Page 38 of Only Mine
My nails find their way to my shoulder, rubbing at it through my sweater’s fabric. The skin there burns from the phantom sensation of yesterday’s nails digging deep, seeking an anchor in the storm of Brenda’s opportunism and Erin’s smug superiority.
That familiar, ugly whisper starts in the back of my mind, promising relief from the pressure building behind my ribs.
Just a little. No one will know.
My breath hitches. I force both hands to the wheel, clenching the cold leather.
No. I will not let them drive me back to that. But I do need air that doesn’t taste of judgment and something to look at besides the inside of Saint’s ridiculously expensive SUV.
My foot presses the accelerator a little harder than necessary.I drive not toward Saint’s secluded property, but back toward the heart of Falcon Haven, the quaint storefronts a blur through my stinging eyes. I need a distraction, something immediate and benign.
There.
A flash of cheerful yellow and white.
Libby Jude’s.
The sign, painted in a whimsical script, depicts a steaming coffee cup and a slice of pie. It looks like the kind of place where problems are solved with buttermilk pancakes and a sympathetic ear, neither of which I’m looking for, but the facade is soothing.
The image of Saint confiding in Erin, the two of them discussingmysuitability, plays on a loop.
I pull the Range Rover into a parking spot directly in front, the engine’s quiet hum a counterpoint to the frantic thrumming in my veins.
For a moment, I just sit, staring at the café’s welcoming windows, the urge to rake my nails across my skin a live creature under my sweater.
Maybe a strong coffee and the clatter of other people’s lives will be enough to drown out my own demons. It’s a flimsy shield, but it’s all I have right now. I kill the engine, take a shaky breath, and force myself out of the car.
The bell above the door of Libby Jude’s chimes a cheerful, almost musical greeting as I step inside. I walk into warmth, thick with the comforting scent of baked goods, roasted coffee, and something vaguely cinnamon-y. It’s a hug in olfactory form.
Behind a counter laden with glass-domed cakes and oversized cookies, a woman with kind brown eyes and a cascade of warm brown hair pulled back loosely from her face looks up from where she’s wiping down the espresso machine. Shewears a simple apron over a chambray shirt, and her smile is genuine, crinkling the corners of her eyes.
“Morning! Come on in. What can I get for you?”
Her voice is as welcoming as the atmosphere, an absolute melody after the discordant notes of my morning.
This must be Libby Jude. Or maybe just Jude. Or Libby.
“Just coffee, please,” I manage, my voice still a little shaky. “Black.”
“Coming right up.” She turns to the gleaming machine, her movements efficient and graceful.
“Stressful morning?” she asks over her shoulder, her tone casual, inviting.
I almost laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
She glances back, her smile softening with sincere empathy. “Only to someone who’s had a few of their own.”
She finishes pulling the shot, the rich aroma filling the small space between us. “I’m Noa, by the way.”
“Wrenley.”
“Pretty name.” She pours the coffee into a sturdy mug, then slides it across the counter. “On the house. You look like you need it.”
I stare at her, then at the coffee. “Oh, I… I can’t. Thank you, but?—”
“Nonsense.” Noa waves me off. “Consider it a welcome-to-Falcon-Haven-even-if-you’re-having-a-terrible-day gift. Besides”—her eyes twinkle—“anyone brave enough to drive Saint’s monster truck deserves a free coffee. Or maybe a medal.”
My jaw drops slightly. “You know Saint?”
