“Long story.” I toss the ruined cardigan into the laundry basket behind the counter. “Can you cover the front while I clean up? And maybe make four replacement lattes for the real estate office?”
“Already on it.” Jenny gestures toward the counter, where a fresh tray sits waiting. “Allison called about five minutes ago. Apparently, someone saw you get body-checked by a dog and word travels fast in this town.”
Of course it does. In Aspen Ridge, a sneeze on Main Street becomes pneumonia by the time it reaches the post office. I canalready imagine the conversations happening over lunch, how the story will grow and change with each telling, until I was attacked by a pack of wild wolves or something equally dramatic.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of milk foam and tourist chatter. Every time the bell above the door chimes, I find myself looking up, half-expecting to see Luka stride back in with more accusations or demands. He never does, but I can't shake the feeling that our encounter isn't finished. There was something about the way he looked at me, as if he was seeing through some façade I didn't know I was wearing.
By mid-afternoon, the lunch rush has died down to a comfortable hum. The regulars have claimed their usual spots. Mrs. Peterson with her romance novel and chai latte in the corner booth, Jim Martinez reading the sports section, and the book club ladies planning their next dramatic reading selection at the communal table. These are my people, the ones who keep Bean & Bloom alive when tourist season ends and quiet settles over the town like a blanket.
I'm restocking the pastry case when my phone buzzes in my apron pocket. For a wild second, I think it might be him, Luka, calling to demand payment for his suit or to level more mysterious accusations at me. Instead, it's a text from Hope.
How's your day going? Feeling good today. Thinking about walking to the library if that's okay?
Relief floods through me. Hope's been having more seizures lately, unpredictable episodes that leave her exhausted and shaky for hours afterward. On her good days, she pushes for independence, wanting to walk places and do normal twenty-three-year-old things. On her bad days, she can barely get out of bed. Today seems to be a good one.
Of course. Take your phone and text me when you get there. Love you.
Love you too. And try not to spill coffee on any more gorgeous strangers today. Hannah said the whole café stopped to watch you this morning.
I freeze, heat prickling the back of my neck. So, Hannah was at the café during the fiasco, but why does it sound like she’s the one who filled Hope in, when I already texted her a sarcastic play-by-play about peeling a suit off some arrogant jerk?
The thought makes my stomach pitch. With trembling fingers I scroll up in my message history. My throat goes dry when I see the truth. The sarcastic rant isn’t in my thread with Hope at all. It’s in a different thread.
His dog plows into me, I’m drenched, and he wants ME to pay for his suit. Gorgeous or not, what a self-absorbed jerk. Fine, I’ll clean his damn suit…if I can strip him out of it first.
The message was delivered hours ago.
To Luka.
2
LUKA
Coincidence doesn’t exist, not in my world.
The girl from yesterday, the one with blue eyes like ice set aflame, is no accident. She is here again now, moving behind the counter of the café as if nothing happened, pouring milk into cups, pulling shots of espresso, and chatting briefly with customers. Yet every flick of her wrist, every curve of her mouth when she forces a polite smile for a tourist, is cataloged in my mind. She thinks she blends into this cozy mountain town, but the moment my dog knocked her off balance and the coffee went flying, her name, her face, and her inner fire were sealed into my memory.
I sit in the corner of Bean & Bloom with Vega stretched out at my feet, sipping nothing. The coffee here is fine, but I came for her. Aspen Ridge pretends to be innocent, with mountain air, golden aspens, and ski lodges prepping for winter crowds, but beneath the postcard charm is rot. My family has made sure of it. The Bratva doesn’t thrive in sunlight. We thrive in the corners where locals whisper, and businesses survive on debts they cannot repay.
The morning light filters through the café windows, bathing everything in the golden hue that mountain towns like to advertise. Outside, tourists mill about with their cameras and matching fleece jackets, completely unaware that they walk through territory I have claimed. The scent of cinnamon and espresso mingles with woodsmoke from the fireplace near the window where an older woman reads her romance novel. She glances up at me periodically, probably wondering why a man in a three-thousand-dollar suit sits alone in a small-town café. Let her wonder.
Sage.Her name is stitched in blue thread across her apron, just as it was yesterday. I lean back in the chair, studying her movements. She is athletic without trying, of medium height, with squared shoulders, as if she carries more than trays and cups. Her honey-blonde hair is pulled into a careless knot. She has freckles across her nose and flawless, pale skin. She looks wholesome, untouched by what my world does to people. The small-town beauty who probably grew up believing in fairness and justice, who likely never imagined monsters could walk among the coffee shops and boutiques.
Yet when I looked into her eyes yesterday, I didn’t see naivety. I observed anger that smolders, waiting for oxygen.
I watch her serve a table of college students who order complicated drinks with extra foam and take pictures of everything. She smiles at them, a professional smile that depends on tips to survive, but I notice how her fingers tap against her leg when one of them complains about the temperature of their latte. Her patience wears thin. Good. Complacency makes people vulnerable.
The young girl working beside her moves with a steady rhythm.Jenny, according to the name tag, has dark hair, caramel skin,and a friendly demeanor that suggests she actually enjoys this work. She chatters with customers about classes and weekend plans, the easy conversation of a girl who belongs to this world of normal problems and simple solutions.
When I check my phone, the message from yesterday is still there.
His dog plows into me, I’m drenched, and he wants ME to pay for his suit. Gorgeous or not, what a self-absorbed jerk. Fine, I’ll clean his damn suit…if I can strip him out of it first.
I read it once. Then again. Each time, my mouth curves further. She didn’t mean to send it to me. That much is clear. The fury in her stance yesterday, and the way she clutched her phone after I handed it back to her, tells me she intended to vent to someone else entirely. Perhaps a friend who would sympathize with her morning disaster and agree that the stranger with the expensive suit was entirely unreasonable. But intention doesn’t matter. It’s mine now.
The message reveals more than she realizes. The anger, yes, but also the attraction she tried to hide behind insults.Gorgeous or not,suggests she noticed more than my arrogance. And the final line, crude and blunt in a way that surprises me coming from someone who looks so wholesome, hints at fire beneath the freckles and politeness.
My thumbs move across the screen slowly. I compose a message with meticulous focus, knowing the influence of words when they come from a man like me.
