I don’t like it.
Reminds me of the hush and the vibe that came whenever I’d do something relatively normal for a kid—like the time I broke my mother’s favorite vase when trying to fill it with water for the dandelions I’d picked in the yard—and my siblings, who were so much older and therefore less likely to make messes or break things, were waiting for the blow-up that would come.
Both from the broken vase, and from the nerve that I had as a kid to pick weeds as presents when weeds would piss her off too.
I’m hunched over a puzzle in the corner booth, not actually seeing the pieces in front of me thanks to my brain being stuck on the Sabrina channel. As I’m shifting my gaze to covertly figure out what’s going on, someone drops onto the cushioned bench across from me, making the entire booth shake like Jitter’s flopped down on the table.
“Greyson Cartwright. I thought you’d be an absent owner.”
Chandler Sullivan.
Asshole in the flesh.
Sitting there smirking at me with his bulgy brown eyes and annoyingly fresh haircut and preppy button-down under some name-brand coat, his white skin tan like he stayed in Hawaii for an extra couple weeks after his disaster of a wedding.
My pulse launches itself into outer space. A hazy dark sheen clouds my vision. My mouth goes dry.
I consciously remind myself that he has no power here.
He can’t hurt me the way he did in college.
I’m still smart to stay on guard, but the man won’t hurt me. Or anyone else in this café. Super Vengeance Man doesn’t take shit from people like him.
I blink twice, clearing the haze out of my vision, and lounge back in my seat, taking a quick sweep of the room to verify that everyone in here is, in fact, staring.
That it’s not my imagination.
Sabrina’s cousin—one of the triplets—isn’t here like he has been frequently this past week, but Bitsy is. She said hi a while ago. I think. I’ve been very focused on not being focused enough for this puzzle, but a hi from Bitsy feels familiar.
Three women I recognize but can’t name are at one of the tables by the window overlooking the iced-over lake and snow-capped mountains. A group of retired men who apparently come in after their morning ski run once a week are at the picnic-style table closest to me.
All of them are staring at us.
Probably ready to pass judgment on me depending on how I react to Chandler.
He picks up one of my puzzle pieces and holds it up to the light. “What the fuck is this?”
Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. “A puzzle piece. When you put them all together in the right order, they make a pretty picture.”
Bitsy chokes on her tea.
Chandler doesn’t seem to realize I’ve just insulted him. He’s still smirking while he examines the puzzle piece. “Willa! Willa, get me a cappuccino,” he calls.
Willa eyes us both from behind the counter. Zen appears in the doorway to the kitchen, and the scent of lemon scones hits my nose.
“Aw, fuck, bring me three of Gram-gram’s scones too,” he says.
Willa looks at me, then back at him. “You pay first when you’re a customer here.”
He freezes.
But only for a second before he aims a grin at her then turns it on me. “You’re gonna make me pay for food and drink here now? I thought we were friends.”
Does anyone else think that grin is smarmy, or is it just me?
Probably not just me.
“Why’s he gonna give food away to his friends when you never did?” one of the older guys says.
“You know who this guy is, Jimmy?” Chandler fires back. “He’s so loaded, he makes you look broke. He can afford a drink and a snack for an old friend.”
My shoulders hitch. “Classy, Sullivan. Very classy.”
“Not like Sabrina isn’t telling them all the dirt on you anyway.” He leans forward, putting his elbows on top of my puzzle. “She giving you shit? She thinks she runs the place.”
“No.”
“Oh, fuck, dude—did you fire her?”
Is that panic?
Is he afraid of Sabrina? Afraid for Sabrina? Worried about the café?
I might’ve only been here a week, but I know why this place runs so smoothly.
It’s her.
“Not yet,” I reply. “Do you think I should?”
That’s panic.
That’s sheer panic.
He glances back at the counter. Zen’s still watching from the doorway. Willa’s straightening the remaining pastries in the bakery case.
Sabrina’s not in sight.
The scent of lemon scones is getting stronger though. She’s back there. She’s baking.
I didn’t understand at first why she didn’t bake them early in the morning, but I’m catching on. Word spreads that they’re fresh out of the oven, and we get an influx of customers for the lunch rush.
Chandler looks back at me, and fuck.
This would be easier if he wasn’t visibly gulping and that wasn’t undeniable concern clouding his expression. “This place would die without her.”
“So?”
He blanches.
The fucker blanches.
Worse?
I think I actually feel sorry for him.
Super Vengeance Man wouldn’t.
But I have a conscience, no matter how much I wish I didn’t when it comes to this blight of humanity.
“My grandpa would fucking kill me,” he says.
That, I feel less bad about. Dude lost this café all on his own. “He know about your gambling problem?”
Chandler slaps his mouth shut and turns a glare on me. He’s still holding my puzzle piece, and his elbows have pushed apart half the pieces I already had in order. “If nobody’s told you yet, you can’t believe the gossip that comes out of some people’s mouths.”
It’s not gossip.
It’s in the report from the private investigator I hired to find out why Chandler was selling his café.
Should’ve asked for a full report on his hobbies and interests and collections too, but all I wanted was to know why he was selling and how much financial trouble he was in.
“People here gossip?” I say.
He freezes again.
I know that look.
He’s piecing out a mental puzzle. He knows about my gambling problem but doesn’t think people here talk.
Zen stops next to my table and slides a cup of tea and a scone in front of me. “Eat. Drink. Be merry.”
Chandler looks up at them and squints, and in less than the span of a single heartbeat, I prepare to end his time on this earth.
If he says a single bad word about Zen, asks a single question wrong, or so much as moves a single eyelash in a direction I don’t like, I will end him.
My fists curl.
My heart fires furiously.
And his phone rings—loudly—before whatever he’s thinking can come out of his mouth. He grabs it, still holding my puzzle piece with his other hand, still squinting at Zen, and answers. “Yeah, man. What’s up?”
Bitsy rolls her eyes.
“Always thought he did that because he was running three cafés and had a lot going on, but now we know he’s just a dick,” Jimmy mutters.
“What he did to Emma wasn’t your first clue?” one of the other men says.
Chandler flinches, then palms my puzzle piece and rises from the booth. “Yeah. Sounds good. I’m on my way.” He heads toward the door. “No, just dropped by to see if I could help the new guy at my old café. Dude’s in over his head. Got new weirdos working here. Gonna be asking for help soon enough.”
Weirdos.
When I want to charge out of the booth and tackle him, my vision clouds again while my head goes light. I pinch my lips together and breathe through my nose.
Fuck.
I grab the edge of the table and breathe.
And breathe.
And breathe.
Pushing down the lightheadedness with sheer willpower. Grounding myself.
My vision clears as Chandler reaches the door. He pauses, looks down at a wooden statue of a bear that guards it, and rubs the damn thing’s head before shoving out into the winter morning.
All while I sit here barely able to do much more than breathe.
And that’s before I realize my scone is gone and he has it in his hand.
The fucker took my scone.
Know what’s worse than having an asshole think he got the better of you?
Agreeing with him.