8. Wrenley #2
My nails find their way to my shoulder, rubbing at it through my sweater’s fabric. The skin there burns from the phantom sensation of yesterday’s nails digging deep, seeking an anchor in the storm of Brenda’s opportunism and Erin’s smug superiority.
That familiar, ugly whisper starts in the back of my mind, promising relief from the pressure building behind my ribs.
Just a little. No one will know.
My breath hitches. I force both hands to the wheel, clenching the cold leather.
No. I will not let them drive me back to that. But I do need air that doesn’t taste of judgment and something to look at besides the inside of Saint’s ridiculously expensive SUV.
My foot presses the accelerator a little harder than necessary. I drive not toward Saint’s secluded property, but back toward the heart of Falcon Haven, the quaint storefronts a blur through my stinging eyes. I need a distraction, something immediate and benign.
There.
A flash of cheerful yellow and white.
Libby Jude’s.
The sign, painted in a whimsical script, depicts a steaming coffee cup and a slice of pie. It looks like the kind of place where problems are solved with buttermilk pancakes and a sympathetic ear, neither of which I’m looking for, but the facade is soothing.
The image of Saint confiding in Erin, the two of them discussing my suitability, plays on a loop.
I pull the Range Rover into a parking spot directly in front, the engine’s quiet hum a counterpoint to the frantic thrumming in my veins.
For a moment, I just sit, staring at the café’s welcoming windows, the urge to rake my nails across my skin a live creature under my sweater.
Maybe a strong coffee and the clatter of other people’s lives will be enough to drown out my own demons. It’s a flimsy shield, but it’s all I have right now. I kill the engine, take a shaky breath, and force myself out of the car.
The bell above the door of Libby Jude’s chimes a cheerful, almost musical greeting as I step inside. I walk into warmth, thick with the comforting scent of baked goods, roasted coffee, and something vaguely cinnamon-y. It’s a hug in olfactory form.
Behind a counter laden with glass-domed cakes and oversized cookies, a woman with kind brown eyes and a cascade of warm brown hair pulled back loosely from her face looks up from where she’s wiping down the espresso machine.
She wears a simple apron over a chambray shirt, and her smile is genuine, crinkling the corners of her eyes.
“Morning! Come on in. What can I get for you?”
Her voice is as welcoming as the atmosphere, an absolute melody after the discordant notes of my morning.
This must be Libby Jude. Or maybe just Jude. Or Libby.
“Just coffee, please,” I manage, my voice still a little shaky. “Black.”
“Coming right up.” She turns to the gleaming machine, her movements efficient and graceful.
“Stressful morning?” she asks over her shoulder, her tone casual, inviting.
I almost laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
She glances back, her smile softening with sincere empathy. “Only to someone who’s had a few of their own.”
She finishes pulling the shot, the rich aroma filling the small space between us. “I’m Noa, by the way.”
“Wrenley.”
“Pretty name.” She pours the coffee into a sturdy mug, then slides it across the counter. “On the house. You look like you need it.”
I stare at her, then at the coffee. “Oh, I… I can’t. Thank you, but?—”
“Nonsense.” Noa waves me off. “Consider it a welcome-to-Falcon-Haven-even-if-you’re-having-a-terrible-day gift. Besides”—her eyes twinkle—“anyone brave enough to drive Saint’s monster truck deserves a free coffee. Or maybe a medal.”
My jaw drops slightly. “You know Saint?”
“Know him?” Noa chuckles, a warm, genuine sound.
Oh. It suddenly makes sense. Noa would be the perfect love interest for that man. She’s gorgeous, genuine, and makes irresistible baked goods .
This is the kind of woman who belongs in Saint’s life. Grounded, talented, radiating a quiet strength that complements his storm.
When my stomach sinks at the realization, I’m not even surprised anymore even though I’m not sure what to identify this feeling as. Envy? Jealousy? Sadness? Loneliness?
“He practically made Libby Jude’s happen. Helped me pursue my one true passion when he opened C’est Trois here. Taught me everything I know about pastry and most of what I know about not taking crap from anyone.” Noa’s expression turns fond. “He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s family.”
The knot in my stomach tightens, a familiar ache. It’s not just envy, it’s the sharp pang of realizing how utterly out of my depth I am. I’m a temporary placeholder, a two-week solution, while women like Noa are the sturdy, hand-built furniture of his world.
“So you’re not Libby Jude?” I ask, grasping for something, anything, to say that isn’t “So were you and the grumpy chef with the soul-searing eyes ever an item?”
Noa laughs, shaking her head as she wipes a stray coffee ground from the counter. “Libby Jude is a combination of my husband’s and my mothers’ names.” She leans forward, her expression kind. “You okay, Wrenley? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Or like I’ve just experienced a relief that is so off-balance, I’m not sure what to do with it. Why should I care that Noa has a husband and is therefore not on the market for Saint?
“Just … processing,” I say, taking a grateful sip of the coffee. It’s strong, rich, and undeniably good. “Small town. Everyone knows everyone, huh?”
“Pretty much,” Noa agrees. “Especially when ‘everyone’ includes a six-foot-four tattooed chef who glares at people for a living but secretly has a heart of gold. Or, you know, slightly tarnished bronze. Saint’s life is…
well, it’s a frequent topic. Especially when it involves someone new.
Don’t worry,” she adds after noting the blush creeping along my cheeks.
“Around here, ‘new’ just means we haven’t figured out your favorite pie flavor yet. ”
Her gaze is curious, but not prying. Friendly.
“I’m not sure I have one. Still in the exploration phase,” I say.
Of Falcon Haven, of Saint, of this strange new chapter in my life.
Noa’s smile widens. “Well, when you’re ready to commit, I make a mean apple crumble. It’s Saint’s favorite, actually, though he’d rather die than admit it.”
I try to picture Saint enjoying something so wholesome. It’s another crack in his fortress, a tiny detail that makes him infuriatingly more likable.
The bell above the door jingles, its cheerful sound slicing through the air, and?—
No. Way.
I don’t have to turn around to know.
The inviting atmosphere shifts, charged with the static before a lightning hit, the scent of his cologne cutting through the sweet bakery smells of cinnamon and sugar.
“Speak of the devil,” Noa says, her voice warm and easy. “We were just talking about you.”
Noa gestures toward me. And even though I keep my attention on my coffee, I can feel his eyes on me. My skin buzzes like the lightning’s getting closer to striking me where I stand.
Slowly and reluctantly, I lift my head. Saint comes up next to me, his bright gaze locked on mine. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t scowl. He just looks with that evaluating stare that makes me feel like he can see every stupid, anxious thought scrolling through my mind.
Then his gaze flicks down to the pastry case and the slice of apple crumble Noa had referenced, before returning to me.
He takes a step closer, not to Noa, but toward me and the small space I occupy at the counter. “Find anything you like yet, Wrenley?”