Chapter 6
six
“The fire doesn’t make you what you are; it reveals what you were.” - Jack Hyles
Cole was about ready to lose his damn mind.
Everywhere he turned, folks had Jocelyn Murphy’s name on their lips—whispering about how she was here to ruin Harvest Fest, acting like she was some storm blowing in to tear the town apart. And for some reason, everyone thought he had the inside scoop.
The number of times he’d been stopped in the past two days, he might as well have been wearing a sign that said: I know everything there is to know about Jocelyn Murphy. Please ask me.
And it wasn’t just Henry Wetzel.
Kiki Womack marched into the bar at half-past one with her chin jutted so far forward she looked like a bulldog spoiling for a fight.
She didn’t even pretend to glance around for a table, just made a beeline straight for him.
Cole stuffed his stylus behind his ear like an old-school reporter, setting his tablet aside.
He’d been trying—and failing—to run through inventory before the next rush.
“Miz Kiki,” he said, leaning both hands on the bar, already braced for the ambush. His tone carried a layer of exasperation he didn’t bother to hide.
She wedged herself between two stools, glaring up at him with the look that had made him quake as a boy. Even now, a chill crawled up his spine, reflexive as a kicked dog.
“That Murphy girl went into the fire station to talk to Chief Ward,” she huffed, her hair unmoving under the assault probably thanks to half a can of hairspray.
“Not illegal last I checked,” Cole said evenly. Truth was, he didn’t give a damn what Jocelyn did, but Kiki was in his mama’s book club, and crossing her meant grief for Ma. Kiki Womack was a copperhead—best left alone unless you had a stick in your hand.
“I know Henry Wetzel talked to you about this.”
Cole cut her off, patient to the point of sarcasm. “And Edith, and Wheezy Harrington, and Beatrice Eckstrom. I’m keepin’ a list if you’d like to see it. Most run with you, though, so you probably knew already.”
Her lips pinched flat as she ignored that last bit. “How many more of us need to complain before you do something?”
“Ma’am,” he said, trying for polite but slipping into petulant, “I am one man. With zero sway. Why y’all keep comin’ to me about this, I’ll never understand.”
That only poured gas on her fire. She jabbed a finger close to his nose. “You best have pride in this place that took you back after all your many failings, young man. We need this festival to go well—all of us.”
Words dried up on his tongue as she spun and stormed out. Sweet Southern exterior or not, Kiki had venom—and he’d just gotten a mouthful of it. He half-wondered if her late husband hadn’t just keeled over one day from too many doses.
But the worst part? Her words had landed. Right in the spot he hated most—the part of him that did feel like he owed Cedar Hollow for taking him back. The prodigal screw-up. The one who’d burned every bridge once, then came limping home.
“You don’t owe this town a damn thing, Cole,” Terra muttered from the end of the bar. His cousin knew exactly which bruise Kiki had pressed on. “Festival ain’t your responsibility. And it sure as hell ain’t dependent on whether Jocelyn Murphy sticks around.”
Didn’t matter. He still felt the sting.
By the time the lunch crowd thinned, he was half-convinced he ought to march to Jocelyn’s hotel and run her out of town with a pitchfork—if only to get the locals off his back.
His head ran through every ugly angle: he could be rude, push her away, maybe even lie about something his mama’d said that’d cut her off quick.
But the thought of wounding his mama like that had him stopping short.
She had made it clear the day before—she understood his feelings, but she and his daddy loved Jocelyn and wanted her to find peace. That was enough to keep him in line.
So he busied himself with inventory, taking orders, and running dishes until the tension in his shoulders eased.
Then the front door opened.
Cole didn’t even have to look to know who it was—something in him just knew. And when his gaze landed on Jocelyn, every bit of noise in the room drained out like a damn movie scene.
That sundress she wore wasn’t doing him any favors, but it was the way she carried herself—braced and uncomfortable—that struck him harder than the curve of her waist.
Then she walked straight to Frank Leone at the bar. The man went pale as milk, blinking like he’d seen a ghost. Cole tensed, half ready to call an ambulance.
“Cole?” Dave Hume’s voice cut in, snapping Cole’s focus back.
“Yeah—hang on.” He didn’t even look at Dave, who’d been in the middle of ordering dinner, before moving toward Jocelyn and Frank.
The conversation was too quiet to hear, but the strain in their faces was enough to draw the attention of others around them. Even Terra was watching, her sharp gray gaze flicking between Cole and the pair at the bar.
Frank didn’t last long. He shot up from his stool, leaving his half-full beer on the bar, and stormed toward the door. Jocelyn stayed behind, sinking into the empty stool like the air had been punched from her lungs.
Cole approached before he’d thought better of it, and the first words out of his mouth were the wrong damn ones. “First you threaten my pop, and now you’re chasin’ off my customers?”
The way her body tightened, shoulders to neck, had him hating himself instantly. He slid between two stools—one over from her because he needed that space—and leaned an elbow on the cedar bar like he wasn’t rattled.
“I didn’t threaten anybody.” Her voice was sharp but not cruel. More blunt than biting, like she was holding something back. Tears, if he had to guess.
It made him want to apologize immediately, but the rebel in him wouldn’t allow it. “Not in so many words.”
When her eyes met his, dark and unguarded, he had to look away.
He directed himself to the liquor shelf behind the bar, ticking through the bottles, cataloging which needed restocking.
The routine grounded him, gave him something solid to hold onto while every inch of his body reacted to her presence like she was a live wire.
“I came at y’all from left field,” Jocelyn admitted, her voice softer.
Even the lift and fall of her shoulders was a rush on the air that vibrated against his skin.
“I owe your dad my life,” she went on. “I thought it was the right thing to be upfront about why I’m here.”
Cole inhaled, catching the scent of fried chicken, beer, and something warm and sweet that could only be her. Vanilla, maybe. He shoved the thought away before it dug in.
“Honorable of you.” He tapped his fingers against the bar, keeping his hands busy when all they wanted was to reach out, to undo that ponytail and lose himself in the softness of her hair.
Redirect. Redirect, damn it.
“Hungry? Whatever you want, on the house.” He pushed away from the bar before he lost every ounce of control.
She gave him a long, narrow look, eyes sharp but sparking with something else underneath—something that pulled at him, dangerous and magnetic all at once.
That was all the proof he needed to back off. Folks wanted him to scare her off, but he knew better now. If he kept leaning in, he wasn’t going to drive her away—he was going to get tangled up in her. And he wasn’t sure he had the strength to untangle himself after.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Consider it an apology.”
Her eyebrow arched, one dark slash above those alluring eyes. “Not sure I deserve an apology.”
“Then call it a welcome gift. A courtesy.” He shifted closer, playing with fire as he bent just enough to murmur near her ear: “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Darlin’.”
He thought he saw her shiver, though she tried to hide it.
For a half-second, he felt like he had the upper hand. But the truth hit harder than whiskey—he wasn’t in control at all.
He was already undone.