7. Lina
Lina
I’m standing by the heavy oak double-doors of the shop, my keys clutched in my hand, staring out into the pitch-black street.
The harbor is completely swallowed by the dark, and the wind is howling a low, menacing pitch that makes the building’s old wooden joints groan.
Ten minutes ago, I was ready to run the two blocks to my apartment.
Now, the street is a rushing river of black water, and the fog has turned into a solid, impenetrable wall.
I can’t run in this. I’ll slip, or worse, get swept off the curb.
A blinding flash of white light rips across the sky, turning the dark street into a stark, terrifying snapshot.
My chest instantly goes tight.
Three seconds later, the thunder hits. It is a massive, deafening roar that rattles the heavy glass windows of the shop and vibrates straight through the soles of my boots.
I flinch, my keys slipping from my fingers and clattering loudly onto the floorboards.
My breath hitches, a cold, familiar panic clawing at my throat.
My knees feel weak, almost hollow. I hate this.
I hate thunder. I’ve hated it since I was a little girl, though I have no idea why.
There is no logical reason for a twenty-three-year-old woman to be terrified of a rainstorm, but every time the sky cracks open like this, my brain registers it as a threat.
It feels like a monster trying to break through the walls to drag me back into the dark.
Another flash of lightning.
The lights inside The Mug & Page flicker once, twice, and then die completely.
The shop plunges into a deep, shadows-thick darkness, lit only by the angry, white flashes from the windows.
I scramble backward, my hands searching the dark until my fingers brush the cool wood of the counter.
I slide behind it, dropping to my knees on the floorboards, my back pressed hard against the cabinets.
I pull my knees to my chest, burying my face in my yellow sweater, shivering violently as the wind rattles the glass.
Just breathe, Lina. It’s just noise. It’s just water.
But the storm feels personal. It feels like the safety I built is cracking, piece by piece.
Suddenly, a loud, violent bang echoes from the front of the shop.
The heavy wooden door is slammed open, hitting the interior wall with a force that shatters the silence. The brass bell clatters frantically. The wind howls into the room, bringing a spray of freezing water and the scent of rain, pine, and wet wool.
"Lina!"
A voice roars through the dark. It is rough, breathless, and completely frantic.
John.
"Lina! Where the fuck are you?" he shouts, his heavy boots slamming against the floorboards as he strides into the darkness. He sounds like a wild man, completely stripped of his usual cold, calculated restraint.
"I'm here!" I call out, my voice small and shaking as I peek around the corner of the counter. "I'm behind the counter!"
In the next flash of lightning, I see him. He is drenched, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his black coat gleaming with water. The moment he hears my voice, he lunges around the side of the counter, dropping to his knees beside me.
Before I can say a word, his massive arms wrap around my shoulders and he yanks me hard against his chest.
The impact knocks the wind out of me. He holds me with a crushing, desperate strength, his heart hammering a wild, frantic rhythm against my collarbone.
He is burning hot, his body radiating a fierce heat that cuts through my shivering.
He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his breath coming in ragged, heavy gasps against my skin.
"John?" I whisper, completely dumbfounded, my hands hovering awkwardly near his ribs. "What are you... how did you get in?"
"The door was unlocked," he grunts, his grip tightening until I can barely breathe.
He doesn't let go. His hand slides up to cup the back of my head, pressing my face into his shoulder.
"You didn't answer your phone. I saw the lights go out.
I thought..." He cuts himself off, his voice cracking slightly in the dark.
"I'm okay," I say, my voice softening as the warmth of his body begins to melt my panic. "I was just... the storm is really bad."
A massive crack of thunder explodes directly overhead, so loud it sounds like the roof is splitting in two.
I let out a small, terrified gasp, my fingers instinctively clawing into the damp fabric of his coat, burying myself deeper into his chest.
"I have you," he whispers, his voice deep, solid, and incredibly steady against my ear. He strokes my hair, his large hand gentle but firm. "I have you, piccola. It's just noise. The thunder won't get to you. I won't let it touch you."
His words run through me like a warm drink. I lean into him, my forehead resting against his neck, listening to the solid, unyielding beat of his heart. It feels like the safest place in the world.
Then my brain catches up with my body.
Wait. How does he know?
I slowly pull back, my hands pressing against his broad shoulders to create a few inches of space. The darkness is thick, but my eyes have adjusted enough to see the sharp, severe lines of his face. "John... how did you know I was scared of the thunder?"
His dark eyes lock onto mine, a subtle, guarded shadow crossing his features before he looks away. "You look like someone who would be scared of the weirdest things."
I scoff, my natural defiance instantly flaring through the remnants of my fear.
I push his chest, hard, scrambling back a foot on the floorboards.
"I am not scared of the weirdest things.
Thunder is a perfectly reasonable thing to be startled by.
And I wasn't scared. I was just... conserving energy. "
"Is that what you call it?" A tiny, dry twitch of amusement touches the corner of his lips. He stands up, his towering frame casting a massive shadow over me, and reaches down to grab my hand, pulling me effortlessly to my feet. "Come on. The floor is cold."
He leads me over to the wood-burning stove in the corner. He kneels down, opens the iron door, and tosses two heavy logs inside, sparking the embers until a warm, orange glow spills across the floorboards. The fire crackles, slowly driving the damp chill out of the room.
John stands up, his hands going to the collar of his black wool coat.
"I need to take this off," he grunts, unbuttoning the heavy, drenched fabric and tossing it over the back of a wooden chair.
But he doesn't stop there.
His gray wool sweater is completely soaked, clinging to his torso like a second skin. He grabs the hem of the sweater with both hands and pulls it up over his head in one smooth, fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor.
My breath hitches in my throat. I completely freeze, my eyes going wide as I stare at him in the warm, flickering orange light of the stove.
John is naked from the waist up.
He is built like a classical statue, but with a terrifying, raw edge that no artist could ever capture.
His chest is broad, his shoulders incredibly wide, the muscles of his abdomen cut into tight, hard lines.
His skin is a deep, warm bronze, but what makes my tongue go completely dry are the scars.
There is a jagged, white line cutting across his ribs, and a small, round mark near his shoulder that looks suspiciously like a healed bullet wound.
My god. My heart does a violent, heavy roll in my chest. I can't look away.
My eyes trail down the broad line of his collarbone, tracing the hard flex of his biceps as he runs a hand through his wet hair, shaking the water out.
He looks dangerous. He looks like a man who has survived things I can't even begin to imagine.
And he is standing in my quiet little coffee shop, half-naked, smelling of wet leather and raw heat.
He is beautiful. Absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
John catches me staring.
He doesn't look embarrassed. Instead, his dark eyes darken as he steps closer to me. The heat radiating off his bare skin is a wave, melting the chill in my bones.
"Do you like what you see, neighbor?" he murmurs, his voice a low, mocking purr.
"You have scars," I say, my voice breathy, my stubborn filter completely failing me.
"I’ve lived a complicated life," he says simply. He sits down on the edge of the emerald-velvet chaise lounge Maya brought in earlier, his long legs stretching out toward the stove. He pats the cushion beside him. "Sit, Lina. Before you freeze."
I hesitate, my chest tight, but another flash of lightning makes my decision for me. I cross the floor, my boots silent on the wood, and sit on the far end of the chaise. I pull my legs up under my yellow sweater, keeping my distance, but the heat between us is already too thick to ignore.
"To take your mind off the storm," John says, his eyes fixed on my face. "Tell me your story."
"My story?" I let out a soft, dry laugh. "There is no story. I'm ordinary, remember? I run a coffee shop."
"No one is entirely ordinary," he says. He leans his head back against the carved walnut frame of the chaise, his dark gaze holding mine like he’s trying to read the pages of a book I’ve kept closed. "Where did you come from before this town?"
"Boston," I say, my fingers tracing the hem of my sweater. "And Chicago before that. And a couple of other places I don't really remember. My mother and I moved a lot when I was little."
"Why?"
"I don't know," I say softly, the old, familiar ache settling behind my ribs. "She never told me. She just said we had to keep moving to stay free. I used to think she was paranoid. She died when I was thirteen. Cancer. It was really fast."
John doesn't say anything. He just watches me, his face completely still.