Chapter 4
Dex
H ollow Creek looks like a postcard someone spilled cinnamon on.
The morning is crisp enough to bite, sunlight catching on the last of the maple leaves, and the air smells like pine forests and apples.
I’m twenty minutes early to Mel’s because I promised Harper I'd buy her a coffee and because if I show up late, Mrs. Henderson will start telling people I overslept in a barn like a hay bale with feelings. Again.
Mom slides a to--go cup across the counter without looking up. “For Harper,” she says. “And for you.” A second cup follows, and a paper bag that crinkles like a secret. “Hand pie. Don’t let the cat see it.”
“I’d like to see Mr. Darcy try to take my breakfast,” I mutter, and my mother gives me a look that says I will lose that fight and she will not be bailing me out of the emergency room when a tuxedo cat rearranges my arterial system.
The bell jingles again, and a wall of energy comes in wearing a leather jacket and a grin. “Rowen!” he yells, like we’re still twenty--two and it’s normal to announce yourself at full volume by last name first thing in the morning.
“Cole,” I say, and he slams into me with a hug that knocks air from my lungs and nostalgia into my ribs. He smells of jet fuel and spearmint gum, same as always.
He leans back, eyes scanning my face with giddy assessment. “You look the same. Bigger beard. Same tragic fashion sense.”
“Fashion is cyclical,” I deadpan. “You look like you slept at an airport.”
“Correct,” he says cheerfully, dropping onto a stool.
“Burlington’s baggage claim and I are in a codependent relationship.
” He swivels toward my mother with an expression that could charm federal agents.
“Ma’am, I’m Cole Morales. I’ve seen many pictures of you and heard legends of your pie. I would like to be adopted.”
Mom's mouth curves the way it does when she approves. “Eat first. We’ll discuss adoption later if you can lift pumpkins without complaining.”
“I was Army, ma'am,” Cole says. “I can lift a tank and ask for seconds.” Then to me, lower, “So this is the mecca. Hollow Creek. Home of your mysterious bookstore friend.”
I stare into my coffee as if it holds an escape hatch. “We’re not doing this here.”
“Oh, we’re absolutely doing this,” he says, delighted. “You texted me three separate times that she weaponizes clipboards and smells like citrus. I brought my investigative hat to get verification of these claims.”
Mom sets a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. “Harper’s stopping by,” she says casually, which in my mother’s language is a grenade with the pin removed. “Be respectful.”
Cole salutes with a fork. “Always, ma'am.” He glances at my left leg, a quick professional flick of the eyes that only another soldier notices. “How’s the knee?”
“Fine,” I say too fast.
Mom drifts away to refill coffees around the diner. Cole waits a beat, then softens his voice. “And how’s your head?”
I blow out a breath. The diner is a steady hum around us. “Better when it’s busy.”
He nods like he gets it—because he does. “Medical discharge or not, you still run toward fires.”
“Old habits,” I say. The word medical sits between us with a weight I pretend not to feel. Paperwork and doctors’ signatures for my head and a knee that throbs in November when the storms roll in. “I’m getting good at planning stuff and fixing squeaky doors.”
He grins. “Truly a warrior’s path.”
The bell rings again, and my warrior’s path ceases to exist. Harper steps in with her cardigan and a notebook tucked casually under one arm. She looks like a librarian out of a perfume ad, and my nervous system immediately lodges a formal complaint.
“Morning,” she says, bright as the brass bell. Her eyes land on Cole, then me. “Oh. A new human.”
“Old human,” Cole corrects, sliding off his stool so fast he nearly launches the eggs across the room. He wipes his hand on a napkin and offers it with an earnestness that would win over dictators. “Cole Morales. Dex’s bad influence from a past life.”
“Harper Venn,” she says, shaking. “Dex’s current bad influence.”
Cole’s grin goes supernova. “Oh, I like you.”
“I’m very likable for exactly four hours a day,” Harper says. “The rest of the time I need snacks and caffeine to keep me going.”
Mom appears with the extra coffee like she conjured it from the ether. “For you, Harper, since Cole just drank yours.”
“Bless you,” Harper says sincerely, inhaling the lid like its oxygen. “If I don’t drink this, I’ll start writing emails with only exclamation points.” She turns back to Cole. “Visiting for the festival?”
“Visiting for Dex,” Cole says, then adds quickly, “and the festival. Also, your bookstore. I like a good indie shop where the cat judges everyone.”
“Oh, so you’ve heard of Mr. Darcy, have you?” Harper smirks at me. “Dex isn’t exactly his favorite human.”
“He absolutely hates me,” I cut in, holding out my arm like evidence. “Scratched me yesterday for the crime of existing near his royal whiskers.”
Harper and Cole laugh. “Mr. Darcy will deliver. It all depends on his mood,” Harper says. She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, and whatever we left hanging last night hovers between us like a neon sign only we can see.
After scarfing down his breakfast, Cole throws down some cash. “Show me your kingdom, my friend,” Cole says, clapping his hands. “I want the walking tour. Point out historic landmarks and places where you broke bones. Preferably in that order.”
“Sure,” I say, mostly to stop my mother from loaning him a megaphone. “We’ll loop Main Street and end at The Wandering Page.” I turn to Harper. "See you later?" and she nods.
“Lead the way, my friend.” Cole gestures toward the door with a grin. “Pleasure meeting you, Harper. I’ll see you around.”
Outside, Hollow Creek does its best impression of a Hallmark movie that remembered to be a little sarcastic. Cole whistles at the gingerbread trim and the porch pumpkins, nods approvingly at the window boxes, and takes photos like an influencer on a foliage bender.
“Okay,” he says, pausing in front of the gazebo, “give me the Dex Tour. What’s that?”
“The scene of my greatest triumph,” I say. “I once convinced the council to buy new benches instead of painting the old ones beige.”
Cole points at the square. “And that?”
“Where the Winter Jubilee snowman contest ended in an intergenerational snowball fight,” I say. “A seven--year--old accused the quilting guild of structural doping.”
Cole snorts into his coffee. “Did they use rebar?”
"Fifty pounds of it. I was surprised they could walk with all that weight."
Cole nods solemnly. “I respect the game.” He falls into step next to me, his eyes pinging from my face to her shop like he’s lining up a shot. “So. You two.”
“Nope,” I say.
“Uh--huh,” Cole says, miserably unfooled. “And yet the air crackles like a radio picking up a storm when you are within a hundred yards of each other..”
“We’re friends,” I say, aiming for bored. “Co--chairs of the festival committee. That's all.”
“With vibes,” he says.
I kick a leaf into a perfect spiral. “Your vibe must be broken.”
Cole laughs under his breath and lets it go, because he is merciful when he wants to be. We cut across to the bookstore, and the bell over the door does its little hymn as we step in. The Wandering Page smells like paper and musk and some citrus thing that makes my brain short--circuit every time.
Mr. Darcy is already assembled on the counter, a tuxedo god inconvenienced by the existence of the rest of the world. He flicks his mustache at me, then rotates his head to consider Cole.
“Your Grace,” I say diplomatically.
Mr. Darcy ignores me with his whole body.
Cole steps forward, hands at his sides, military -slow. “Sir,” he says gravely. “It’s an honor.”
Mr. Darcy extends one paw and taps Cole’s sleeve like he’s been knighted. Then the cat—traitorously—head-butts Cole’s knuckles and emits a soft approving chirp.
Harper gasps. “He likes you.”
“He does,” Cole says in wonder. “It’s because I respect his authority.” He doesn’t move for a solid thirty seconds, letting the cat set the terms, and is rewarded with a tidy, pleased purr.
I put my hands on my hips. “So he hates me and loves you. That seems unfair.” I turn to the cat. “I’ve cleaned up your stinky poop, bought you toys, and even slipped you wet food when your mom wasn’t looking. And this is how you reward me—by falling for a complete stranger?”
“Is that why his vet scolded me? He’s gained five pounds, and I swear I’m only giving him diet food,” Harper says.
“You know what? Fine. If Mr. Darcy insists on hating me, then I’ll just hate him right back,” I declare with stubborn finality.
Harper rests her elbows on the counter, smile tucked at the corner like she’s trying not to make it worse. “Mr. Darcy is a complicated man. He appreciates discipline.”
“I also appreciate discipline,” I tell the cat. “I'm an Army vet. Can't get much more discipline than that.”
Mr. Darcy blinks in my direction in a manner that can only be described as contempt, with punctuation.
Cole grins over his shoulder. “It’s okay, Rowen. Some of us are cat people. Some of us are… chosen.” He lowers his voice to the cat. “We’ll be gracious in victory.”
I point at the stack of new releases. “Make yourself useful and go shelve something.”
Cole wanders the fiction table, reading spines and making interested noises. Harper slides me a coffee. Our fingers brush, and my heart executes a full gymnastics routine.
She clears her throat. “Your friend is charming.”
“You mean infuriating,” I say.
“Both can be true,” she whispers.
Cole reappears clutching a paperback with a moody lighthouse on it. “I need three of these,” he says. “One for the flight home, one for my sister, and one for my future wife.”
“You have a future wife now?” I ask.