Page 57 of Broken Pact

“Oh, this?” I shake her drink a little, showing it off. “Nah, I’m grabbing this for my girl.”

Mrs. Matthews gasps. “You’re dating Coraline Carter?”

I lift my brows at her reaction. “Sure am, Mrs. Matthews. For as long as she’ll let me.”

“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Shepley says, tapping the end of her neon pink nail against her coffee cup. “Is this a new development? Because I seem to remember just last month how vocal our dear Coraline was when it came to, how did she say it, Martha?”

Mrs. Weatherby smirks, her eyes bright and cunning. “She said she’d rather sit on a pin cushion of needles than ever date a Reaper.”

I shake my head with a chuckle. Damn, she never pulls any punches, does she? “You’d be surprised what can happen in a month.”

Mrs. Shepley arches a brow, a small smile on her face. “A woman is allowed to change her mind, right, girls?”

“Of course. I just hope you know what you’re doing, that’s all,” Mrs. Weatherby says with a nod.

“That girl’s gonna eat you alive, honey,” Mrs. Matthews says, clapping her hand on my bicep a few times. “But maybe you’re into that sort of thing.” She looks up at me, the very image of a caring grandmother. If my grandma was dressed in matching neon tracksuits and ran on coffee and gossip.

“Alright, ladies. As much as I enjoy our morning coffee chats, I gotta get this to my girl. She’s a real bear without caffeine in the morning, you know how that is.” I wink at them.

“Tell Coraline to expect my call,” Mrs. Matthews yells, waving at me.

“Will do. You all have a good day now.” I wave as I push open the door, letting the hot summer sun bake in my good mood.

I give it twenty-four hours before the whole town knows Coraline Carter is mine.

Coraline’s iced matcha latte sweats in the cup holder next to my iced Americano. My truck idles at the stoplight, the engine a gentle hum underneath.

The newest addition to my Coraline Carter playlist blares through the speakers, this one familiar. A little while ago, I decided to add the songs from her social media captions to a playlist. Not every single song, because I’m told that would be decidedly obsessive.

But all the ones I recognize or pique my interest when I listen to ’em.

And today’s caption, well, that song title has me curious as hell.

One-Eighty by Summer.

I think she thinks it’s a fuckin’ dig at me, but she must not know the lyrics as well as I do.

Or fuck, maybe I’m looking into this too hard. Maybe it’s just a song she likes. I’d bet this truck it doesn’t have anything to do with the chocolate dipped biscotti she posted though.

The sun’s still climbing, casting long shadows on the road as I weave through the sparse morning traffic in downtown Avalon Falls. Which makes it easy as hell to spot the same two vaguely familiar guys from a few days ago.

They’re a block away from Cora’s bakery, but something about the way they’re looking over their shoulders trips my internal alarm. Their movements jerky and rough, like they’re up to some sketchy shit.

My intuition perks up, and I pull into a metered parking spot down the road. Far enough away to not be conspicuous, but close enough to see what they’re doing.

I throw the car in park, turn down the music, and pull out my phone. Utilizing the zoom function, I quickly snap a few photos.

No kuttes or apparent gang tattoos. But still, they seem so fucking familiar. I can’t quite place them, but I bet Hawke could. I swear that asshole has one of those photographic memories.

My fingers fly over the screen as I forward the pictures to Hawke. It’s early, but he should be at the garage already, covering the morning shift.

I don’t wait for him to respond, tapping the call button. Ringing fills the cab, and I keep my eyes trained on the pair, my instincts on high alert.

“Jagger,” he answers, sounding half-awake.

“I need a favor,” I say, cutting straight to the point.

“Bro. I’m opening the garage for you. Isn’t that favor enough?” he grumbles.

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