"Well, if it isn't the runaway ghost."
I freeze. Behind the counter, Christie leans against the espresso machine, a rag in her hand and sharp intelligence in her eyes. We went to high school together. She knew everyone’s secrets before they knew them themselves.
"Hi, Christie," I manage, walking up to the counter. "I see the rumor mill is faster than fiber optics in this town."
"Faster and more accurate," she grins, though it’s not unkind. She looks me up and down, her gaze lingering on the messy bun I threw my hair into and the flush on my cheeks. "Tall skim latte with two pumps of hazelnut?"
"You remember?"
"I remember everything, Courtney. Especially when the person in question has become the main topic of conversation at the Timber Trail Tavern." She starts tapping buttons on the register. "So, you're back. And you're staying at the old Wade estate up in the Peak."
"Temporarily," I correct quickly. "Just to sell it."
Christie pauses, holding a to-go cup in mid-air. Her eyebrows shoot up. "Sell it? Honey, I heard Austin Gunnar was up there fixing the roof yesterday. You don't fix a roof on a house that's being sold to strangers. You fix a roof on a home you're keeping."
My stomach flips. "He's... being helpful. Old friends, you know."
Christie snorts. "Helpful. Right. Just like a wolf is helpful to a sheep. Look, I’m not gonna pry—" she leans over the counter, lowering her voice, "—but you be careful. The Gunnars own this mountain, we all know that. But the air is thin up there right now. Bad blood is brewing with the folks on the eastern cliffs."
"The eastern cliffs?" I ask, taking the mug she slides toward me. "James mentioned them too."
"If James warned you, you listen," she says, her face hardening. "Just... stay close to the people you know. If Austin has his sights on you, maybe that’s the safest place to be."
I take a sip of the coffee, the hazelnut sweetness warring with the bitter reality check. "I can take care of myself, Christie."
"I know you can, Court. You survived leaving. But coming back? That’s the hard part." She wipes a spot on the counter, her eyes flicking to the window. "Speak of the devil."
I don't have to turn around to know what she sees. I feel it. A low vibration in the floorboards. The sudden silence that falls over the few other patrons in the shop. The atmosphere shifts from cozy to charged in a second.
I keep my back to the door, staring into my latte foam as if the secrets of the universe are written in the bubbles. The bell jingles again, sounding like a warning this time.
Heavy boots thud against the hardwood floor. Slow. Deliberate. A predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.
"Large black coffee. To go."
His voice is gravel grinding on glass. Deep, resonant, and so familiar it makes my womb clench tight.
"Coming right up, Austin," Christie says, her tone brisk but respectful. She doesn't flirt. You don't flirt with a man who looks like he could snap the counter in half with one hand.
I refuse to turn. I will not turn. I am an independent woman selling a house and leaving.
A large, warm body moves into the space beside me. He doesn't touch me, but the heat radiating off him feels like a blast furnace. He smells of leather, cold mountain wind, and that unique, spicy scent of high-octane fuel.
"You left the house."
The words rumble near my ear, heavy with accusation.
I turn slowly, forcing myself to look up. And up. Austin Gunnar is massive. In the daylight of the coffee shop, he’s even more imposing than he was in the dim hallway of my house. His cut—the leather vest with the Broken Halos patch—stretches across shoulders that are impossibly broad. His arms, covered in tattoos that disappear under his black t-shirt, are thick with muscle. A jagged scar runs from his jaw down his neck, disappearing into his collar, a brutal reminder of the violence I ran away from.
But his eyes pin me. Dark, stormy, and fixed on my face with a possessiveness that weakens my knees.
"I didn't know I was a prisoner, Austin," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"You're not a prisoner, Courtney," he murmurs, stepping closer so his boot nudges mine. "You're a local asset. And assets shouldn't wander around unprotected."
"I'm buying coffee," I hiss. "Not wandering into a war zone."
"With the way you look?" His gaze drops, dragging over my throat, down the front of my shirt to where my breasts push against the fabric, then lower to the curve of my hips. It’s a physical caress, heavy and insolent. "Every zone is a war zone when you're walking around like this."
