Chapter 1
Taylor
The morning rush at Bean There was in full swing, and Taylor Pierce was operating on autopilot. She knew every order by heart, every customer by name, and exactly how much whipped cream old Mr. Hollis liked on his hot cocoa (too much—his cardiologist would not approve).
“Extra whip?” she asked as she slid the mug across the counter.
“You’re a mind reader,” Mr. Hollis said with a wink, fishing two crumpled dollar bills from his wallet.
Not a mind reader. Just a barista who had been serving the same dozen people in this town every day for the past nine years.
The bell above the café door jingled and in breezed Emma Williams, Taylor’s best friend, soulmate, and occasional life coach, with a baby balanced on one hip and a diaper bag that looked like it could double as a carry-on for a cross-country flight.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Emma said, catching Taylor’s raised eyebrow as she juggled baby, bag, and stroller. “Some of us didn’t get three uninterrupted hours of sleep last night.”
“Some of us,” Taylor said, grabbing the stroller before it toppled over, “also didn’t decide to marry a man who thinks three babies in five years sounds like a fun challenge.”
Emma grinned. “Give him time. He’ll beg for mercy before we hit three.”
Taylor smiled, but there was a flicker of something sharp underneath it. Emma had built a whole life, husband, baby, cozy little house on the edge of town, while Taylor was still here, behind the same counter, serving the same coffee to the same people.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love the café.
She did. She’d worked her way up from part-time barista at seventeen to full-on manager by twenty-five.
Bean There was hers to run now, in all its chipped-wood-counter glory.
But sometimes, when she was locking up at night and staring at the travel map pinned above her desk, she wondered if this was it.
If her life would always be measured in cappuccinos and foam art.
Emma deposited the baby into the stroller and leaned against the counter with a sigh. “So guess who’s back in town.”
“Who?” she asked, sliding a latte toward the next customer in line.
Emma’s smile was mischievous. “Ryan. He got in last night. Didn’t I tell you he was thinking about moving back?”
The hiss of the espresso machine covered Taylor’s sharp inhale. She busied herself tamping grounds into the portafilter, willing her hands not to shake. “Oh. Nice. Vacation?”
“Not exactly.” Emma hesitated, adjusting the baby against her shoulder.
“You know he became a Marine after college. Several deployments. It was intense. And then there was this incident—” She shook her head.
“Something went wrong. Badly wrong. He won’t talk about it, but I can see it written all over him. He’s not the same.”
Taylor’s chest tightened. The Ryan she remembered had always been larger than life. Teasing, confident, unshakable. A protector by nature. What could possibly have knocked him down hard enough to send him running home?
“He just needs space,” Emma added gently. “Time to breathe. Time to figure out what’s next.”
Taylor forced her expression back into place, tamping the espresso so hard the handle squeaked. “Well. Everyone needs a change of pace sometimes.”
Emma gave her a look, one of those best-friend stares that saw far too much. “You okay?”
“Of course.” Taylor pasted on her customer-service smile, sliding a cappuccino across the counter to a waiting customer. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Emma leaned in, her voice dropping, the way it always did when she switched from best-friend mode to truth-teller mode.
“Taylor, you’ve been working in this café since…
forever. You know everyone’s coffee order, their birthdays, their gossip.
But when was the last time you did something for yourself? Really for yourself?”
Taylor kept moving, pulling shots, steaming milk, sliding orders across the counter with mechanical precision. “Running this place is for myself. It’s my job.”
Emma gave her the look. The one that sliced through all of Taylor’s practiced deflections.
“Your job isn’t your dream. Don’t act like I don’t know you’ve got half-finished novels on your laptop.
Don’t act like I haven’t seen that world map above your desk with pins stuck in every city you want to visit. ”
Taylor’s cheeks warmed. She grabbed a scone from the bakery case and plated it for Mrs. Jenkins at table three. “Dreams don’t pay rent.”
“They could,” Emma countered. “If you’d actually send your manuscript to an agent instead of hoarding it like a dragon guarding treasure. You’ve got something, Taylor. You just don’t believe it.”
Taylor ducked back behind the espresso machine, grateful for the shield of hissing steam. Customers called out thank-yous, and she raised a hand in automatic reply. Inside, her chest ached at Emma’s words.
She had dreamed of more once, scribbling stories late at night, promising herself that someday she’d travel the world.
Emma was still watching her with that piercing look, the one that made Taylor want to crawl under the counter. “You can’t hide behind this café forever, Tay.”
Taylor swirled a spoon through the milk foam, watching the white curl disappear into the espresso. “I’m not hiding. I’m… managing.”
“Managing isn’t living,” Emma said gently.
Taylor forced a laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got the husband, the baby, the picket fence. I’ve got…” She gestured around the café. “Coffee and bagels.”
Emma leaned in, lowering her voice. “And manuscripts. And talent you pretend doesn’t exist.”
Taylor’s throat tightened. She focused on wiping down the already spotless counter.
If only Emma knew.
She didn’t know about the pen name, or the self-published books Taylor uploaded in the quiet hours of the night. She didn’t know about the cheap royalties that trickled into Taylor’s bank account each month—a couple hundred dollars here, barely enough to cover groceries.
And Emma definitely didn’t know why Taylor had never dared to send her work to a publisher or an agent.
Taylor’s mom had always been quick with a drink in hand and quicker with her criticism.
A high-functioning alcoholic, charming to everyone else but viciously sharp at home.
Every time Taylor tried to shine with good grades, art contests, stories she wrote in spiral notebooks, her mom cut her down with a laugh or a sigh.
Don’t embarrass yourself, Taylor. Don’t think you’re special.
Those words had rooted deep.
Now, even with her own café, her own life, Taylor still lived like she was bracing for someone to tell her she wasn’t good enough.
“I’m fine where I am,” Taylor said finally, keeping her voice light. “Some people want book deals and Paris. I’m happy with coffee beans and small-town gossip.”
Emma didn’t buy it—her raised eyebrow made that clear—but she didn’t push. She adjusted the baby’s blanket and gave a little smile. “Someday, Tay. Someday you’re going to realize you deserve more.”
Taylor plastered on another smile, but inside her chest the words rattled around, sharp and dangerous.
More.
She wanted more. She just didn’t believe she deserved it.
* * *
Emma gathered her diaper bag and stroller, wrangling her baby with practiced chaos. “I’ll let you get back to it. Call me tonight—I want to hear if you actually take my advice for once.”
Taylor waved her off with a smile, watching her best friend disappear out the door in a whirl of squeaky wheels and baby giggles. The café settled back into its steady hum.
She was just reaching for another stack of cups when the bell over the door jingled again.
And there he was.
Ryan Carter.
It had been years since she’d really seen him.
Sure, he came back for quick visits now and then—holidays, birthdays—but Taylor had always found a way to be busy during those trips.
Too many shifts at the café. Too many excuses.
Anything to avoid that awkward churn in her stomach when she remembered the night she kissed him like a fool.
But now, here he was in her café, tall and broad-shouldered, the boy she remembered sharpened into a man. His dark hair was a little longer than before, his jaw dusted with stubble, his smile lazy but—oh no—directed right at her.
“Taylor Pierce,” he said, stepping up to the counter. His voice was deeper now, rougher. “I was wondering if you’d still be here, running the show.”
“Ryan.” She pasted on the same customer-service smile she used for everyone. Bright. Friendly. Impersonal. “What can I get you?”
“Just like that? Nine years, and I don’t even get a how have you been?” His mouth curved, teasing. “Brutal.”
Taylor busied herself with the register. “I ask everyone the same thing: What can I get you? Keeps it simple.”
He chuckled, low and warm, and leaned an elbow on the counter. “Coffee, black. Unless you want to surprise me. You always did make better lattes than anyone else.”
Her cheeks warmed, but she kept her tone breezy. “Black coffee it is.”
She poured it, slid it across, and moved on without another glance, calling the next order, greeting the next customer. Just another face in the line. Just another cup.
Ryan didn’t press. He took his coffee and wandered to a corner table, where he settled in with that same unbothered confidence that had once driven her crazy.
The morning bled into afternoon, and Taylor lost herself in the rhythm—orders, foam art, deliveries, small talk. Another day passing her by as she worked in the cafe.