Page 56 of Hometown Heart

"Jason, your drink's ready."

No one approached. I glanced up to find the café had gone oddly quiet. The door chimed, and there stood Jack, shrugging snowflakes from his shoulders. His gaze swept the room before landing on me, and a small smile curved the corners of his mouth.

The conversation resumed around us, slightly too loud, as if someone turned the volume back up a little too high. Jack moved toward the counter with unhurried confidence, seemingly oblivious to the attention he'd drawn.

"Morning."

I held a dish towel tightly. "Hey. Usual?"

"Please." He leaned against the counter, relaxed. "Busy morning?"

I nodded, reaching for a clean mug. "Beginning of the week rush."

As I prepared his coffee, dozens of eyes followed our interaction, analyzing every word and gesture for hidden meaning. The espresso machine's hiss was deafening in the lulls between conversations.

I slid his coffee across the counter and offered idle conversation. "Did Cody make it off to school fine this morning?"

"Yep. I had to pull him away from practicing shots with his hockey stick in his bedroom." Jack wrapped his fingers around the mug, his eyes never leaving mine. "You alright? You seem tense."

"Fine," I said, too quickly. "Busy."

His expression told me he didn't believe me for a second.

The afternoon crawled forward as the morning swell eased. I found myself performing unnecessary tasks: polishing mugs that already gleamed and rearranging scones in the pastry case.

The café's remaining patrons had settled into their respective territories—a college student tapped at her laptop by the window, an older couple shared a scone with surgical precision at the corner table and a solo tourist leafed through a guidebook with salt-stained edges. None demanded my attention, and that left my mind dangerously unoccupied.

The next arrival shattered my efforts at distraction. Brooks Bennett ducked through the doorway. He didn't approach the counter immediately. Instead, he surveyed the room.

When his gaze finally landed on me, his expression shifted from neutral to something more challenging. He ambled toward the counter, claiming a stool directly in my workspace without glancing at the menu board or offering a greeting.

"Not here for coffee?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Nope." He drummed his fingertips against the countertop—a rhythm echoing the absent-minded stick taps I'd seen him perform before games. "Here for something stronger than caffeine. Truth."

I folded my arms. "Sounds like a terrible beverage."

"Cut the deflection, Brewster." His voice dropped an octave, low enough that only I could hear. "That performance this morning was something to behold."

"Performance?" I kept my voice deliberately neutral.

Brooks snorted. "You practically vibrated out of your skin when Jack walked in. Half the town watched like it was the third act of some community theater production. Jack, cool as winter ice, acted like he didn't notice."

"You're exaggerating."

"Am I?" He leaned forward, elbows creating twin divots in the dish towel I'd abandoned. "I thought you looked like you wanted to crawl inside that espresso machine and disappear into the steam valves."

"Since when are you monitoring my work behavior?" I couldn't avoid a defensive tone.

"Since you started looking at Jack St. Pierre like he's the answer to questions you've been afraid to ask for years." He was blunt but also kind—cutting through pretense without angering me.

I exhaled, focusing on wiping imaginary coffee residue from the already gleaming counter. "It's complicated."

"I don't think it is." Brooks shook his head, disappointment painted across his face. "You're scared, Silas. I get it. But if you think Jack's going to orbit around your self-imposed isolation forever, you're making a catastrophic miscalculation."

The accusation stung. "You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly. This isn't about Whistleport's gossip mill. It's about you being terrified of letting someone close enough to matter."

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