Page 18 of When the Storm Breaks
“Here you go, sweetheart,” Maggie says, handing me the latte and a small paper bag. “Don’t be a stranger, all right?”
I give her a wobbly smile and a small wave, fingers tightening around the paper bag as I pull the door open. The rush of cold air steals my breath, and in a flicker of hesitation, doubt urges me to turn back. I don’t know if I’m moving toward something or just running away from everything else—but either way, I keep going.
Chapter 8
Calla
Approaching the bar’s front door, I pause, nerves fluttering low in my stomach as I try to collect myself. I don’t know who’s inside—hopefully Chase, or better yet, no one at all.
A small voice in the back of my head whispers that this is a bad idea, but I’ve already come this far. If I turn back now, I’ll just have a thirty-minute walk home with two coffees and a pastry I don’t even want.
I take a deep breath, peeking through a window on the way to the front door. A tall figure moves behind the bar, his motions fluid and unhurried. Relief washes over me. It’s Chase. There’s something about the calm, steady way he carries himself that eases the knot in my chest.
Carefully, I shift the coffee cups into the crook of my elbow, the pastry bag tucked between my fingers as I free a hand to knock. Through the glass door, Chase’s head snaps up. His body stiffens for a moment, but then his expression softens. Recognition flashes across his face, his eyes brightening as he jogs around the bar toward thedoor.
He swings the door open, his eyebrows lifted in a silent question. Before he can say anything, though, I blurt out, “I have a black coffee, a latte, and a maple pecan scone.”
“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word as a playful smile spreads across his face. “This is some next-level charm offensive.”
Heat floods my cheeks. This is already a disaster. “No! I mean—no. It’s just… quiet in here,” I stammer, tripping over my own words.
Chase tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure out where I’m going with this. “It is,” he says slowly, clearly expecting more.
I suck in a breath. “Let me start over.”
Reaching out, I offer a small smile. “Hi, I’m Calla.”
He hesitates, just for a second, before taking my hand. His grip is warm—fingers rough, worn in a way that’s unexpectedly comforting. The contact settles, sending a quiet heat crawling up my arm.
“Hi, Calla,” he says, his voice softer now. More personal.
Feeling a little more at ease, I press on, the words tumbling out faster than I mean them to.
“I was here the other night, for my work party. You made me a few drinks, and I—uh…” I glance away. “I left my coat. I came back yesterday morning to grab it. It was quiet here, so I thought…”
My voice fades, and I clear my throat.
“Maple’s and the bookstore are packed this morning.”
A look of understanding crosses his face, and the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Got it.”
Relieved, I hold out the coffees. “These are for you. Either one. Or both. And, uh… the scone, too.”
At some point, I must’ve tucked the pastry baginto the crook of my arm, holding it snug against my side. Chase glances between the coffees, then reaches past them, his hand brushing my arm as he plucks the bag free. The drag of his fingers is brief but lingers, sparking something quiet and unexpected. Something I wonder if he feels too.
For a second, I worry I’ve misread his touch—that I’ve made a mistake, given him the wrong impression. But Chase just grins, holding up the bag like it’s a prize.
“This,” he says, wiggling it teasingly, “is mine now.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and suddenly, all the overthinking I’ve done about this moment feels ridiculous. He’s the same Chase he was the other night. Friendly. Easy. Safe.
I watch as he heads back behind the bar, sets the bag down, and grabs a knife and plate from the shelf beneath the counter.
“Get comfortable,” he says, his voice easy and welcoming.
I slide into one of the worn chairs at the low table, the fabric soft but sturdy—the kind that’s been used often and well. Unzipping my bag, I pull out my laptop and set it down gently. Sunlight spills through the bar’s front windows, casting a warm glow across the chipped wood and the frayed edges of the surrounding chairs. This corner feels lived-in, inviting. Like a quiet pause in the middle of the rush.
As I settle in, Chase reappears at my side, balancing a small plate with half the scone I brought him, crumbs still fresh.
