Chapter Eight
Sage
After a few blocks of aimless wandering and pretending I knew where the hell I was going, I find myself standing in front of a bar.
It looks like one of those old-timey places that opens early for the trucker crowd and closes late for the lonely locals. The sign says Cole's, the wood a little weathered, but the door's open. That's enough for me.
Inside, it smells like aged oak, fresh brew, stale ale, and memories. The interior hasn't changed since the seventies, maybe earlier—plaid stools, wood-paneled walls, a jukebox humming a quiet tune. There are only two patrons nursing mugs and morning silences.
Behind the bar stands a man who could've stepped straight out of a blues record—dark skin, salt-and-pepper beard, broad shoulders under a faded flannel. He greets me with the kind of warmth you don't get in big cities.
"Welcome, welcome," he says, smiling like he means it. "What can I get you this fine morning?"
"Coffee would be amazing, if you've got some," I reply, returning the smile.
"Oh, do we?" He grins, the laugh lines around his eyes deepening with charm. "We've got the best damn coffee in the whole county. Better than all that overpriced slush from the fancy shops downstate."
"That's a bold claim," I say, sliding onto a barstool. "But I'm ready to be proven wrong."
He hums a tune as he works the machine—efficient, like it's muscle memory—and in moments hands me a steaming mug. One sip and I'm convinced.
"Okay," I exhale, savoring it. "That's not just hype."
He leans in with a mock-conspiratorial whisper. "Best-kept secret in Briar Hollow."
I mime zipping my lips. "My lips are sealed."
He chuckles, deep and genuine. "Well, maybe not too sealed. We could use a few more folks around here. No pressure, though. You enjoy your coffee, dear lady."
Just then, the front door swings open, letting in a gust of wind and the sound of boots on hardwood.
The barman glances up, and his expression shifts—still warm, but tinged with something else.
"Jace," he says, tone halfway between affection and exasperation. "To what do we owe the honor of your company this early?"
I glance over my shoulder.
The newcomer is younger, mid-twenties maybe, dark skin, sharp jawline, and dressed like someone trying very hard not to look like he's from a small town.
Expensive wool coat, white button-down, tailored pants that belong in a boardroom, not a backroad bar.
He peels the coat off like he's on a runway and folds it neatly.
"For your information, Uncle," he says, placing his coat deliberately on one of the barstools, "I've been up since five. Got my run in. Did some hustle. And don't act like you need help before ten. You just like complaining."
"Hustle," the barman mutters with a shake of his head. "Kids these days."
The energy between them is familial and teasing. I clock the dynamic immediately—uncle and nephew, opposites in many ways but cut from the same honest cloth.
Jace turns to me, and I feel it the moment his eyes land. There's a beat, a shift, like someone just adjusted the spotlight. His spine straightens. His expression reconfigures into something cooler, more polished.
I've seen that shift before—guys who suddenly want to be noticed. But this isn't just him. It's me. Or rather, my allure. That subtle pull I've never fully learned to switch off. Most of the time I keep it muted, but even that's enough to draw eyes, make people lean in just a little too close.
Jace doesn't lean yet. But he notices.
For once, I don't mind. I think I just found my local sponsor.
"Hi," I say, letting a soft smile curl the edges of my lips.
"Oh—yeah—hi. I mean, good morning," he stammers, blinking too much. "You're not… you're not from around here, are you?"
"Just passing through." I offer a nonchalant shrug, then cut in before he can start grilling me with small-town curiosity. "But you don't look like you're from here either. And yet…" I glance toward the barman, "he's your uncle?"
His chest expands a little, visibly pleased.
"Born and raised right here in Briar Hollow," he says, settling onto the barstool like it's a throne.
"But I lived in New York for a few years.
Studied and worked there before I came back to help my grumpy uncle run this place.
" He extends his hand with the flair of someone who's done a hundred handshakes in an office setting.
"Jace Cole. And that's my uncle, Winston Cole. " He nods to the barman.
I take his hand. "Sage." I don't add my last name—Quinn. Even if Sage isn't my birth name, but one I took after leaving my old life, I don't want any traces left. Just in case.
"Sage," he repeats, like he's trying it out on his tongue. "Beautiful name."
Behind the bar, Winston glances over. He doesn't say anything, just raises a brow, and goes back to polishing glasses, letting the scene play out.
Meanwhile, Jace casually rolls up his sleeves like he's just so relaxed, and there it is—a Rolex. Bold, shiny, definitely trying too hard.
"New York?" I echo, tilting my head. "That's impressive. Not an easy place to break into."
He takes the bait, hook and all. "Oh, totally. You have to know how to move fast, think on your feet. But once you get the rhythm, it's a jungle you learn to dance in."
"What did you study?" I ask, already guessing the answer.
"Finance," he says, as expected. "Worked on Wall Street for a while. I was actually up for a management position before I moved back."
I give him a perfectly measured look of admiration. "That's big. Let me guess… twenty-seven? Twenty-nine?"
He straightens, grinning like I just gifted him a medal.
"Twenty-five, actually. I was one of the youngest juniors in my department.
They gave me a pile of backlogged issues no one else could solve, and I cleared it in a week.
My hiring manager said he'd never seen anyone move that fast. Got me a meeting with the director. "
"Wow," I say, leaning in just slightly, letting my voice dip to something softer. "So humble as well."
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know… I try."
I smile into my coffee. I don't even have to push. He's walking himself straight into every line I draw.
"Jace, don't talk the poor girl's ear off," the uncle says with a shake of his head, though there's a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
"Oh, it's fine, honestly. Fascinating," I say brightly, turning toward Jace with perfectly timed clumsiness. My elbow 'accidentally' knocks the coffee mug. It wobbles dramatically, tips, and spills, some splashing onto me, more onto Jace's pristine shirt.
Before it can hit the floor, he shoots out of his seat and snatches the mug midair with impressive reflexes.
I gasp. "Oh my god, I am so sorry," I say, feigning mortified embarrassment as I stand, grabbing a napkin from the counter. "I can't believe I just… ugh, your shirt!"
As I fuss and dab gently at his chest with one hand, the other slips behind him like muscle memory. A soft glide, practiced fingers, and there, his wallet is in my hand and tucked under my sweater before he even realizes what side of the bar he's facing.
"It's totally fine," Jace says, laughing it off. "No big deal. It wasn't even hot."
"You sure? Because I really messed up your Wall Street look."
He grins. "Well, you got some too," he points to the splash on my sweater. "Looks like you took the worst of it."
I glance down with a little groan. "Yeah, I should probably change. Luckily, I always carry backup," I add, patting my backpack.
"Smart," he says, all charming, still clueless. "A prepared woman. I like that."
I don't let myself feel bad. Not for this. Not now.
"I'll be back in a jiff," I say with a sweet smile, maneuvering toward the hallway that leads to the bathrooms.
Once inside the small restroom, I lock the door, pull the wallet from under my sweater, and flip it open with quick efficiency. Cards, IDs—nothing I'll touch. Nothing that can trace back. I know better. I left Darius's black diamond card behind for the same reason.
I take only the cash. Two hundred and some change. Enough.
The rest I leave neatly on the edge of the sink. They'll find it.
Then I slip out the side exit without looking back.