12. Tristan
Tristan
Tristan pushed the driver-side door of the SUV open.
The coastal wind whipped across the street, biting into his face the second he stepped out of the heated cabin.
His leather shoes hit the pavement, grinding against layers of rock salt.
He slammed the door shut. The freezing draft sliced through the thin wool of his tailored overcoat.
The air rushed into his lungs, but he ignored the sting and kept moving.
“I want a confirmed visual location by midnight,” he recalled ordering Graves.
The security firm delivered on the exact deadline.
He drove through the night, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles ached, leaving the shattered Lancaster closing hundreds of miles behind him.
He marched down the cracked sidewalk. The wind tore down the alleyways, rattling the frozen street signs.
He kept his eyes locked on the illuminated storefront up ahead.
The warm glow of the bakery windows spilled outward, painting the frosted concrete in dull gold.
He reached the entrance and shoved the front door open.
A wave of suffocating heat rushed over him.
The air was thick with the smell of roasting coffee beans and rising yeast. The bell above the door chimed, the sound piercing the low hum of morning chatter.
A line of bundled customers stretched from the register all the way to the entrance.
They stood in winter coats, blocking his path to the counter.
Tristan did not join the end of the queue.
He stepped forward, forcing his broad shoulders into the gap between two locals waiting for their morning orders.
“Hey, pal, the line starts by the door,” a man in a canvas jacket muttered.
The customer stepped into the narrow aisle, cutting him off.
“Move,” Tristan replied.
“People have been standing here for ten minutes,” the man argued, crossing his arms. “Wait your turn.”
Tristan shoved past the man without another word.
The patron stumbled backward, bumping into the next customer in line.
A chorus of protests erupted, but Tristan tuned them out.
He marched to the front counter, his shoes striking the linoleum.
Reaching the register, he planted his hands flat against the laminate surface and braced his weight over his wrists, fighting the exhaustion dragging at his muscles.
Marianne stood on the other side of the counter.
She dragged a damp towel across the glass pastry case.
Tristan stared at the flour handprints smeared across the front of her dark canvas apron.
She belongs in the penthouse. The sight of his wife wiping down a display case for strangers rooted him to the spot.
She shifted her weight, trying to ease her aching back.
She did not belong in this grueling environment. She carried his child, yet she was trapped behind a counter serving coffee to a town full of strangers.
“Marianne,” Tristan said.
She stilled her hand. She didn’t drop the rag. She simply turned her head and looked at him. He stared at her blank, polite expression. She treated him as if he were a nameless patron asking for directions.
“Security pinged this address at midnight,” Tristan told her.
He leaned closer over the laminate, desperate to bridge the gap between them.
“And I’ve been driving ever since.”
She resumed her wiping. She swept the towel over the glass in front of his chest, forcing him to pull his tie back to avoid the wet cloth.
“Welcome to The Sweetbriar,” Marianne said.
The customer-service tone in her voice offered zero recognition. She flicked a crumb off the rim of the case, refusing to meet his eyes. She picked up a stack of paper pastry boxes, aligning the cardboard edges.
“If you aren’t ordering a coffee, I need you to step out of the customer line,” she added.
Tristan tightened his grip on the edge of the counter.
The laminate dug into his palms. He’d just thrown away a billion-dollar empire for her, and she was treating him like a minor obstacle in a retail queue.
She was playing a ridiculous game of chicken, waiting to see if he would lose his temper in public.
He refused to play along. He would extract her from this freezing town and deal with the fallout in the warmth of their own home.
“Drop the customer-service routine,” Tristan demanded. “I walked out on the Lancaster closing for you.”
He expected the corporate surrender to break her silence. He waited for her to drop the towel, realize the magnitude of his sacrifice, and understand the war was over. She kept her eyes anchored to the pastry case.
“We are going back to the city right now, because my wife doesn’t scrub glass for minimum wage.”
Tristan waited for the revelation to land.
He watched her face, bracing for the inevitable backlash.
He expected her to hurl the towel at his chest. He prepared himself for a furious lecture about his father, or a demand for an apology regarding the dinner.
Screaming at him would prove she still cared enough to fight for the marriage.
Marianne did not scream. She didn’t even blink.
She absorbed the news of the collapsed merger, and then she smiled.
It was a bright, flawless retail expression, devoid of warmth.
It was the exact same vacant, polite look she used to deploy when dodging aggressive paparazzi or enduring his mother’s venomous friends at charity galas. She was using it on him.
She slapped the towel against the glass. She wiped the surface in a tight, efficient circle, treating his presence like a minor smudge.
“Did you hear what I just said?” he demanded, leaning closer over the glass. “The deal is dead. I walked away from the acquisition.”
She stepped to the left, putting distance between them. Reaching toward the coffee grinder bolted to the back counter, she flicked the switch. The industrial motor kicked on with a roar. The aggressive, mechanical grinding of dark-roast beans flooded the storefront, drowning out his words.
Tristan pressed his hands flat against the laminate. The polite customer-service routine gutted his authority. He was the CEO of Hawthorne Holdings, but in this flour-dusted room, he was just an irritating man blocking the flow of local traffic.
“Marianne, listen to me,” Tristan said, raising his voice over the noise. “I saw the legal filings. I dropped the entire Lancaster acquisition on the signing table the second they were served.”
She tapped the portafilter against the edge of the grinder, catching the fresh grounds. She ignored his confession. She locked the handle into the espresso machine and turned her back to him, facing the rear prep station.
“If you aren’t purchasing anything from the display, sir, please clear the register area for the actual patrons,” Marianne said.
Without waiting for his compliance, she tilted her chin toward the swinging metal doors leading to the back kitchen, pitching her voice over the hiss of the espresso steam wand.
“Hazel? We have a disruptive gentleman at the front.”
Tristan stared at her profile. His billions meant nothing here. He had walked away from the most lucrative joint venture of his career, and she countered by summoning a local baker to bounce him from the shop.
“Stop looking at me like I’m a stranger,” Tristan said, gripping the counter. “I’m trying to put our family back together, so just give me a minute to explain.”
The swinging metal kitchen doors kicked open with a violent crash.
A woman in faded denim overalls marched out of the back room, wielding a rolling pin.
White flour dusted the front of her apron and clung to her knuckles.
She did not hesitate at the edge of the customer line.
She stepped directly behind the register, planting herself squarely between Tristan and Marianne.
Tristan held his ground. Calling his legal team or threatening to buy the building would only guarantee his wife walked out the back alley and disappeared again. If he threw a punch or pulled rank, she would never speak to him again.
“I’m not looking for a fight,” Tristan said, raising his empty hands. “Just let me talk to her.”
Hazel stepped forward. She brought the wood down against the edge of the display case with a sharp crack. The sound echoed through the storefront, silencing the murmur of the morning queue.
The locals waiting in line took a collective step backward, giving the standoff a wide berth. A customer walked in, but the cheerful chime of the bell died in the tense room. Tristan stared down the baker. She held the pin like a club.
“You have exactly five seconds to back away from my register before I shatter your kneecaps, rich boy,” Hazel said. “Leave her alone and get out of my shop.”
She meant every word. Tristan looked at her braced shoulders, understanding the threat was literal.
She was prepared to cave his knees in right in front of the patrons.
The corporate authority that dictated boardrooms evaporated amidst the smell of roasting yeast and burnt sugar.
The only currency these people respected was sweat.
“Put the wood down,” Tristan countered, taking a slow step backward to create space.
He reached up and peeled the wool overcoat off his shoulders. The tailored coat slipped loose as he shrugged it down his arms. He tossed the coat over the back of a chair. Hazel kept the pin aimed at his chest, refusing to drop her guard.
“I don’t have jurisdiction here,” Tristan said, pulling his arms free of the sleeves. “I know that.”
He did not stop moving. He pulled his arms free of his suit jacket. He dropped the jacket over the coat, leaving himself in just his dress shirt.
The coastal draft cutting through the front door bit into the thin cotton, chilling his skin. He welcomed the bite. He needed to shed the billionaire right now.