Page 17 of Hometown Heart

"I do not make—" I stopped as a shit-eating grin filled his face. "I hate you."

"You love me. Almost as much as you—"

"Don't finish that sentence."

Brooks stood and stretched his long, athletic frame. "You know what your problem is? It's not echoes of your dad or your ex. You've spent so long taking care of everyone else in this town you forgot how to let anyone take care of you."

Brooks folded his arms, fixing me with a look that saweverything—every excuse, every deflection. "You know what your problem is?" His voice was quiet but firm.

"It's not your dad. It's not Nico. It'syou.You've decided it's better to leave than give anyone a chance to stay."

I bustled around, straightening books on shelves and arranging chairs at tables. "Pretty sure that's not my biggest problem right now."

"No?" He headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Think about it, Si. Give yourself a break and lean into it. Let that Quebecois breeze carry you for a bit. You know how sexy it would be to hear a little French when—"

I threw a bar towel at him. The bell chimed as he left, leaving me alone with only five hours before I'd have to face the new day.

Chapter six

Jack

The copper pipes of the espresso machine didn't gleam as bright as usual against Tidal Grounds' weathered walls when I pushed through the door for my regular morning visit. A handful of regulars hunched over their mugs, their hushed conversations rising and falling like tide pools at dawn. The familiar scent of coffee and cardamom wrapped around me, but something had changed since yesterday's carnival—the air was thinner somehow, brittle as frost.

Silas stood behind the counter, his movements precise and mechanical as he tamped down espresso grounds. No trace remained of the man who'd shared a blanket with me by the fire pit.

He didn't look up when I approached. At least I still merited a greeting. "Morning." The word was clipped and professional. "The usual?"

"Please."

When Silas set my coffee on the counter with barely a glance, the sleeve sat slightly crooked—a small tell from someone whose attention to detail was impeccable. "Here you go."

At a corner table, Rory Blake sat grading papers, red pen poised over what looked like student essays. He glanced up, catching the edge of our stilted interaction, before he began gathering his things.

We reached the door at the same time. Rory held it open, the bell chiming softly above us. As I stepped through, he spoke barely loud enough for only me to hear: "That one's got ghosts."

The word followed me onto the sidewalk. Ghosts. They must have been a malicious kind that made a man pull back at the moment connection seemed possible.

I'd known my share of ghosts in New York—they lounged on the empty side of the bed and filled the space where morning conversations used to live. Silas's ghosts were different. They weren't about endings. They were about not letting things begin.

A salty breeze tugged at my jacket as I walked, carrying the faint rhythms of a town waking up. Early February in Whistleport meant bundled-up lobstermen heading to their boats, the scrape of shovels clearing overnight frost from sidewalks, and the distant clatter of lobster traps being loaded onto trucks. This day would be slightly warmer than usual, making it excellent for a brisk walk.

I wasn't ready to head home and face the boxes I still hadn't unpacked. Instead, I crossed the street to Miller's Bakery. The storefront windows steamed invitingly, and the door stood propped open, releasing waves of butter and vanilla into the morning air.

June Miller stood at the counter, her silver hair escaping its neat bun as she arranged pastries in the display case. She looked up at the bell's chime, offering a warm smile.

"Morning. You must be Jack St. Pierre." She straightened, dusting flour from her apron. "I saw your boy at the carnival shootout. That second goal was something else."

"News travels fast around here."

"Oh, honey, that's not news—that's good hockey. It's a vital part of life." She gestured at the display case. "What can I tempt you with? The blueberry Danish are fresh out of the oven."

"Smells incredible." I studied the array of pastries. "What's your personal favorite?"

"Depends on the day." June selected a Danish with practiced ease. "But this morning? This is what you need. Trust me on it."

As she wrapped it, she added, "You know, if you're out for a walk to chase away the winter blues, there's a trail behind the old cannery that runs along the cliffs. Most tourists don't know about it, but it has the best view of the harbor anywhere in town. Just watch your step—can be a little slippery this time of year."

The paper bag crinkled as she handed it over, warmth seeping through. "Though fair warning—you might run into my husband George up there. He claims he's birdwatching, but the reality is he's avoiding his honey-do list."

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