“Traitor,” I whisper, though my lips curve despite my best efforts to remain aloof.
Vega leans into my leg, his warmth seeping through my jeans and anchoring me in a way that feels foreign yet oddly comforting. My hand instinctively finds his head, my fingers sliding through his thick fur. He's magnificent up close, all power and intelligence wrapped in a coat that gleams like polished bronze under the café's warm lighting.
“Want a treat?” I murmur, unable to resist the way his ears perk with interest.
I slip him a homemade biscuit from the jar under the counter, one of the ones I bake specifically for the handful of customers who bring their dogs to the outdoor seating area. He takes it gently, his teeth barely grazing my fingers, and his eyes brighten with canine devotion that makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
When I lift my gaze, Luka is still watching. Something hard moves across his face, though whether it's irritation or amusement, I can't tell. Then his jaw tightens, and his fingersdrum against the table, the steady tap betraying contained agitation.
The bell above the door jingles, pulling me back to the present moment. A man in his thirties enters, dressed in expensive hiking gear that screams money but whispers outdoorsy authenticity. He's handsome in a clean-cut way, with sandy hair that looks like it's been styled by a salon that charges two hundred dollars for a haircut, and a smile that probably charms investors and breaks hearts equally. His boots are spotless, and his fleece jacket artfully rumpled to suggest adventure without actual dirt.
He approaches the counter confidently, leaning against the polished wood like he's settling in for a long conversation. “Good morning,” he greets, his voice carrying the slight drawl of a private school. “I'll take a cappuccino, and I have to tell you, this place is exactly what I was hoping to find.”
I nod, politely. “Visiting or thinking about staying?”
“Bit of both, actually.” His eyes follow me, keen with interest. “I'm looking at some property in the area. There's something about mountain towns that just gets under your skin, you know? The pace, the community, the way everyone knows everyone.”
I tamp the espresso with expert pressure, trying to ignore the way his words feel loaded with meaning I don't understand. “Aspen Ridge does have that small-town charm,” I agree carefully. “Though winters can be isolating if you're not used to them.”
“I imagine I'd find ways to stay warm,” he replies, and there's something dark in his tone that makes me glance up quickly.
But when I meet his eyes, they're friendly, nothing more threatening than mild flirtation. Maybe I'm reading too much into everything lately, seeing shadows where there's only daylight.
That's when I feel it. The air in the café stirs, becoming charged with electricity that raises the hair on my arms. When I risk a glance toward the corner, Luka's entire demeanor has changed. His jaw is set, and his eyes are locked on us like a hawk sighting prey. The casual sprawl of his posture has vanished, replaced by coiled tension that seems to vibrate through the floorboards.
Vega feels it too. The dog's ears flatten against his head, and he moves closer to my legs, pressing his bulk against me like a living shield.
The stranger notices. His easy conversation falters, his smile dimming as his gaze moves toward Luka. For a moment, the two men exchange something unspoken across the length of the café, a look that brims with warning.
My stomach knots. Whatever passes between them has nothing to do with property investment or small-town charm. The air practically crackles with tension, transforming my cozy café into a place that feels more like a battlefield.
I hand the man his cappuccino, my fingers trembling just slightly as they brush his when he takes the cup. “Enjoy your stay in Aspen Ridge,” I manage, forcing brightness into my voice.
“Thank you,” he replies, but the warmth has leaked out of his tone. He glances once more toward Luka, then heads for the door a little too quickly to be casual.
When I turn back, Luka hasn't moved from his corner, but his stare hooks into me. Heavy and suffocating, like being trapped under ice while someone pounds on the surface above you.
The rest of the day crawls by like a wounded animal. Every customer who enters gets the same thorough examination from Luka's corner table. Every conversation I have feels monitored, assessed, and filed away for future reference. The café fills and empties in its usual flow, but underneath the normalcy runs a current of tension that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
Every time I pass Vega, he nudges my hand with his massive head, demanding affection I'm helpless to refuse. Every time I give it, running my fingers through his thick coat or scratching behind his ears, Luka's expression grows darker. But he never calls his dog back or interrupts the strange bond that's formed between us.
Jenny notices, of course. She's too observant for her own good and too willing to comment on things that should remain private. “You could cut the tension in here with a knife,” she murmurs during a brief lull, nodding toward Luka's table. “What's his story?”
“I don't know,” I admit, hating how helpless the words make me feel. “And I don't want to know.”
But that's not entirely true. Part of me, the part that remembers what it feels like to be reckless and twenty-three instead of responsible and twenty-seven, wants to march over to his table and demand answers. What gives him the right to turn my café into his personal surveillance station? Who was that man who made him tense like a snake ready to strike? And why does his dog seem to think I’m a prize that needs guarding? The questions multiply faster than I can squash them down.
Customers come and go as the day wears on. The book club ladies claim their usual table and discuss their latest selection with the passion of literary critics. Mrs. Alan brings her grandson for hot chocolate and cookies, letting him color at one of the small tables while she catches up on town gossip. Lucy Smith grades papers in her corner booth, the red pen moving across assignments with the brisk certainty of someone who's been teaching for twenty-five years. All of them are completely unaware that my world has tilted off its axis since a stranger with cold eyes and an expensive suit decided to make my café his hunting ground.
When the last latte is poured and the final tourist has wandered out into the afternoon sunlight, I begin the closing routine that usually brings me peace. Chairs are stacked on tables, counters are wiped down with industrial cleaner that smells like lemons, and the lights are dimmed until only the emergency fixtures remain glowing. Today, it feels more like preparation for battle.
The world outside glows under lamplight as I get ready to step into the back alley, the streets painted in burnished light and shadows in the way that makes photographers drive hundreds of miles to capture Aspen Ridge's magic hour. The air smells like wood smoke and the approaching winter, crisp enough to sting my lungs.
I freeze, my keys halfway to the lock, nerves prickling along my spine, raising goosebumps despite my thick sweater. I quickly lock the door then grab the keys tightly, positioning them between my fingers like claws, and step cautiously into the alley that suddenly feels much darker than it should.
The night air is sharp and quiet except for the low purr of an engine somewhere nearby. A car idles too long at the curb just visible from where I stand, its headlights off despite thegathering darkness. Its presence feels wrong in the way that a broken note sours an entire symphony.
My pulse spikes, thundering in my ears loud enough to drown out rational thought. Then he appears.
