“Fine,” I say, forcing a grin. “Just plotting my next social disaster.”
Dinner crackles on, stories told, laughter layered over my quiet shift. At some point I realize, I want her safe. I want her to trust me. Hell, I want her to let me in, let me claim every secret she keeps locked up tight. But I know if I push, I’ll lose any chance. So I swallow it, restrain the urge to stake my claim. For now, I let her set the rules. Doesn’t mean I don’t think about breaking them every damn minute.
I slip out onto the porch, cold air on my face. If I want any chance with her, I need to be better than the guy my family just roasted. For once, I need to keep something sacred to myself.
It's past midnight when I finally pull into my driveway. The house sits dark and quiet at the back of the ranch property, just how I like it, far enough from the main house that I don't have to hear Trent's early morning conference calls or Tyler's workout routine.
Their teasing follows me inside like an annoying shadow. The family clown. Can't keep a secret. Always meddling.
"Not this time," I mutter, tossing my keys on the counter.
I grab a beer from the fridge and drop onto the couch, pulling out my phone. I tell myself I'm just curious, just want to know alittle more about the woman who's been occupying more of my thoughts than she should be.
Everyone's on social media these days. It's normal to look someone up.
I type "Sadie Calloway" into Instagram. Nothing. Facebook? No results. TikTok? Not a trace.
Weird. A few variations are worth a shot: "Sadie Pike's Perk," "Sadie Virginia Dale," "S. Calloway." Still nothing.
So I switch to Google, typing her name plus the café. Pike's Perk shows up immediately, website, reviews, business listings. But Sadie herself? It's like she doesn't exist. No mentions, no photos, no press about the owner of a local business.
My beer hits the coffee table a little harder than necessary as my stomach knots.
In today’s age, everyone leaves digital footprints. Even people who claim to hate social media have old accounts, mentions in local news, community event photos, something.
Sadie has nothing. Not a single trace.
That's not an accident. That's intentional.
Laptop light washes the room in harsh blue as it opens, and before I can overthink it, her name is on the screen again. Public records, local news archives, anything that might give me a clue about who she is beyond the guarded woman behind the counter.
The search results stay stubbornly empty. It’s like she appeared in Virginia Dale fully formed, with no past and no connections outside her café.
Memory slams into me: the way she stiffened at the window yesterday, her eyes locked on that dark sedan. The careful way she positions herself in the café, always with clear sightlines to the door. The way her sister watches over her like a guard dog.
The laptop snaps shut, the sound too loud in the quiet room, and discomfort slides under my skin. This isn't some mystery forme to solve. These are her boundaries, deliberately set, carefully maintained. If Sadie wanted me to know her story, she’d tell me.
Instead, Pike's Perk’s Instagram page feels like neutral ground. Public information about the business, not the woman. The café's page is well maintained but impersonal. Food photos, drink specials, the occasional customer appreciation post. Nothing that reveals anything about the owner.
Thumb moving on autopilot, I scroll through, looking for… hell, I’m not even sure what. Some glimpse of her that doesn't feel like prying. Some connection that doesn't cross a line.
My thumb hovers over the screen, ready to close the app, when the page refreshes automatically. A new post pops to the top of the feed, the notification showing it was posted just seconds ago.
"OPEN MIC NIGHT, This Thursday at Pike's Perk! Sign up starts at 6 p.m., performances at 7. Come share your talent or just enjoy the show! Coffee, pastries—and good vibes guaranteed."
A laugh punches out of me before I can stop it. It feels like the universe just handed me an engraved invitation.
The phone lands beside me on the couch as I lean back into the cushions.
I’ll be there. I’ll bring my guitar, maybe play something low-key.
Who knows, maybe she’ll give me a chance. Let me prove to her that I’m not just around for a good time.
Chapter 7
Sadie
Saturday morning slams us like a tidal wave. Every table is packed, the line stretches to the door, and the espresso machine hasn't stopped hissing since we opened. Orders stack up on the tablet faster than we can clear them.
