Chapter 12
Eliza
By the time the drive-thru line thinned out, I’d reheated my coffee twice and still couldn’t swallow it past the knot in my throat.
Graham had barely even looked at Nate. Barely acknowledged him—except to act like he didn’t exist. But his voice had dripped with superiority, and I knew that tone. It was the same one he used to use with me in Portland, whenever I got too loud, too independent, toomuch.
I also knew what it meant now.
He saw Nate as a threat.
Which meant he wasn’t going to ignore him for long.
My phone buzzed a few minutes after Nate left.
Nate: If you need a break later, I’ll bring you a pie. Or a milkshake. Or both. Forget waiting until after lunch.
I stared at the screen longer than necessary, the tightness in my chest easing a notch. The noise of the morning felt farther away somehow.
Me: I’m okay. Just… tired of being a topic. Thanks for asking.
Three dots appeared, disappeared.
Nate: I get that. For what it’s worth, you handled it like a pro.
I smiled despite myself, thumbs moving before I could second-guess it.
Me: That actually helps. See you around?
Nate: Anytime.
I fidgeted with the levers on the espresso machine, wiping and re-wiping the already spotless counter. My stomach twisted. If Graham went after Nate or the Pennywhistle Pantry—even in subtle, underhanded ways—he wouldn’t just be hurting a man who didn’t deserve it. He’d be hurting Tilly, too. He’d be putting Nate’s livelihood at risk.
And that made me want to scream.
Graham wasn’t just my ex here. In Honeybrook Hollow, he was part of the town’s history. The golden boy who’d grown up on these streets, left, made something shiny and successful of himself, and came back with money and confidence and a smile people trusted without question. I’d only lived here a little over a year—long enough to be known, not long enough to be untouchable. In my head, the math was simple and cruel: people like him got the benefit of the doubt. People like me learned to stay careful.
Nate was everything Graham wasn’t. Honest. Kind. Steady. And that made him vulnerable in ways Graham would exploitwithout a second thought. The idea of Graham’s influence and money pressing against a place like the Pennywhistle—a place that actually meant something to this town—made my chest tighten until it hurt. Nate didn’t posture. He didn’t play games. He just showed up and worked hard, like decency was enough to protect him.
I couldn’t even tell my family. Not because they wouldn’t believe me—but because they would. They’d go scorched earth without hesitation, and Graham would smile through it, shake hands, tell his version of the story until I was the problem for making things uncomfortable.
I loved my sisters for that fierce loyalty.
But I couldn’t risk it.
I couldn’t risk letting them provoke someone who knew this town better than I did—who had roots and reach and the kind of quiet power that didn’t have to announce itself to do damage. Carrying it alone felt safer than watching everything I cared about get caught in the crossfire.
I closed up the Coffee Cabin in a daze, wiped down the counters for the third time, and locked the door behind me with trembling fingers.
I didn’t know what to do.
So I did what I always did when the walls started closing in.
I wandered to Paper & Pine, Cara’s shop. Sitting on the corner of Sycamore Street, its tall front windows glowed warm against the gray Oregon sky. Inside, floor-to-ceiling shelves of mismatched wood bowed slightly under the weight of well-loved books, the air carrying the soft scent of paper, pine, and Cara’s shortbread cookies baking in the back. I hoped the smell of books and peppermint tea would do something to calm the spin cycle in my brain.
Cara looked up from behind the counter, where she was carefully arranging a stack of journals that said things likePlot TwistandThis Is Fineon the covers.
“Hey,” she said, squinting at me. “You look like you’ve either committed a crime or you’re about to cry.”
