Chapter 8
Calla
Approaching the bar’s front door, I pause, nerves fluttering low in my stomach as I try to collect myself. I don’t know who’s inside—hopefully Chase, or better yet, no one at all.
A small voice in the back of my head whispers that this is a bad idea, but I’ve already come this far. If I turn back now, I’ll just have a thirty-minute walk home with two coffees and a pastry I don’t even want.
I take a deep breath, peeking through a window on the way to the front door. A tall figure moves behind the bar, his motions fluid and unhurried. Relief washes over me. It’s Chase. There’s something about the calm, steady way he carries himself that eases the knot in my chest.
Carefully, I shift the coffee cups into the crook of my elbow, the pastry bag tucked between my fingers as I free a hand to knock.
Through the glass door, Chase’s head snaps up.
His body stiffens for a moment, but then his expression softens.
Recognition flashes across his face, his eyes brightening as he jogs around the bar toward the door.
He swings the door open, his eyebrows lifted in a silent question. Before he can say anything, though, I blurt out, “I have a black coffee, a latte, and a maple pecan scone.”
“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word as a playful smile spreads across his face. “This is some next-level charm offensive.”
Heat floods my cheeks. This is already a disaster. “No! I mean—no. It’s just… quiet in here,” I stammer, tripping over my own words.
Chase tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure out where I’m going with this. “It is,” he says slowly, clearly expecting more.
I suck in a breath. “Let me start over.”
Reaching out, I offer a small smile. “Hi, I’m Calla.”
He hesitates, just for a second, before taking my hand. His grip is warm—fingers rough, worn in a way that’s unexpectedly comforting. The contact settles, sending a quiet heat crawling up my arm.
“Hi, Calla,” he says, his voice softer now. More personal.
Feeling a little more at ease, I press on, the words tumbling out faster than I mean them to.
“I was here the other night, for my work party. You made me a few drinks, and I—uh…” I glance away. “I left my coat. I came back yesterday morning to grab it. It was quiet here, so I thought…”
My voice fades, and I clear my throat.
“Maple’s and the bookstore are packed this morning.”
A look of understanding crosses his face, and the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Got it.”
Relieved, I hold out the coffees. “These are for you. Either one. Or both. And, uh… the scone, too.”
At some point, I must’ve tucked the pastry bag into the crook of my arm, holding it snug against my side.
Chase glances between the coffees, then reaches past them, his hand brushing my arm as he plucks the bag free.
The drag of his fingers is brief but lingers, sparking something quiet and unexpected. Something I wonder if he feels too.
For a second, I worry I’ve misread his touch—that I’ve made a mistake, given him the wrong impression. But Chase just grins, holding up the bag like it’s a prize.
“This,” he says, wiggling it teasingly, “is mine now.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and suddenly, all the overthinking I’ve done about this moment feels ridiculous. He’s the same Chase he was the other night. Friendly. Easy. Safe.
I watch as he heads back behind the bar, sets the bag down, and grabs a knife and plate from the shelf beneath the counter.
“Get comfortable,” he says, his voice easy and welcoming.
I slide into one of the worn chairs at the low table, the fabric soft but sturdy—the kind that’s been used often and well.
Unzipping my bag, I pull out my laptop and set it down gently.
Sunlight spills through the bar’s front windows, casting a warm glow across the chipped wood and the frayed edges of the surrounding chairs.
This corner feels lived-in, inviting. Like a quiet pause in the middle of the rush.
As I settle in, Chase reappears at my side, balancing a small plate with half the scone I brought him, crumbs still fresh.
“Latte?” he asks, extending his other hand.
I nod and hand over the cup. His fingers brush mine again, and I’m starting to wonder if the touch is intentional.
“You must be stalking me if you know my coffee order,” he says, grinning.
I chuckle, but a wave of self-consciousness washes over me.
“Lucky guess,” I say with a shrug, shifting in my seat.
Chase takes a long sip of his latte, a grin playing at his lips as he sets the cup down.
“All right, Miss Calla,” he says, sliding the scone across the table toward me.
“I’ve got a busy morning, so I’ll be bouncing around.
If you need me, just holler, stomp your feet, or send up a flare. Sound good?”
I can’t help but smile. “Got it.”
“Good.” He winks and walks off, all confidence, like we’ve done this a thousand times.
The next few hours pass quietly, Chase drifting through the space like a shadow, careful not to disrupt my focus.
I bury myself in work, churning through articles and blog drafts faster than I have in weeks.
The silence in the bar, broken only by the occasional clink of glass or the soft shuffle of Chase’s movements, is the perfect soundtrack for focus.
As I finish my last piece for the day, I stretch my arms overhead and let out a long sigh of relief. When I lower them, I spot Chase walking out from the back hallway. He strides over and drops into the chair across from me.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, nodding toward my laptop.
“Just catching up,” I reply, closing the screen. “New-ish job. Still trying to make a good impression.”
“Ah, the hustle phase,” he teases, leaning back with one arm draped over the chair. “What kind of job?”
“It’s this new health and wellness brand a few blocks over,” I explain. “I do content writing—blogs, newsletters, that kind of thing.”
Chase grins. “Figures. Everyone at the party looked suspiciously youthful. Must be something in the company water. ”
I blink, surprised, then laugh. “I’m not sure it’s that magical. I’m still figuring it out.”
“So… new job, new town?” Chase asks, tone casual but curious.
I nod. “Yeah, moved here a few months ago.”
“Where from?”
The question lands like a misstep on uneven ground. My muscles tense, and I glance down at the table.
“A few hours away,” I say with a small shrug. “This felt like a good place to land.”
His grin fades into something more thoughtful. After a beat, he nods. “Fair enough.”
I take the opportunity to shift the focus. “What about you? Have you always lived here?”
“Nah.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Grew up about two hours north, in a little beach town. Moved here a few years ago. Got an apartment down the street and landed this sweet bartending gig.”
I nod, about to ask another question, but he glances at his watch and mutters, “Shit.”
Before I can react, he’s already on his feet. “Didn’t realize how late it was.” He shoots me a quick grin as he heads for the door. “Gotta unlock quick. You good here?”
I nod and smile. As he walks away, I let out a breath, my mind already replaying our conversation in pieces. The space is quiet otherwise, save for the faint creak of the building settling and the soft jingle of keys.
A glance at the clock on my screen makes me groan—I’ve stayed longer than I meant to.
Guilt creeps in as I start packing up. I slip my laptop into its sleeve, wind up the charger, and just as I zip my bag, Chase returns, leaning casually against the bar.
“Hey, no need to rush out,” he says, voice light. “I’m just getting some things ready. Not kicking you out or anything.”
“I’ve already taken up too much of your day,” I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “But thanks for letting me stay. It was… nice to have a quiet place to work.”
His lips curve into that easy, lopsided smile. “You’re welcome. It’s nice having company in the mornings. Makes the place feel a little less empty.”
Something about the way he says it catches me off guard. He’s not just being polite—there’s a sincerity in his voice that stays with me.
As I reach for my coat, I glance around, struck by how comfortable I’ve felt here. It’s been a long time since silence felt like a choice, not a burden. This was different. Uncomplicated.
“Calla?”
His voice pulls me back. When I meet his eyes, there’s something sure in them. “It’s really nice having you here,” he says, stepping closer. His hand brushes lightly against mine. “If you ever need a spot to work, or just want to hang out… I’m here most mornings by eight. Come by whenever.”
His fingers linger for just a beat longer than expected before he pulls away, and I can’t help the smile that rises—small, unexpected, and real.
But as I step back, an unwelcome memory cuts through the moment. A different touch. A different night. A stranger’s hands leaving a mark that still burns beneath my skin. Chase’s touch is nothing like that. His is sweet, careful. A quiet nudge instead of a bolt of lightning.
I push the thought aside, forcing myself back into the present. Not now. Not here.
“Thanks, Chase. I appreciate it.”
He grins, already stepping back toward the bar. “Don’t mention it. Have a good day, Calla.”
“You too.” I tighten my grip on my bag and step outside, the door clicking softly shut behind me.
The late afternoon air chills my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth Chase left in me. But it’s the ghost of the stranger’s grip that lasts longer. It doesn’t make sense, and I hate how easily it shakes me.
Jaw tight and mind swirling, I pick up my pace down the sidewalk, determined to leave the memory behind.