Page 16 of Hometown Heart

Jack would be home by now, probably tucking Cody into bed and hanging that medal somewhere special. He might be thinking about the kiss, or maybe he'd already decided to write it off as a carnival-induced moment of madness.

My apartment was suddenly far too small. I paced from the kitchen to the living room and back, each lap bringing a new wave of questions. What if Jack decided Tidal Grounds wasn't worth the awkwardness anymore? What if Cody lost his favorite hot chocolate spot because I couldn't control my impulses?

My hand brushed a bookshelf, knocking loose a photo I kept meaning to frame. It was from a poetry reading last summer—me behind the counter, laughing at something off-camera. Mom said Dad had been like that, too. He was quick to laugh, impulsive with actions, and the first to leave when things got complicated.

The last thing Jack needed was a man like that.

The kitchen clock ticked steadily, marking time like a metronome. Almost midnight. In six hours, I'd need to be downstairs, starting the morning bake. Jack usually came in around seven-thirty, Cody bouncing beside him.

Usually.

The radiator clanked again. I should sleep. Should at least try. Instead, I found myself reaching for the French press, measuring beans with mechanical precision.

Some problems couldn't be solved with coffee. I knew that, but at least the familiar ritual might quiet the critical voices in my head.

The grinder whirred to life, drowning out my thoughts. One problem at a time. First, freshly ground coffee beans. Then sleep. Then... whatever tomorrow would bring.

I was on the way to bed, the rich aroma of the fresh grind circling around me, when I heard pounding downstairs at the Tidal Grounds door. I pulled on my boots in case someone's car had broken down nearby and they needed help.

The familiar face startled me at first. It was Brooks, peering in, trying to detect any movement inside. When I opened the door, he took one look at me and raised an eyebrow.

"You look like you tried arm-wrestling a lobster. And lost."

"Thanks. I didn't mean to send that message if that's what you think."

Brooks rubbed his arms and settled at the closest table. "Black, no cream, no sugar."

"You're here in the middle of the night to order coffee?"

"No, I'm here because Rory was already up too late grading papers. He sent me to unruffle a friend's feathers."

I set to work on the coffee. "Thanks for the concern, but—"

"Heard you were quite the skating instructor at the carnival."

"Don't." The word came out sharper than I intended.

"Don't what? I'm just trying to have a conversation about everybody's favorite new hockey dad."

I rinsed a pair of mugs in the sink, turning the water spray high, letting the noise fill the space where my response should have been. Brooks waited it out, patient as a fisherman.

When the sink fell silent, he tried again. "Si—"

"I kissed him." The words escaped before I could stop them. "And then I ran away like some teenager at his first dance." I dropped my forehead against the cabinet.

"Ah." Brooks drummed his fingers on the counter. "So, how was it? I know you're out of practice, but I bet you've got fine technique."

"Wouldn't know. It was barely seconds. I didn't stick around long enough to know whether it was good or not."

"And that's a Brewster move?"

"You're not helping."

"Not trying to help with anything." He paused. "You know he'll be in this morning. Same as always."

The reminder sent a fresh wave of panic through me. "Maybe he won't."

"Right. I'm sure Jack St. Pierre strikes you as the kind of man who runs from things." Brooks's voice had the same tone he used when coaching the peewee team. "He uprooted his entire life to give his kid a fresh start. Pretty sure he can handle the panic attack when a coffee shop owner who makes heart eyes at him every morning finally kisses him."

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