He stormed into his office and slammed the door behind him. Framed diplomas rattled against the wall. He didn’t care.
The office wasn’t much—large enough to hold office hours with a small study group if need be—but it had been his.
Keaton ran his fingertips along the edge of a bookshelf, one of three in the office. The desk, chairs, and bookcases weren’t his. But everything that mattered to him was on the shelves and in the drawers.
Books, research, his life.
He rubbed his eyes.
Focus.
Keaton pulled out a phone and typed.
Me:Met with the dean.
Me:My department’s been cut.
Me:Contract canceled.
Me:No tenure and no job.
Me:Dad and Garrett, do I have any legal recourse?
Keaton hit send. The messages would go to their family group chat. Between two lawyers, two doctors, a techie brother-in-law, a baker sister-in-law, and a dog-loving sister, who owned her own business, they would figure this out.
His family had never let him down.
They wouldn’t this time.
Chapter Two
As the clockstruck noon, a whimsical chime sounded. Raine loved the fun clock, a Christmas gift from Callie Andrews, which didn’t quite fit the laid-back vibe of the coffee shop, but it was perfect, nonetheless, and from a dear friend, so it hung in a place of honor. Much better there than at Raine’s house where she didn’t spend as much time.
Raine smiled. She’d survived two more hours on her own.
Go me!
The morning had passed by in a rush, but somehow, she’d filled every order, washed a load of cups, and sipped half a cup of cold coffee.
Caffeine was caffeine no matter the temperature.
Only eight more hours to go until Raine would flip the open sign to closed. Her fingers itched to lock the door now, but she would make it.
What was the phrase Taryn Lawson Andrews used?
Easy-peasy.
That was it.
The shop had cleared out twenty minutes ago, and Raine had raced to the bathroom. Usually, a morning rush meant a lunchtime lull. She would gladly take less business this afternoon.
The bell on the door jingled.
Raine pasted on her best service-with-a-smile expression.
Margot Winslow, in her sixties but a teenager at heart, carried an orange rubber bin with a black lid. She waltzed to the counter dressed in a short-sleeved T-shirt, broomstick skirt, quilted vest with tassels, and Birkenstocks—typical of the quilt-shop owner’s boho style.
“Hello.” Margot’s eyes twinkled like aquamarine gemstones. The closest thing to royalty in Silver Falls, she ruled the First Avenue Business Association like a queen. She set the bin on the counter. “We missed you at the meeting today.”
