Page 16 of The Last Call Home
She had me at:Pay for the coffee.That fire in her voice, the way she looked me dead in the eye like she could take me or break me and enjoy both.Or maybe it was the croissants—those buttery, golden, melt-on-your-tongue sins I know she’s been shaping since three in the goddamn morning.
Or maybe it was the way she looked at me like she was already planning my funeral—after she fucked the life out of me.Like she’d ride me until I begged for mercy, leave scratches down my spine, and then eulogize me with a smile.
Yeah.
That’s when I knew I was fucked.Instead of leaving, I stepped closer.I dared to imagine what it’d be like to burn with them—with her.
It’s not just that she’s beautiful.It’s that there’s something in her eyes—something wild and exhausted and full of bite.She doesn’t just light sparks.She carries matches in her back pocket and doesn’t give a damn if she burns herself along the way.
And fuck me, but I wanted to be the fire she set next.I don’t know what possessed me to flirt, to dare her, to challenge them and make Malerick believe that I would take her from him.That’s the thing: I wouldn’t hurt him.Not then, and not even now.Do I hate him a little because it’s obvious that he’s not happy and he let his demons win over anything that resembled to happiness?
Just a little.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the wind slides down my collar like it’s trying to punish me.I duck my head, and move fast, and my feet are numb by the time I hit the curb.
But then ...“Well, hello there.”A voice.Soft, warm the way sunlight is through frosted glass.
I stop mid-step.Turn toward a petite woman with dark waves streaked with silver.She’s wrapped in a wool coat the color of ripe cherries, her lipstick even redder.Her heels crunch delicately across the floor like she owns the place.A force of nature in perfume and pearls.It looks like it belongs to a big city, not a small town.She smiles like she’s known me her whole life, which—let’s be clear—is impossible.
“You’re the new owner of the bar, aren’t you?”she asks.Her voice?Pure maternal plotting.The woman doesn’t wait for a response.“I saw you arriving yesterday.I was too busy, or I would’ve come to welcome you to our little town.”
I stare at her, because I didn’t notice anyone watching me.Did I look at the coffee place?I was too preoccupied with the hardware store, to be honest.Though I would’ve felt it if someone was watching me, and I didn’t.What the fuck?
Before I can get a word out, she adds, “My daughter Delilah owns The Honey Drop.”
She gestures toward the café like it’s the Taj Mahal.
“Have you met her?She’s single.And sweet.And you look like you could use someone like her to feed you properly.”
I blink a couple of times.Did ...did I just get hit with the small-town matchmaking ambush?
“I’ve met her,” I say, voice rough.Too rough.Like gravel over regret.“And you are?”
She beams.Not smiles—beams.Her whole face lights up like she’s about to win a crown and a cruise.
“Rosalinda Isabel Mora Pineda,” she says, rolling every syllable like it’s dipped in honey and drama.“It’s very nice to meet you.”
Then—because apparently, personal space is optional in Birchwood Springs—she steps forward and wraps me in a hug.Not just a polite one.A full-body, pat-your-back, you’re-family-now hug.I stiffen for half a second.Then—God help me—I let it happen.There’s something grounding about it.Something ...maternal and disarming and absolutely terrifying.
“I’m Cassian.Cassian Harlan,” I mutter as she finally releases me, the scent of florals and perfume clinging to my jacket.
Rosalinda steps back, gives me a once-over, and clasps her hands together like she’s just officiated a sacred rite.
“Well, Cassian Harlan,” she says with a sly smile and a dramatic nod toward The Honey Drop, “if you break my daughter’s heart, I will come after you with my chancla.But ...”—she sighs, wistful and theatrical—“I think you might just be what she needs.A man with a little sadness in his eyes and too much silence around him.”
What the fuck does one even say to that?
Before I can figure it out, she pats my chest—twice—then turns to walk away.
“Oh, and Cassian?”she calls over her shoulder.“If you do end up marrying her, we’ll have the reception right here in town.The gazebo photographs beautifully in the fall.”
And just like that, Rosalinda Isabel Mora Pineda disappears into the morning fog, having nearly handed me her daughter like a blessing wrapped in café napkins and menace.
I stand there, stunned, freezing, and slightly scented like her lavender hand lotion.
Birchwood Springs doesn’t just want to ruin me.
It wants to marry me off first.
