Chapter 1
Ava
Mycoffeetrucksmellslike espresso, vanilla syrup, and a life that might actually bemine.
It’s ridiculous to get emotional over a cramped little workspace with a moody milk steamer and a service window that groans in the cold. But I’ve passed through enough towns to know a good thing when it lands in my hands.
Lovestone Ridge is a good thing.
The people are kind in the way that sneaks up on you. They smile like they mean it. They tip like they’ve been broke before. They ask how I’m doing and wait for the answer.
It’s small stuff. Butsmall stuff saves you, one steady beat at a time.
I wipe the counter again because my hands need a task. My hoodie sleeves are long, tugged down over my hands. Always are.
The line is gone for now. I restock lids, line up stir sticks, refill sugar packets.Rituals. If I can control the small things, I don’t feel so helpless about the big ones.
I’m reaching for napkins when I hear it.
A motorcycle.
The sound rolls through the street low and slow, and my whole body answers like it’s been trained. Stomach tight. Pulse quick. Heat blooming up my neck like I’ve been caught in something.
I already know it’shim.
He’s been coming every day since I arrived. Sometimes twice. Always early. Always quiet.
He rides like the bike is part of him. Moves like gravity does what he says. Tall, broad, built in a way that makes this little truck feel like a shoebox.
Leather cut. Boots. Ink.
Dark hair. Dark blue eyes that don’t roam, theyland. And when they land, it’s like being seen and measured and held still, all at once.
There’s a scar beneath his left eye. Just a line, but my brain keeps trying to give it meaning. My body doesn’t care what it means.
Itwantshim anyway.
That’s the problem.
Wanting him feelsdangerous. Wanting him feels like standing too close to the edge of something that could swallow me whole.
The first time I saw him, I was fumbling with the register, trying not to look like someone who doesn’t belong. I heard that engine and looked up, and there he was.
Calm. Big. Quiet.
He didn’t leer. Didn’t look me over. He just asked for coffee in a voice that warmed every nerve in my skin.
Then he came back.
And kept coming back.
Now, he’s part of my mornings. Like the hiss of steam. Like the heat of the cup in my hands.
He stops at the window and rests one arm on the ledge, casual. Like heisn’tthe kind of man who could turn a street violent just by standing in it.
His sleeve is full ink, black and purposeful, the viper coiled through it looking less like art and more like awarning. It moves when he does. So does the low pull in my stomach.
My nipples tighten. My thighs press together. My breath catches.
