Page 25 of Slow Burn
“Your dad—”
“Oh, did Pop say somethin’?” Cole cut in, voice dry.
“No. It’s like nothing’s happened.”
Cole snorted. “I’m sure.”
“Cole.” Her tone snapped this time, poking at that old rebellious streak in him.
He wrestled the feeling back.
“I’m not mad,” he repeated, softer now that it wasn’t a lie. Bothered, sure. But bothered and mad weren’t the same thing. Not anymore. “Just got a lot going on. Abbott’s been breathing down my neck, and with Jocelyn back in town, folks are panicking like she’s fixing to ruin Harvest Festival or some shit.”
“Watch your mouth,” Ellen said automatically, though without heat. “Who’s worried about Jocelyn ruinin’ anything?”
“Everybody. Been stopped ten times easy by folks asking about her. Can’t blame ‘em—she’s ruffling feathers.”
His mama raised a brow. “Most notably yours.”
Cole swiped a hand through the air. “I’ve been nice, like you asked.” It came out a growl, childish at the edges.
She smirked. “Then what’s really bothering you, baby?”
He dropped onto the one section of porch rail that wouldn’t collapse under him, scowling at the tree line. “That Pop lied. That people keep actin’ like I can influence Jocelyn. Like she’s mine to handle.” He stopped short of admitting the rest—that Jocelyn was under his skin, dug in deep.
Didn’t matter. His mama’s knowing look said she’d read it anyway.
“Come by for supper tonight,” she said, brushing her hand down his arm. “Bring Jocelyn.”
He groaned. “Ma…”
“I’ll bake your favorite pie.”
“What about Pop’s diet?”
“Special occasion,” she crooned, patting his cheek in triumph. She seemed awful sure when he hadn’t agreed to any damn thing.
“I’ve got the restaurant. Sing-o night.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
Cole sighed, knowing he’d already lost. He’d never been able to say no to her. For all his grumbling, there wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do for his mama.
eleven
“Fire is the test of gold; adversity, of strong men.” - Seneca
Clouds rolled overhead, thick and restless, but they offered no mercy from the heat. The only reprieve was the brusque wind that slapped at Jocelyn’s linen pants—the new ones she’d bought from her sister’s shop. She felt oddly self-conscious in them, as though the fabric itself might betray her, whispering where she’d gotten them, feeding small-town mouths with new fodder. She half-expected whispers to grow teeth, to attach meaning to a simple purchase, to paint intentions she never had.
She tried to push the thoughts away as she walked from the coffee shop toward the fire station. The woman who ran Southern Comfort had remembered her from when Cole brought her, even remembered her order. She’d been warm in a way that left Jocelyn momentarily light. That buoyancy held until she reached the fire station’s front door, where the old dread came back and pooled in her stomach, a heaviness that pressed cold and uneasy.
Amber sat at the front desk again, and she smiled at the sight of Jocelyn, though her glance skittered nervously toward Chief Ward’s closed office door. His voice was audible, low and curt, though Jocelyn couldn’t make out the words. The tension was plain enough, though.
“Hi, Jocelyn.” Amber looked toward the door again. “The chief is on the phone, so he might be a little bit.”
“That’s alright. I can wait.” Jocelyn took one of the lobby chairs, folding herself neatly into it.
Fifteen minutes later, with Ward still shut away, she pulled out her laptop and buried herself in work for her Asheville client. The familiar rhythm of design notes kept her hands steady, if not her mind.
