Chapter 2
Chapter Two
WYATT
Imight strangle my mom.
This, unfortunately, is not the first time she’s set me up on a date in the past year. The only reason I sit across from a brunette with wide eyes and pin-straight teeth is in the hopes of getting her off my back.
You aren’t getting any younger, and neither am I.
Her words reverberate in my head like a rattlesnake in tall grass.
I’m thirty. It’s not like I’m on my deathbed.
I have plenty of time to settle down and find someone to spend my life with.
If I want to. I don’t even know if that’s what I want.
All I’m sure of right now is that I’d rather be back at the ranch.
We’re short-staffed, and I can’t afford to waste my time on this.
Having Haden around has been a big help, but Wesley has only gotten busier and busier with the wedding right around the corner.
I’m happy for my brother. It’s about time he pulled his head out of his ass and made things official with Blake, but damn do I miss the days when it wasn’t just me that my mother was hounding on.
The days when he’d have some extra time to pop over and see me.
“Wyatt?” I blink, the brunette’s face coming back into focus. What was her name again?
“Sorry,” I bring the mug of coffee to my lips, furrowing my brows like I’ve been deep in thought and not thinking of ways to get the hell out of this. “What’d you say?”
“Do you want kids?”
My mug slips, missing my mouth. Hot, black liquid splashes against my skin, spreading into a dark stain across my white T-shirt.
I curse, setting the mug down with a thud and reaching for a napkin.
Just as I start to apologize, what’s-her-name jerks upright, covering her mouth with one hand as her eyes dart to the window. “Holy shit.”
I follow her gaze, hair raising on the back of my neck as panic grips her.
The window we’re sitting by is now blocked.
A crowd has gathered outside the Clover-Hills Diner.
People pour out of the building, while others peer anxiously from the neighboring shops.
Thick, black smoke churns into the sky, rising at an alarming rate.
I push my chair back, standing up and rushing for the front door.
I shove past bodies, but there’s no need to yell for someone to call 9-1-1.
The sirens are already wailing. I spill onto the street just as the fire truck skids to a violent stop.
Orange and red flames curl at the smoke-choked air, their unrelenting dance flickering through the shattered windows of the building.
Smoke, so much smoke, spills from every crack and crevice.
My heart races as the heat hits me, the air thick and oppressive.
It’s only when I realize it’s not my father’s bar that the tension loosens slightly in my chest. But it roars right back to life at the same time a bullet of water sprays the structure.
It’s not the bar. No, it's Bell’s. Whitney’s.
Bell’s Coffee Shop is on fire.