Page 30 of Forgiveness River

She placed the tray down with uncharacteristic clumsiness, nearly spilling Raven’s iced tea. “Yours is wrapped to go, Wyatt. I know you’re on the clock.” She set a paper bag in front of him. “And here’s your club sandwich and sweet potato fries, Raven, just how you like them.”

Mac continued arranging items on the table with frantic energy, clearly stalling. “Can I get you anything else? More napkins? Ketchup? A different table? A different country to escape to?”

Despite everything, Raven found herself smiling. “We’re fine, Mac.”

“Great! Good! I’ll just—go. Downstairs. Far away. Where I can’t interrupt anything else.” She backed toward the door, nearly tripping over a chair. “Enjoy your dinner!”

The door closed behind her with another bang, and an uncomfortable silence settled over them once more.

Wyatt sighed and reached for his takeout bag. “I should get back to the station. Blaze is expecting me.”

“Of course.” The disappointment that washed through Raven was as surprising as it was intense.

He stood, towering over her for a moment before kneeling beside her chair. With gentle fingers, he brushed against the shadows beneath her eyes. “You’re not sleeping,” he observed softly.

“Neither are you,” she countered, resisting the urge to lean into his touch.

“Sit. Eat. Enjoy the sunshine.” His thumb traced a featherlight path along her cheekbone. “And maybe think about that first kiss now and then.”

He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, the grace of him still taking her breath away after all these years. At the balcony door, he paused, looking back at her with an expression that made her heart stumble in her chest.

“I miss you, Raven,” he said simply, and then he was gone.

Raven sat motionless, the untouched food before her forgotten as she gazed out at the town they both loved, the life they’d built together, now hanging by the thinnest of threads.

And yet, for the first time in months, a fragile hope flickered to life inside her.

The evening sun painted long shadows across Main Street as Raven turned the “Closed” sign in the boutique window. Her fingers lingered on the glass, her mind still caught in the memory of Wyatt’s touch on her cheek, the way his voice had softened when he spoke of their first kiss.

She counted the register with practiced hands. The familiar arithmetic offered a rhythm her nights now lacked. Sleep had betrayed her since Wyatt left—dreams where he stood just beyond her grasp, present but unreachable, like the space he’d left in their bed.

Her fingers trailed across a display of hand-beaded clutches, the intricate patterns catching the last golden rays of sun that slanted through the windows. The craftsmanship grounded her, a reminder of why she’d built this business, this life. Even as that life seemed to be crumbling around her.

A knock at the door startled her. Peering through the glass, she spotted a deliveryman holding a package. Unusual for this time of evening, but perhaps it was the back-ordered leather wristlets she’d been waiting for from that small artisan workshop in Barcelona.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” she called through the door, her voice carrying a weariness she couldn’t quite mask.

“Delivery for Raven O’Hara,” the man replied, holding up the package. “Requires signature.”

Against her better judgment—against the prickling at the back of her neck that whispered caution—Raven unlocked the door. “You’re out late,” she said, reaching for his electronic signature pad.

“Special delivery service,” he responded with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Eyes that assessed her with a calculation that belonged to predators, not couriers.

As she glanced down to sign, the door was suddenly pushed wider. The “deliveryman” stepped inside, and a second man appeared behind him. Before Raven could react, the second man was inside too, closing and locking the door behind him with a soft click that sounded like a prison gate in the quiet shop.

“What’s going on?” Raven demanded, backing away from them. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her voice steady. “The cash register’s empty. We deposit everything at the bank.”

“We’re not here for money, Mrs. O’Hara,” the first man said, his polite demeanor dissolving into something colder, more calculated. His voice carried the clipped precision of a man accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. “We’re here for you.”

Fear shot through her like electricity, but Raven refused to let it show. Years of handling difficult customers and aggressivemen had taught her to wear composure like armor. “What do you want with me?”

“Your husband has something that belongs to our employer,” the second man explained, his voice quiet but menacing. He moved with the fluid grace of a trained fighter, positioning himself to block her path to the back exit. “He’s not being cooperative. We think he’ll be more reasonable if we have a conversation with you present.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Raven said, her mind racing as she calculated the distance to the back door, to the phone, to anything she could use as a weapon. The crystal paperweight on the counter. The heavy bronze sculpture on the display shelf. “Wyatt and I are separated. I haven’t seen him in over a week.”

The men exchanged a look, a silent communication that spoke volumes. “That’s unfortunate,” the first one said, his tone suggesting it changed nothing. “But it doesn’t change our plans. You’re coming with us, Mrs. O’Hara. We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way.”

Raven’s heart hammered in her chest, but she kept her voice steady, chin lifted in defiance. “And if I refuse?”

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