Page 35 of The Last Call Home
I should’ve drawna line and ignored them.
When Cassian walked into that coffee shop, I should’ve slammed my laptop shut and requested reassignment.Disappeared.Vanished.Pulled an MIA act so complete, they’d name a new protocol after me.
I should’ve booked a one-way trip to Mars the second Delilah looked at him like he wasn’t a man—but a complication she wanted to unravel slowly, maybe with both hands and probably her mouth.That look should’ve been a warning.A bright red fucking flare telling me to leave the bar, burn all my accounts, and never look back.
But I didn’t.
Because there’s too much going on in this town just to bail and let the whole place detonate.I’m too fucking responsible for that.Too stitched together by guilt and protocol to let everything fall apart on someone else’s watch.
I’m the one who deals with the wreckage—cleans blood out of carpet, betrayal out of memory, stitches silence into the gaps no one wants to speak about.The one who stays behind after they’ve all unraveled, acting like it’s fine.Like I’m not cracking in places I pretend don’t exist.Like I was made for it.
Like it doesn’t wreck me more with every damn breath.
“This brooding at work should be illegal.”
I glance up, jaw already clenched, expecting my assistant or one of the deputies.But no.Of course not.
It’s Rosalinda, striding into my office like she owns the building—scarf flapping like she’s summoning a storm, tote bag swinging with the confidence of someone who knows she’s always carrying the upper hand and at least three containers of divine punishment.
“Oh, good.You’re still here,” she says, like I’m a figment she conjured and not the sheriff of this cursed town.
“I work here,” I mutter.
“Details,” she waves her hand, dismissing my entire career like it’s interpretive dance.“We need to talk.”
I rub my temples.With Rosalinda, “we need to talk” could mean anything from organizing a neighborhood watch to declaring war on squirrels.This woman is adorable most days, but I don’t have time to entertain her nonsense.
“Rosalinda, with all due respect?—”
“I cooked you something.”
I pause because that intrigues me.The Mora women know their way in the kitchen like no other person I’ve known.
“You ...cooked for me?”
She thrusts a container into my hands like it’s an offering and a challenge.“Don’t look at me like that.I know you haven’t been eating properly.You’ve got that hollow look.Like you’re skipping meals and calling it strategy.”
It doesn’t even make sense, but she’s not wrong about my eating habits.
I glance down.Empanadas.Mole.My fucking favorite.
The smell of spice and golden pastry hits me, and my stomach betrays me with a growl loud enough to file a noise complaint.
“Mole?”I ask quietly.
“Yes, those are your favorite.”Her smile softens into something dangerously maternal.“I promised Therese I’d keep an eye on you, and I’ve been slacking.”
“Thanks,” I say, because I don’t know what else to do when the mother of the woman I’m trying not to love is looking at me like I’ve already failed her.
She plops into the chair across from my desk, the queen on her throne.“Now, let’s talk about my daughter.”
Fuck.
“Rosalinda—”
“She’s a disaster,” she says brightly, like it’s a compliment.“But she’smydisaster.And if you—or that tall, brooding friend of yours—break her heart, I will hex your plumbing and file a very pointed complaint with your ancestors.”
I blink.“You believe in plumbing hexes?”
