Page 117 of Defensive Desire

Chapter and Grind is never closed this early. Never.

I press my face to the glass, cupping my hands around my eyes to block the glare. The lights are dimmed inside. There's no movement behind the counter. No Emma arranging muffins or wiping down tables or scribbling in that notebook of ideas on how to grow her business.

Just emptiness.

"Emma!" I call again, my voice bouncing off the glass and back at me.

My heart slams against my ribs, a trapped animal trying to break free. Where is she? She should be here, celebrating her win. She should be here so I can tell her I choose her. I always choose her.

I bang on the door with my fist, hard enough that the glass rattles in the frame.

"Emma!" The word comes out more desperate this time.

No answer.

I try the handle again, rattling it uselessly. I step back, scanning the windows of her apartment above the shop. No lights there either.

Panic crawls up my spine, cold fingers digging into my skin. My mouth goes dry.

Fuck.

I'm too late.

I turn around, leaning my back against the cold glass of her shop. I slide down until I'm sitting on the concrete, my head in my hands.

"She's not there."

The voice startles me.

I look up to find Grandpa Walt standing a few feet away, his weathered face calm despite my obvious distress.

"Walt." I scramble to my feet, nearly tripping in my hurry. "I need to find her. I need to tell her—"

His eyes twinkle knowingly. "That you're choosing my granddaughter over hockey?"

"Yes."

Walt studies me for a long moment, like he's measuring the weight of my words against some invisible scale only he can see. Finally, he nods, seemingly satisfied with what he finds.

"She's not here," he repeats, more gently this time. "But I know where she is, young man."

I step closer. "Take me to her."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Emma

Istand in the center of what will soon bemycafé space at Icehawk Arena, trying to absorb the reality of it.

I should be floating. Crying. Throwing a glitter bomb into the air and declaring myself the saint of cappuccinos forevermore.

Instead, I’m blinking at countertop options like Sophia just asked me to pick a favorite child.

“This one’s quartz,” she says, tapping her nail against a swatch. “Durable. Sleek. Wipes clean like a dream. But this one? Look at the texture. So rustic-chic… right?”

Rustic-chic. Sure. Just what I've always wanted.

I nod. “Mm. Very wipeable.”