Page 59 of Small Town Daddy

"Lucy." Marie reached across the table, her hand brushing mine. Her voice dropped lower, softer. "Talk to me."

"There's nothing to say," I said quickly, too quickly. My throat felt tight. I glanced around the room, desperate for distraction. Brett was leaning against the counter near the espresso machine, arms crossed, watching me with that calm, steady look of his. I hadn’t told him about Marcus and Emily.

How was I meant to?

Thankfully, Brett hadn’t said a word to me just yet. Hopefully, he wouldn’t try.

Mrs. Henderson bustled in the background, quietly unpacking what looked like half her bakery onto the counter. Their presence should’ve been comforting, but all it did was make me feel exposed.

“I’m fine,” I said, not meeting her eyes.

"That's bull," Marie said flatly. She let go of my hand and leaned back, crossing her arms. "You're sitting here holding that raggedy cat like your life depends on it, and you're telling me you're fine? Come on."

"Marie, just—" My voice cracked, and I bit down on the rest of the sentence.

"Just what?" she pushed, her tone sharper now. "Pretend like you’re not falling apart? Pretend like Marcus didn’t—"

I glanced over at Brett, hoping he didn’t hear his brother’s name. "Don’t." The word came out harsher than I intended. I closed my eyes, inhaling sharply. The betrayal hit me like a gut punch all over again.

"Okay," she said after a moment, her voice softer. "Okay, Lucy. But you know this isn’t you, right? Hiding? Shutting everyone out?"

I opened my eyes and stared down at the table. Mr. Whiskers’ button eyes stared back, unblinking.

"And you’re sure you did the right thing selling the house?" she asked gently.

I nodded my head, swallowing hard.

"Lucy. . .” She sighed, dragging the word out. “Your dad loved that place. You loved that place."

"Not anymore," I whispered. My jaw tightened, and I forced myself to meet her gaze. "It’s just a building. It doesn’t mean anything now."

"Bull again," Marie said without missing a beat. "That house is more than wood and nails. It's memories. It's . . . him."

"Well, it’s gone," I snapped, louder than I meant to. Brett shifted by the counter, glancing our way, but he didn’t move closer. "It’s done. And maybe that’s for the best."

"Is it?" Marie’s voice was barely above a whisper. She looked at me, really looked at me, and for a second, I thought I might break right there.

The bell above the door jingled, cutting through the moment like a knife.

"Another concerned citizen come to poke at the broken girl," I muttered under my breath, staring down at the swirl of foam in my mug.

"Maybe . . ." Marie trailed off, her tone shifting. There was a tightness in it now, something unreadable.

The heavy thuds of boots on wood made my spine stiffen. Each step landed sharper, slower, deliberate. Like whoever it was *wanted* to be noticed but didn’t need to rush about it.

I knew those boots. Knew the weight of each tread, the rhythm, the authority. I didn’t even have to look up.

"Lucy."

His voice slid through the air like smoke, rough edges catching on every nerve ending I had left.

My stomach plummeted. My fingers went numb around Mr. Whiskers' soft fur.

"Marcus," I whispered, though it barely made it past my lips. I kept my head down, my whole body screaming at me not to look. Don’t you dare look, Lucy.

But I didn’t need to see him. He was impossible to ignore. The charge in the room shifted, like the air had been sucked out and replaced with static. Every inch of my skin prickled, hyper aware of him standing there, not ten feet away.

"Lucy," he said again, softer this time.

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