Julian. A real estate mogul who, it turns out, owns half the commercial properties in this town, including the land the new clinic is being built on. He’s a man who wears tailored suits that look out of place amid the construction dust and speaks in measured, confident tones.
He offered to front the capital for a new, sustainable micro-grid system, a proposal that was both a godsend and deeply suspicious.
No one does anything for free.
Jake was optimistic; I was just cautious.
Julian is a new variable, and I don’t like new variables.
During all of that, my phone buzzed. Clara. I stepped into the hallway, my heart pounding, the professional mask falling away. I begged. I pleaded. I promised her a weekend on the coast, just the two of us, no talk of work, no excuses. I told her I’d rent the fastest jet ski on the entire beach.
To my utter shock, she said yes. A small, reluctant “fine, Dad,” but it was a yes. The relief was so profound it left me feeling dizzy. Amy sent the video link an hour later with a short, terse message:She was great. You missed it.I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Not yet. The guilt was still too fresh.
So here I am. At a bar. Trying to outrun my own thoughts.
And then I see her.
Millie.
She’s sitting at a table with two men, and my entire body goes on high alert. The Alpha in me rises, a territorial instinct so sharp and sudden it’s like a physical blow. My scent.
I can almost smell her from here, that sweet, intoxicating vanilla and rain that has haunted my dreams since that night. The memory crashes into me—the feel of her skin, the sound of her voice begging my name. I force it down, take a long swallow of my beer, and play the part of the detached observer.
I know one of the men. The dark-haired one. Liam. I’ve seen him at The Cocoa Nook, the one who makes the coffee art. He’s Maren’s son. That makes him part of the town’s foundational structure. The other man is a stranger to me, but they have an easy camaraderie that speaks of a long history. All I know is that he’s one of Gabe’s firefighters.
They’re laughing about something, their heads close together. Millie is smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She looks… tired. But beautiful. So fucking beautiful it hurts.
I watch them, my gaze casual, sweeping the room, but always coming back to their table. I’m gathering data. It’s what I do. The dark-haired one, Liam, says something to the blond one, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good shot, Maddox.”
So that’s his name. Maddox. I’ve heard that name before. In passing. One of the men who fought the fire. The pieces click into place. Liam, the café worker. Maddox, the firefighter. And Millie, the librarian who holds them both in the palm of her hand. They’re a unit. A triangle. A pack.
I see the way they look at her. Liam’s gaze is a mix of open adoration and deep, lingering hurt. Maddox’s is more guarded, more protective, but it’s there, a fierce loyalty that borders onpossessive. And Millie… Millie sits between them, the eye of their storm, completely unaware of the power she holds.
I watch as she excuses herself, sliding off her stool and walking toward the back hallway. My eyes follow her, tracking her movement through the crowd. She doesn’t look my way. As she passes, a group of guys at a nearby table call out her name, and she turns, offering them a bright, genuine smile. It’s easy, unburdened.
I turn back to the bar, staring into the amber depths of my beer. So this is her world. Not just the library and the scent of old books, but this. This complicated, messy, intertwined history with two men who are clearly her everything.
And I’m just the sheriff. The one-night stand. The outsider. A wave of something hot and unfamiliar washes over me. It’s not just jealousy. It’s… inadequacy. A feeling I haven’t experienced in a long, long time. And I do not like it one bit.
I signal Keith for one more, my throat dry, my nerves frayed. He slides the bottle across the bar. I drain half of it in one go, the bitter liquid a poor substitute for the control I’m craving. My eyes drift back to their table. They’re laughing now, all three of them, a shared joke that sends a ripple through their little group.
They’re a unit. A closed circuit. And I’m on the outside, looking in.
I toss a few bills on the bar and stand, the motion stiff. I don’t look back. I can’t. I push through the heavy door, and the cold night air hits me like a slap, sharp and bracing. It clears my head for about two seconds before the image of her face, her smile, imprints itself again.
The cab of my truck is a familiar, cramped sanctuary. I slam the door, the sound echoing in the quiet parking lot, shutting out the noise, shutting outthem. But it doesn’t shut out my thoughts. They’re louder than ever in here.
I rest my forehead against the cold steering wheel, my knuckles white where I grip it. I need something. Something more than beer.
My hand fumbles in the glove box, knocking aside old registration papers and a stray tire gauge. My fingers brush against the crinkled cellophane of a pack I forgot I had. I pull it out. Marlboro Red. An old habit I thought I’d kicked years ago. There’s one left. One lonely, slightly bent cigarette at the bottom of the pack. It feels like a sign.
I grab it, placing it between my lips. The filter is a little crushed, the paper dry. I search the center console for a lighter, my fingers closing around a cheap plastic Bic.
The first drag is a toxic, welcome burn, a harsh cough rattling my chest that I quickly suppress. I haven’t done this in years. My body protests, but my mind sighs in relief. I blow a plume of smoke toward the windshield, watching it ghost and dissipate against the glass.
She’s not mine. She was never mine. She was a stranger, a one-night mistake, a fantasy I built in the cab of this very truck. But now she’s real. She’s a part of this town, woven into its very fabric in a way I can’t even begin to understand. They have a history, a language I don’t speak, a shorthand of shared pain and joy that excludes me completely.
I take another drag, longer this time, letting the smoke fill my lungs, holding it there until the burn becomes a dull ache. It’s a distraction. A momentary anesthetic for the raw, gaping wound of my own inadequacy.
