Page 18 of Protector of Talon Mountain

He snorts. “You’re sassing me, aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

He shakes his head, and then he’s gone—boots heavy, the door closing with a dull thud. I lock it, like he told me to, then lean against it, exhaling slowly.

Routine used to calm me. But now? I can’t seem to stop thinking about him.

* * *

By the time I’ve unlocked the front door and the bell overhead jingles, I’ve pulled myself together. The scones are out of the oven, the cinnamon rolls proofing for their second rise, and I’ve scrubbed the counters twice even though they didn’t need it. I tell myself it’s just habit, routine. Definitely not because a certain sheriff walked through my kitchen like he belonged there and left my pulse skittering like a live wire.

I expect the sound of boots to mean a regular—the delivery guy, maybe Ada early with her owl sweater and a half-finished paperback. But it’s not. It’s him. Zeke. Again.

This time, he doesn’t just linger by the door. He walks in like he never left, slow and controlled, his eyes scanning the room out of habit, not curiosity. There’s no surprise in his gaze when he finds me behind the counter. Just something unreadable—and locked tight.

“You forget something?” I ask, wiping my hands on a towel I suddenly wish wasn’t stained with blueberry batter.

His eyes flick to the closed kitchen door, then back to me. “Wanted another look at your security setup.”

“Right. Because I’m sure the muffin case is a known danger zone.” I arch an eyebrow. “Planning to interrogate the scone tray?”

Zeke doesn’t smile, but something shifts at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t be the worst place to start. Place smells like it’s hiding something.”

“Flour and sugar,” I say. “That’s the secret.”

“Maybe.” His eyes sweep the café again, then settle back on me. “Quiet in here.”

“It’s early.”

He nods once. Then doesn’t move.

I tuck the towel over my shoulder and reach for a tray of clean mugs. My back’s to him, but I can feel him watching. Not like Brent used to. Not to control. To see. Which somehow makes it worse.

“You always up this early?” he asks.

“Always.”

“Is that a baker thing or a Sadie thing?”

I slide the mugs into the warming shelf, lips twitching. “Both.”

Zeke crosses the floor, footsteps steady, and leans a hip against the counter. He doesn’t ask for coffee this time. He just waits.

“You’ve been here long?” he asks.

“In the café or the town?”

“Both.”

I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t want to tell him. I just haven’t had to explain it to anyone new in years. People around here know enough to leave the past where it lies. Zeke, though—he has a way of looking like he sees every fracture line under the surface.

“About four years,” I answer, turning to pull plates from the shelf behind me. “Started working here. Then took it over when Maggie passed.”

“That the woman who owned it?”

I nod. “She was a lot tougher than she looked. She didn’t believe in excuses or weak coffee.”

“Smart woman.”

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