Page 23 of Hometown Heart

"No, I'm good." I forced a smile. "Lost track of time."

I'd spent years losing track of time, building Tidal Grounds into something entirely mine, and telling myself that independence meant success. I'd crafted this life like I crafted my espresso drinks—measured, precise, and predictable: the morning rush, afternoon lull, and evening regulars. Even the town gossip followed reliable patterns. I convinced myself this carefully structured solitude was enough, more than enough.

But Jack moved through my ordered world like water, finding paths through stone—gentle and persistent, changing everything he touched. And that was the real terror, wasn't it? Not that he'd leave, but that he'd stay. That he'd weave himself into my daily rhythms until I couldn't remember how to be alone. That he'd show me all the empty spaces in my life I'd pretended not to see, filling them with morning smiles and shared jokes and casual touches that felt like belonging.

It was easier to fear abandonment. Harder to admit I was terrified of how much more life could be.

I did manage to rally enough to leave the Masons smiling over their choice for their wedding cake. Sarah and I managed the lunch crowd with careful attention to orders and mini pep talks for those having a tough day.

When the post-lunch lull settled over the café, even Dottie had moved on, probably busying herself spreading fresh gossip at the hair salon. I wiped down the counter, feeling the fatigue caused by my sleepless night settling in.

Suddenly, June Miller bustled in, flour dusting her apron. "Those morning glory muffins were different today," she announced, settling onto her usual stool. "Less cardamom?"

"More orange zest." My hands moved automatically, preparing her afternoon Earl Grey. "I was trying something new."

"Hm." She accepted the tea, studying me over the rim. "Sometimes new works. Like that hockey dad's boy making the shootout competition. Who'd have thought a newcomer would take to Whistleport so quickly?"

My grip tightened on the teapot. "Jack's good with him. Patient."

"Patient men are rare birds." June blew across her tea. "Worth holding onto when you find them."

The afternoon sun caught the bits of flour in her hair, turning them golden. She'd been friends with my mother in high school and had watched me grow up alongside her own kids. She'd seen me run away to culinary school and come back home with a deed to a bait shop.

"What if—" The words stuck. I busied myself wiping invisible spots from the counter. "What if holding on isn't something you're good at?"

"Oh, honey." She set her cup down with a gentle clink. "Nobody's good at it at first. That's why they call it practice."

Practice.

Like Cody drilling his shots against the boards. Like Jack learning to steady himself on rental skates. Like all those pre-dawn hours I'd spent in culinary school perfecting recipes that scared me.

"The thing about running a business in a small town," June continued, gathering her purse, "is that everybody sees everything anyway. Might as well give them something worth watching."

She left a five-dollar bill under her saucer—too much for a cup of tea—and headed for the door. The bell's chime faded into afternoon quiet.

I untied my apron, a decision crystallizing in my head like sugar in hot coffee. Sarah looked up from restocking the pastry case.

"Can you handle closing?" I asked.

"Sure, but—"

"Thanks." I grabbed my keys from the hook, not letting myself overthink it. "I need to go practice something."

Chapter eight

Jack

Apuck hit the boards high with a loud crack, and an explosive belly laugh followed in its wake. Sharp banter bounced off the arena walls. It was the Sunday hockey pickup game. Whistleport's locals were warming up, slapping passes back and forth before testing the goalies with lazy wrist shots.

I self-consciously adjusted my gloves before stepping out onto the ice. My legs were stiff but steady enough. It had been years since I'd played a hockey game more serious than a driveway shootaround with Cody.

Brooks skated past me, flipping a puck against my blade with the edge of his stick. "Try not to eat it first shift, St. Pierre."

"I'll do my best." I caught the puck and nudged it forward, doing my best to get a feel for the ice. I stayed upright, at least. The rest? That remained a question mark.

Rory coasted up to my other side, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "If you survive today, next week we'll let you in on themost importanttradition—post-game beers followed by a solid round of bad decisions."

"That's bold of you to assume I'll come back."

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