I poured his dark roast, added just the right amount ofcream, and carried it over. The thing about Earl was that he didn’t expect to be waited on, but I enjoyed doing it when I had time. “You really are. That was the last cinnamon roll this morning.”
“Best part of my week,” he said, taking a long sip.
The bell above the door jingled again, letting in a damp gust and two moms with toddlers in tow. The kids made a beeline for the back nook, where the battered copies ofMagic Tree Houselived. Their moms sighed in relief as they ordered foamy lattes, and I grinned as I slid muffins into bags.
This place wasn’t just caffeine and sugar. It was stories. It was belonging. And it was gossip.
Lately, the gossip all sounded the same.
Easton Holt was back.
The Holt boy who’d left. The one who stayed gone.
Six years older than me, Easton had never been part of my orbit. By the time I was navigating braces, awkward crushes, and bad eyeliner in high school, he was already gone—headed to Portland, then California, and later Idaho. He was a foster kid turned adopted Holt, leaving a streak of trouble in his wake, and then he left this town as fast as possible. Everything I knew about him was secondhand from his sister Sage, and she didn’t realize I took greedy pleasure in every detail about her interesting family and even more from any Easton-related information. Don’t get me wrong, all three of the Holt men were unfairly fine, but Easton had always been extra handsome.
And now, apparently, he had a scowl sharp enough to cut through my best customer-service smile. Too bad he’dgrown even better looking in that rough-cut way he had. He was even finer in his thirties than he was when he was a teenage heartthrob. I never would have believed it.
“Thinking hard about something,” Mia teased, sliding another shot of espresso across the counter toward me. Her pink streaks glowed under the overhead lights. “Or someone.”
I shot her a look. “Don’t start.”
She smirked. “Who, me? I’m just saying that man looked like he walked straight out of one of those moody cowboy romances. Broody, broad-shouldered, rude in a hot way. You’re welcome to him since I have a boyfriend and everything. I’m tempted, though.” She fanned herself.
I rolled my eyes, though my cheeks heated. “He’s not my type,” I lied.
“Sure. And you didn’t just rearrange the romance section so that every hot cowboy cover was facing forward.” The words drifted over her shoulder as she headed to the back kitchen.
I ignored her, stacking clean mugs and adjusting the chalkboard menu. Maybe I had done that. Shoot. The shop was quieting down now, drizzle tapering to a mist outside, and the lull always made me thoughtful.
“He’s not a moody cowboy.”
Maybe not exactly, but he’s got the vibes for it—those jeans and those boots,” she whistled softly. “Save a horse …” she smirked.
I needed to get this back on track. Already, I could see the two moms leaning a little as they listened in. “Hey, didyou call Ed at the bowling alley about the light?” I tried to steer the conversation to neutral territory.
“Yep. He said he’d break out his ladder today and get up and put in a new set of bulbs. Doesn’t want his favorite girls in the dark.” She winked at me.
We both loved Ed. He owned the bowling alley right behind us, which was accessible through our tiny, shared postage-stamp parking lot.
“Awesome. I hate going in the back if the lights are out. Even small towns have weirdos.”
“Agreed. Got to be careful. Park in the front if the lights aren’t on in the back. We can always move cars before opening.”
She nodded as we hummed through our bakes. We both came in early, and it was typically dark. It was spooky in the back when even one light was out.
I thought of Grams, humming as she baked. Of her gentle reminder to fold dough slowly, never rush the sugar, and always give the yeast time to rise. Patience, she used to say, made for better bread and better people.
Mia’s teasing was in fun, but I had been thinking of Easton Holt and all that came with it.
Grams would probably tell me to stand tall now. To stop letting one scowly Holt boy get under my skin. She’d tell me to live my life and not be afraid to date. The sad thing was, despite always wanting to take her advice, I couldn’t. There were areas where I was happy to live loudly, but there were others where I was a little more cautious now. Of course, he hadn’t seemed interested in the least, so I had nothing to worry about.
As I polished the counter and watched the rain bead against the glass, I knew one thing for certain.
For reasons I couldn’t explain, not even to myself, I was almost sure Easton Holt would walk into my business again.(In those fine Wranglers.)
I caught myself glancing at the window, just once, just in case he was still out there. All I saw was Main Street glistening with rain, a delivery truck rolling past, a pair of teenagers dashing across the street under one umbrella. Normal life, carrying on.
Still, a restlessness settled in my chest, one I didn’t want to name. I’d built this place on rhythm and routine, on steady cups of coffee and shelves of books where everything had its place. But Easton, back from wherever he’d been, scowls and scars and all, felt like the kind of thing that tipped the balance.
