Page 4 of Love Me

His face falls momentarily. God knows what the fuck he was doing.

“What’s going on? Tell me what you need.”

“It’s fuckin’ Hannah. I’m so goddamn tired of Levi jerking her around. I’m so sick of seeing her treated like shit over and over and over again. You know where I was last night? Fuckin’ holding her while she cried because she’s running on fumes.”

Dallas looks at me like he already knows that my night didn’t end holding Hannah through her meltdown.

“What’d you do, Liam?”

“I drove to Seattle to find the asshole and tell him to get hisass back in Aspen Ridge and take care of his family. And you know what I found?”

“Shit, man. Does Hannah know?”

“Know that her lying, piece of shit baby daddy that she thinks she’s still involved with has a girlfriend he’s living with? That she’s fucking pregnant!”

“Oh, fuck.”

Rage hits me like a tidal wave all over again. I need to fucking hit something.

“You didn’t beat the shit out of him, did you? That’s the last thing Hannah needs to deal with.”

“I saw it, right in front of me at his door, and I turned and left. Dal, it was the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done, and the longer I stay here and keep it from her . . . fuck. I want to fucking kill him. How could he do that to them?”

“We’ll all get her through it, they’re going to be okay.”

“You don’t get it. Her parents want to cut her off, Dallas. With Ms. Nettie getting older, unless Hannah gets married and settles down, they’re selling Bean Haven. Her mom is sick of going back and forth every winter and they want to move to San Diego permanently.”

And bring Hannah and Charlie with them.Not that I’m going to let that fucking happen.

“What kind of fucked-up ultimatum is that?”

You’re telling me. Hannah is such a free spirit and will never complain. She takes everything she’s given as a gift and is the happiest person I’ve ever met. Even when she’s dealt shitty blows by the people she loves, she just takes it, adapts, and moves on. Not this time. This time, the weight of it all is crushing her. I’m not about to sit back and let it.

“I don’t know how to tell her about Levi. I want to go put him six feet under. That’s what he fuckin’ deserves.”

“I agree with you, brother, but that’s not how this can behandled. Levi’s a fucking weasel and he’ll make Hannah’s life hell because of it.”

“What do I do?”

Because right now, outside of committing murder, I don’t know what to do anymore. The idea of causing her pain is killing me.

“Just sleep on it. You know her better than anyone else. But you get your shit straight and then talk to her. You’ll know what to do.”

How the fuck do I fix this for her?

CHAPTER 2

hannah

My EarPods blastFlorence and the Machine as I flow through the same early morning routine I’ve had since I was a teenager. My family owns Bean Haven, the only coffee shop in our small town of Aspen Ridge, Washington. The storefront sits on Main Street, a gorgeous, weathered brick building nestled up between Book Bound, an indie bookstore, and Rosemary and Runes Apothecary, with alleyways just wide enough for a vehicle separating them. My grandparents opened it a few decades ago and it’s been a town staple ever since. I’m biased but I think we have the best spot on Main Street.

The dough deflates slowly under the weight of my hands, and I lose myself to a steady rhythm. I knead what will turn into my cinnamon rolls, working it by hand the way my grandmother taught me. I was barely old enough to see over the counter when she first let me help her in the bakery’s kitchen. The fact that both of my sisters were either too young, or too busy to be bothered with learning her craft—one filled with love and passion—made it even more personal for me. It wassomething just she and I shared, and that same love and passion fuels me to this day.

The air was thick with the scent of butter, sugar, and cinnamon, just as it always is, and I remember how she pulled over a stool and dropped the first heap of dough onto the floured surface of the butcher block table with a loud thwack. She dug her palms into the squishy mass, pressing and moving with this steady, hypnotic rhythm, working the dough until she was satisfied, like it was as natural as breathing.

My grandmother is known for being loud, brash, and unfiltered—notoriously so—but when she baked, she created a silent magic that I was captured by. She gave me patience, something that was rare for me to feel. The lines around her eyes softened, and her smile was delicate and encouraging as she showed me how to fold the dough, how to knead it just right, how to feel the texture, to know when it was done, sharing her secret that it was all in your hands and intuition. She taught me everything I know, and baking is just as much a part of who I am as it is her.

Ever since that first day with my grandmother, I found any excuse to be in the kitchen with her, where she taught me how to bake her recipes. As I got older, it became therapeutic for me, a way to channel all of my teenage angst and hormonal rage that had nowhere to go, and it has never felt like work—despite what my family believes. Running this place fills me with purpose and joy, and I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

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