1. Hadley #2
I hate that I still do. I hate that some reckless little part of me still notices things. Like how careful he is with Lark. How observant he becomes when he thinks no one’s watching. How he always looks uncomfortable when someone thanks him for something genuine.
“Hadley.”
Holt says my name softly this time. I glance over. There’s no teasing in his eyes now. Just concern. Twin concern. The kind that’s been hardwired into both of us since birth.
“You sure you’re okay?”
That nearly breaks me more than the jokes ever could.
I force a quick smile onto my face and toss the towel over my shoulder. “You’re being weirdly intense over muffins this morning.”
“Deflection,” he says immediately.
“Annoying.”
“Truthful.”
Holt pushes out of the booth and wanders over to the counter, reaching past me for one of the muffins cooling beside the register.
I slap his hand away.
“Those aren’t yours.”
“Family discount.”
“That’s not how discounts work.”
Before I can respond, the bell over the café door jingles, letting in a gust of cool salt air strong enough to flutter the napkins near the register.
Conversation doesn’t stop exactly, but it shifts. The way a room shifts when someone walks in carrying their own gravity.
I look up, and there he is.
Nolan stands just inside the doorway with wind-tousled dark hair and sunglasses hooked into the collar of a faded charcoal Henley stretched across broad shoulders. The sleeves are pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing tanned skin and strong hands that my body remembers far too well.
For one suspended second, everything inside me goes completely still, then every nerve ending lights up at once. Which is deeply inconvenient before eight in the morning.
His gaze lands on me.
Not the counter. Not the menu.
Me.
Nolan’s demeanor barely changes, but I see it anyway—that tiny flicker of recognition that passes between us every time our eyes meet now.
Beside me, Holt goes very still.
Oh no. No, no, no.
I can practically feel the moment my twin notices something shift in the air.
Nolan finally looks away first, giving Lark a brief nod when she lifts a hand toward him from the pastry case.
“You made it,” she says.
“Barely.”
His voice rolls through me low and rough with exhaustion, and suddenly, I remember entirely too clearly what it sounded like in the dark with his mouth against my throat.
I turn so quickly toward the espresso machine I nearly hip-check the counter.
Get it together, Hadley.
Behind me, Bailey whispers something to Crew.
Then Ivy mutters, “Oh, something’s weird here.”
My soul leaves my body. Holt’s eyes narrow. I focus violently on the espresso machine.
Milk.
Coffee beans.
Steam wand.
Normal things.
Definitely not Nolan Pierce, standing fifteen feet away, looking unfairly good while my family starts sniffing around like emotionally invasive bloodhounds.
“Black coffee,” Nolan says.
“Hazelnut with a splash of cream,” I answer automatically.
Silence.
Absolute, horrifying silence.
I close my eyes briefly.
Idiot.
When I turn around, Nolan is watching me again.
“You remember,” he says quietly.
There’s something in his voice this time. Something rougher. More personal.
I shrug one shoulder like my pulse isn’t trying to kill me. “Small town. Coffee orders are basically public information.”
One corner of his mouth almost lifts. Almost.
“Is that right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I busy myself with making the coffee before my face betrays me completely.
But I can feel it now. The attention at the family table. Bailey watching with open curiosity. Ivy trying not to grin. Lila noticing far too much in complete silence.
And Holt.
God.
Holt is staring at me like he just realized there’s a fire somewhere, and he can smell smoke but hasn’t figured out where it’s coming from yet.
That is more terrifying than if he already knew.
I snap a lid onto his coffee and slide it across the counter.
“Try not to look so disappointed.”
Nolan takes the cup, his fingers brushing mine just long enough to make my pulse misbehave.
“About the coffee?”
“About leaving.”
His eyes hold mine for one dangerous second.
“Who says I am?”
Before I can come up with an answer that won’t embarrass me, someone at the family table calls his name. Nolan lifts the cup slightly in my direction before heading toward the door.
I absolutely do not watch him leave.
Mostly.
The café almost swallows me again—orders, dishes, Mrs. Pace asking where we keep the extra napkins.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my apron. I pull it out, expecting a reminder from the town office or a text from Mrs. Pace about inventory.
Instead, an unknown number lights the screen.
For one irrational second, my heart knows before my brain catches up.
Unknown
Need the town’s event permit forms for the marina. Heard you’re the person to ask.
I glance instinctively toward the door he disappeared through less than five minutes ago. He could’ve asked me that while he was standing here. It seems Nolan Pierce is braver about municipal paperwork when a phone screen is involved.
No name. No greeting. Very Nolan.
I stare at the message until Holt leans over my shoulder.
I shove him away with one hand. “Stop reading my texts.”
“You held it at eye level.”
“You’re six foot two. Everything is eye level to you.”
He grins.
I look back at the screen. There are a dozen professional responses I could send.
Polite.
Neutral.
Safe.
I type none of them.
Me
Depends. Are you planning something fun, or are you allergic to joy?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
My stupid heart behaves like this is a marriage proposal instead of a text about municipal paperwork.
Unknown
I bought a marina. Clearly, I make questionable choices.
My mouth curves despite every attempt to stop it.
Me
Questionable choices are my specialty.
The response takes longer this time.
When it comes, the air leaves my lungs.
Unknown
I remember.
I stare at those two words while the café noise fades to a distant hum.
A door cracked open just enough for heat to slip through.
Holt is silent beside me now. Even he knows better than to joke.
I lock my phone and slide it into my apron pocket before I can reread the message again.
Across the café, Mrs. Pace calls my name, asking for another batch of cinnamon rolls.
“Coming,” I answer automatically.
My feet move. My hands reach for flour. The morning rush keeps rolling around me exactly like it always has. But somewhere beneath the smell of coffee and cinnamon, something has shifted. And for the first time in six months it doesn’t feel finished. It feels like the beginning.