He studies me a heartbeat longer, like he doesn’t quite believe me, then nods and…