Page 67 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
Margo’s brow furrows. “Because of Broody McBrooderson? Has he escalated from staring to something more threatening?”
“No, it’s not Erik,” I say. “There was someone in the alley last night. Probably nothing, but it spooked me.”
“Oh,” Margo says, her usual sarcasm fading. “That’s genuinely concerning. Do you want me to walk you home after closing? I’ve got pepper spray and absolutely no qualms about using it.”
Her offer touches me. “Thanks, but I live upstairs, remember? I’ll be fine. Just being cautious.”
Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of customers—a pair of regulars who come in every Wednesday morning. One of them, James Richardson, is a police officer who occasionallyflirts with me in a low-key, respectful way. Today, he’s not in uniform, but he still carries himself with that unmistakable law-enforcement posture.
“Morning, Fiona,” he says with a warm smile. “The usual for both of us, please.”
I nod, already reaching for cups. “Coming right up.”
As I prepare their drinks, I find myself considering asking James about expediting a gun license. He might have helpful advice, might even be able to speed up the process. But an instinctive wariness about drawing official attention to myself holds me back.
“Everything okay?” James asks as I hand over their coffees. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Just thinking about personal security. Someone was lurking in the alley behind the café last night.”
James’s expression immediately shifts to one of professional concern. “Did you report it?”
“There wasn’t much to report,” I admit. “He ran off when Alex appeared.”
“Still,” James says, “you should call it in. And maybe consider some additional security measures.” He hesitates, then adds, “I could show you some basic self-defense techniques, if you’d like.”
“Actually,” I say before I can think better of it, “I was thinking about getting a gun. But the licensing process seems rather lengthy.”
James nods, his expression carefully neutral. “It can be, yes. But there are reasons for that—safety, training, ensuring only the right people have access to firearms.” He lowers his voice. “Look, I know there are...alternatives. Ways to get a weapon faster, without the paperwork. But I strongly advise againsttaking that route. It’s illegal, dangerous, and if you ever had to use the gun, you’d be in serious trouble.”
“I wasn’t suggesting—” I begin, but he cuts me off with a knowing look.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, “that if you want a gun, I can help you through the proper channels. Maybe even expedite things a bit. But do it right.”
“Thanks,” I say, genuinely grateful. “I’ll think about it.”
“In the meantime,” his partner adds, “you might want to invest in some better lighting for that alley. Most criminals avoid well-lit areas. Too exposed.”
“That’s good advice,” I acknowledge. “I’ll look into it today.”
The men move to their usual table, and I return to the register, my mind churning. James is right about doing things properly, but the official route will take time I may not have if the man in the alley was more than a random threat.
My thoughts are interrupted by the next customer in line: another regular—Michael Branson, a quiet man in his thirties who comes in most weekdays for a black coffee and sometimes a muffin. He rarely engages in conversation beyond placing his order, but today he lingers at the counter.
“I couldn’t help overhearing,” he says, his voice low. “About your security concerns.”
I tense slightly. “Yes?”
“If you’re serious about wanting protection quickly,” he says, glancing around to ensure no one else is listening, “I may be able to help. Nothing illegal, just...unofficial.”
Warning bells go off in my head, but curiosity wins out. “What do you mean?”
“I know people who could get you something reliable, no questions asked. And I could show you how to use it properly. I was in the military; I know my way around firearms.”
I study him—his earnest expression, his steady gaze. Nothing about him has ever struck me as threatening, but this offer seems to come out of nowhere. “Why would you do that?”
He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “I like coming here. You’ve always been kind to me. And I hate the thought of you feeling unsafe.”
Before I can respond, the bell above the door chimes, and a now-familiar presence enters the café.
