Chapter 2
Rory
The espresso machine hisses like it’s mocking me. Steam clouds the air, fogging the windows, giving me something to hide behind. I grab a mug, my favorite one—the chipped red one with bean there, done that printed on the side—and tell myself I’m perfectly fine.
I am always perfectly fine.
So when he walks in the next morning, my mind falls back to the moment he caught me when I toppled off the ladder yesterday.
My heart hammers out of my chest at just the thought of Dax’s hands warm on my waist—I can still feel the exact place his thumbs pressed against my hips like they belonged there.
Heat crawls up my neck when he catches my eyes.
I turn away before he can see it.
“Morning, Firefighter. You want the usual?” I ask over my shoulder.
“For the whole house,” he says. “But I want mine first.”
“Demanding today.”
I glance back at him. He’s leaning against the counter like he owns it, jacket unzipped, sleeves shoved up, that easy confidence rolling off him like heat from a fire pit. He looks unfairly good for someone who smells like smoke and winter air.
“Come here,” I say before I think better of it. “I’ll show you something.”
His brows lift. “That sounds dangerous.”
I pull a shot, steam the milk, then make a little design as I pour before sliding the cup toward him. A heart blooms on the surface, slightly crooked but intentional.
“Latte art,” I say. “That’s talent.”
He squints at it. “Fancy.”
“It’s a skill.”
“Prove it.”
I laugh. “You want a lesson?”
He nods once, shrugging off his Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue coat. “Teach me.”
My skin prickles under his heated gaze.
I move closer, guiding his hands to the pitcher, my fingers brushing his knuckles. He’s warm. Solid. My stomach flips like I’m sixteen again and standing too close to him behind the bleachers.
“Slow,” I murmur. “Don’t rush it.”
He watches my mouth when I talk.
“Like this?” he asks, pouring.
Milk splashes everywhere, including on us.
I gasp. “Dax!”
He laughs, the deep sound causing my heart to flip-flop in my chest. Foam drips onto the counter. “You said slow, not graceful.”
“You’re impossible.” I grab a towel, but he’s already lifting the hem of his shirt.
“Don’t—” I start.
Too late.
The shirt comes off.
I freeze.
Oh.
Oh no.
He’s all muscle and lines and familiar scars I’ve seen a hundred times without ever really seeing. Steam curls around us, the café suddenly too small, too quiet.
My ovaries stage a full rebellion.
“You okay, Red?” he asks, innocent and absolutely not.
I clear my throat. “You’re… dripping.”
“Oh yeah?” He grins. “Foam does that.”
I swat at him with the towel, laughing too loud, too breathless. “You’re banned from touching expensive equipment.”
“Worth it,” he says.
The bell above the door chimes then, sharp and perfectly timed.
Mail.
My smile falters.
The mailman drops the stack on the counter, nods at Dax, tips his hat at me. And there it is—right on top.
The red envelope.
My heart stutters.
Dax notices immediately. Of course he does. He notices everything.
“What’s that?” he asks.
I hesitate.
This is stupid. I’m an adult woman. I run a business. I can handle this.
Still, my fingers curl around the envelope like it might vanish if I don’t hold on tight enough.
“It’s… nothing,” I say, then sigh. “Okay. That’s a lie.”
His expression softens. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“I know.” I lean against the counter, turning the envelope over. “But I want to.”
His attention sharpens, all teasing gone.
“Last Valentine’s Day,” I say, “there was this… thing. At the town hall. Anonymous pen pal exchange.”
He stills.
“Someone entered me without asking,” I continue. “I thought it was a prank. But then I got a letter. And then another. And another.”
“How many?” he asks quietly.
“A year’s worth.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“They’re thoughtful,” I say. “Kind. They ask real questions. Not small talk.”
“Do you know who it is?”
I shake my head. “No names. No clues. Just words.”
He nods slowly. “And you write back.”
“Every week.”
Silence hums between us.
“Do you like him?” Dax asks.
The question lands heavier than it should.
“I…” I shrug. “It’s complicated.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Is it?”
I laugh softly. “It’s silly. Pen pals. Letters. I’m too practical for fairy tales.”
“But?” he prompts.
“But,” I admit, “he makes me feel seen.”
Something flickers in Dax’s eyes. Gone before I can name it.
“You think it could be love?” he asks.
I scoff. “What even is love?”
His mouth curves. “Careful. You sound jaded.”
“I’m busy,” I say. “I don’t have time for fantasies.”
He studies me for a long moment, like he wants to argue. Like he’s holding something back.
Instead, he smiles.
“Well,” he says lightly, grabbing his coffee carrier, “sounds like someone’s lucky.”
“Maybe,” I say.
He hesitates at the door. “Valentine’s coming up.”
“I know.”
“You meeting him?”
I swallow. “We’re supposed to.”
He nods once. “Good.”
Something about the way he says it twists low in my stomach.
“See you tomorrow, Red,” he says.
I watch him leave, the bell chiming softly behind him, the warmth lingering longer than it should.
Only when the door closes do I look down at the envelope again.
My hands are shaking.
I have a feeling this Valentine’s Day is about to burn everything wide open.