1
SAGE
The morning air has that sharp, clean edge I dread yet crave. It nips at my cheeks as soon as I push open the glass door of Bean & Bloom. I pull my cream-colored cardigan tighter around me, balancing a tray of lattes in my other hand. It's early fall in Aspen Ridge, the town where I've spent most of my twenty-seven years watching seasons change like clockwork. The mountains never let you forget where you are, towering over everything and demanding respect with their snow-dusted peaks.
Today feels different, though I can't put my finger on why. Maybe it's the crisp bite in the air that promises winter's coming, whether we're ready or not. Perhaps it's the way the aspens are showing off, their golden leaves trembling like they're sharing secrets with the wind. The whole town looks like it stepped out of a postcard, with its warm light and cozy storefronts, providing the perfect backdrop for the tourists who flood in every autumn to snap photos and buy overpriced souvenirs.
The streets are already alive with couples in matching fleece jackets, families with kids clutching hot chocolate, and retirees with expensive cameras slung around their necks. They movethrough town with a kind of easy entitlement, pointing at everything, gushing over the quaint mountain charm. I don't blame them. Aspen Ridge is beautiful in that effortless way that makes people want to stay forever, at least until they realize how hard it is to actually live here.
The air smells like everything fall should, filled with woodsmoke curling from chimneys, cinnamon and nutmeg from the bakery down the street, coffee beans roasting in our machine, and that clean, pine-sharp scent that lingers in the mountains. For a moment, standing on the sidewalk with the sun warming my face despite the chill, I let myself believe this is exactly how life should be. That Aspen Ridge is nothing more than a cozy mountain town where the biggest drama is whether Mrs. Henderson will finish her crossword puzzle before her second cup of coffee gets cold.
Then the feel of the tray in my hands reminds me why I'm out here. Four lattes, each carefully crafted with foam art that the tourists love to post on social media. They're heavier than they look, and my wrist is already protesting. These drinks are for the woman who owns the real estate office three blocks down. Allison Crawford sits behind her mahogany desk daily, selling million-dollar mountain views to people who hardly spend any time here.
“Don't drop these, Sage,” I mutter to myself, weaving around an elderly couple debating whether to buy matching Aspen Ridge sweatshirts. “If you spill Allison's triple-shot vanilla latte, she'll make sure everyone in town knows about it by noon.”
Allison has been coming to Bean & Bloom since Mom first opened the place twenty-one years ago, back when I was six and Hope was two. She's one of those customers who remembers your name, asks about your family, and tips well, but alsoexpects perfection every single time. Her coffee order hasn't changed in two decades: a sixteen-ounce vanilla latte with an extra shot, extra hot, with the foam swirled just so. Her assistant gets a basic cappuccino, and the two junior agents share whatever seasonal drink we're pushing that month.
Bean & Bloom has been mine for three years now, though it never feels like mine, exactly. I inherited it when Mom passed, along with all the memories, responsibilities, and debts that came with it. Mom had no business experience when she opened it, just a desperate need to support her daughters after Dad disappeared right after Hope was born. The story I grew up hearing was that he left one morning and never came back, no note, no explanation, nothing. Mom never talked about why, just that he was gone and we were better off without him.
She built this café from nothing, working eighteen-hour days, learning by trial and error how to balance books, manage inventory, and keep the ancient espresso machine from breaking down. The locals still tell stories about those early years. How she'd be up before dawn baking muffins, sneak extra whipped cream onto a kids' hot chocolate when their parents weren't looking, and how she never once raised the prices even when the rent went up every year.
She did it all for Hope and me, though I didn't understand the sacrifice until I was old enough to see the exhaustion she tried to hide behind her smile. By the time I graduated high school, the café was thriving, but Mom didn’t have much time to enjoy her success. On my twenty-first birthday, she was already getting sick. The cancer took three years to finish what it started, and by then, Hope's epilepsy was getting worse, the seizures more frequent and harder to control.
So, I inherited Bean & Bloom not because I wanted it, but because someone had to keep it running. Hope needs her medication, and insurance only covers so much. The neurologist visits, the emergency room trips when her seizures won't stop, and the special tests all add up faster than I can count.
Some months, I lie awake doing math in my head, trying to figure out how to stretch every dollar until it screams. But on mornings like this, with the mountains glowing gold in the distance and the café humming with a gentle bustle behind me, it almost feels manageable. Almost like I'm not drowning in responsibility I never asked for.
I'm halfway across the street, mentally rehearsing my apology for being ten minutes late with Allison's coffee, when everything goes sideways. One second, I'm steady on my feet, focused on not tripping over the uneven cobblestones the city installed to make downtown look more “historic.” The next, something massive slams into me from the side with the force of a small truck.
“Whoa!” I screech.
My feet skid on damp leaves scattered across the sidewalk like nature's own slip hazard. The tray tilts in my hands, defying gravity for one precious heartbeat before physics takes over. Four lattes, each one representing three dollars and fifty cents plus tip, catapult through the air in slow motion. Foam arcs like a caffeinated tidal wave, all cinnamon-scented and steaming hot. The liquid hits first, scalding against my forearms and soaking through my apron in sticky, beige rivers. Then the cups follow, bouncing off the sidewalk with hollow plastic thuds that sound like my profit margin dying.
The culprit sits in the middle of the sidewalk, as if he were the mayor of Main Street. A German shepherd that looks as if he stepped out of a police training manual. His coat gleams bronze and black under the morning sun, thick enough to survive a Colorado winter without breaking a sweat. His ears stand at perfect attention, and his dark eyes hold an intelligence that makes me think he knew exactly what he was doing when he body-checked me.
His tail wags once, slow and self-satisfied, like he's proud of his handiwork.
“Seriously?” I stare down at him, coffee dripping from my fingers. “You couldn't have waited five more minutes?”
The dog tilts his head, and I swear he's laughing at me.
Then I notice the leash. Expensive leather, the real stuff you only find in boutiques with locked glass doors. My gaze follows it up, past perfectly polished dress shoes, charcoal wool trousers with a crease sharp enough to cut paper, and a matching suit jacket that fits like it was made by someone who charges by the stitch.
The man at the other end of that leash is not a tourist. He's tall, easily six foot four, maybe more, with shoulders that strain the fabric of his jacket in ways that suggest he doesn't spend all his time behind a desk. His hair is black, thick, and just messy enough to look intentional, as if he had run his fingers through it, and it obeyed without question. Everything about him screams money, from the perfectly knotted silk tie to the way he holds himself, straight-backed and absolutely still.
But it's his face that makes my breath catch. Nothing but sharp angles and clean lines, like someone carved him from marble and forgot to soften the edges. His jaw could cut glass, and hismouth is set in a firm line that suggests he doesn't smile often, if ever. There's something almost brutal about his beauty, the same way the mountains are beautiful. Stunning, untouchable, and possibly dangerous if you get too close.
His eyes, though, are what pin me in place. Hazel, but not the warm, honey-colored hazel that drifts between brown and green depending on the light. His eyes are sharp, cold, and flecked with gold and emerald that seem to catch fire when he looks at me. They rake over my coffee-stained apron, my damp cardigan, and my face, like he's cataloging every detail for later use. The intensity of his stare makes something flutter low in my stomach, a sensation I haven't felt in longer than I care to admit.
I brace myself for the explosion. For him to start yelling about his ruined suit, demanding I pay for dry cleaning, a replacement, or whatever it costs to maintain that level of perfection. Rich tourists always lose their minds over the smallest inconveniences, and I've just drenched this man in four different coffee drinks. Instead, his voice cuts into the morning air, as sharp as the chill itself.
“Who sent you?” he grumbles.
The words are low, rough, and spoken with an accent that wraps around each syllable like smoke. Russian, maybe, or something close to it. The accent is subtle and refined, but there’s no mistaking the bite underneath. This isn't a question. It's an interrogation.
My brain stutters to a complete halt. “W-what?”
He takes a step closer, and suddenly the space between us shrinks to nothing. He smells like cedar and leather. The scent wraps around me, making it hard to think clearly, which isridiculous because I'm standing in the middle of downtown, covered in coffee, and this stranger is acting like I'm some enemy agent.
