by Nicole Snow
Also, I’d better hope his money plus the new cashflow covers renting scuba gear.
Because I can’t let this rest.
And I can’t keep living my life on Paisley Lockwood’s whims.
Even in death, Dad found a way to call to me.
How can I not answer?
How could I turn down a sliver of a chance to end this forever?
6
Fool’s Gold (Alaska)
No matter how many times we change homes, one thing stays sacrosanct in the Charter household—breakfast.
It’s been a morning ritual ever since Elijah was old enough to eat solid food. I’ve always done most of the cooking, but some days when I was busy with work, it’d be sandwiches or takeout for lunch or dinner.
Not breakfast.
Breakfast is as permanent and sure as the sunrise.
My days don’t feel right if I don’t start ’em standing over the stove with several skillets popping away, filling the kitchen with the glories of frying hash browns, sizzling bacon, eggs sputtering with molten cheese.
Sometimes my son helps—but the kitchen in the rented cabin is a little tight for a man my size and a growing teenager, so he’s perched on a stool at the island, half watching me and half messing around with Instagram filters for his latest photoset.
“Hey, Dad,” he says a little breathlessly. “I just landed my five hundredth follower!”
“Yeah?” I glance over my shoulder, watching him while keeping one eye on the timer. The buttermilk biscuits are due out any second, and I hate burning the edges. “I’m proud of you, dude. You don’t mind if I check these people out, do you?”
He stops, sighs, and gives me an aggrieved look.
He’s still in his pajamas, an oversized t-shirt and shorts, bedhead sticking up everywhere. I hold in a laugh. He looks less like the patient sufferer he wants to be and more like a very exasperated baby chick with his feathers ruffled.
“You don’t have to check all of my followers. I’ve been careful,” he says.
“I can promise you I do,” I reply smoothly. “You’re twelve years old. It wouldn’t be the first time weirdos online sent inappropriate DMs. I just want to know what kind of accounts are following you, and why they’re interested in your photos.”
Eli groans, rolling his eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll change my password back.”
I snap my head around to eye him.
“You changed your password?”
“Um...it was a security thing. It prompted me!” he rushes out.
“Uh-huh.”
Real slick. Like I wouldn’t change my password if I was twelve and trying to avoid my overprotective dad supervising my internet fun.
Sighing, I shake my head and go back to pushing eggs around the skillet. “Just text me the new password. If it was a security thing, it probably won’t let you change it back to the old one.”
That earns me a scowl and a stuck-out tongue, barely glimpsed from the corner of my eye. I turn around and secretly grin as I hear him tapping on his phone to text me.
The sound that chimes next definitely isn’t my notification tone, though.
The doorbell.
I’m not expecting company. The very last thing I’m expecting, when I turn around, is to see Felicity Randall waiting outside on the front porch, framed as pretty as a picture in the glass inset of the door.
Oh, hell.
Yes, I’m painfully aware that I’m standing here in pajama pants, shirtless except for a damned apron, probably looking every inch the mess of divorced bachelor man I am. Divorced roughneck bachelor man, with my tattoos out and literal battle scars showing.
Meanwhile, she’s put together like a dream, teasing and svelte in a simple but lovely off-the-shoulder blouse. It glows in a shade of soft blue that brings out the rich blue-violet glow of her eyes.
Her hair tumbles over her bare shoulders in cinnamon ripples.
Her jeans hug her curves and long legs, heeled leather boots giving her an extra inch in height.
A battered leather purse hangs from one arm, her fingers wound lightly around the strap.
An first glance, yeah, she looks like pure vixen sin. Delicate pointed features, heavy-lidded eyes, the low sweep of thick lashes.
Take a closer look, and she’s more like a fawn.
Still delicate, strong, long and slender and all legs, but less sly and more wary, waiting to bolt the second something startles her.
Is that the skillet popping or my blood?
I wonder who hurt this girl. And why?
I’ll never get why people go out of their way to make someone else suffer for no goddamned reason, and I can’t imagine Felicity doing anything to provoke those shitty rumors.
More than anything, I wonder why she’s on my doorstep, watching me through the glass with clear amusement.
Her round full-lipped mouth peaks at the corners and damned near punches me in the dick.
“Uh.” I clear my throat, then raise my voice. “Just a second!”
I’m already turning off the burners and the oven, then fumbling with my apron strings to get them off—but I realize I probably shouldn’t.
At least not in full view of the door.
“Hey, Eli? Can you let her in and grab her some coffee? I’ll be right back.”
“Sure thing.” He’s watching me with a knowing look.
“Thanks!”
I dash into the bedroom, pulling at my apron, and listening to the sounds from the living room. Considering how shy Eli is unless he gets caught up in his photos, I’m surprised to hear how relaxed he sounds greeting her, genuine warmth and excitement in his voice. I already know he’s going to forget to offer her coffee, tea, something to drink.
And I’m right.
In the time it takes me to pull on an undershirt and a clean flannel shirt, button it up, and step back to the common area, he’s already got her at the island. They’re browsing his Instagram account, the two of them with their heads together like co-conspirators.
What gets me, though, is the fact that she’s actually paying attention.
You know how most people are when kids want to show them something.
They’ll humor them, nod, smile, but don’t actually pay attention. Or they’ll say things in that tone that says they’re not even taking it in and just waiting for the kid to shut up and go away.
Not Felicity. Her eyes spark with keen interest.
As I walk toward the living room she’s saying, “...no, I can see why you used the sepia tone here. With the sunlight streaming in, the way the light hits everything makes it glitter, and desaturating a bit makes the room seem kinda ghostly.”
“Yeah!” Eli brightens, looking at her raptly, and I’m starting to think he’s got a little bit of a crush himself. “Like, that’s what I was going for. I think it’s really cool to photograph these bright places and make them look kind of haunted with filter effects.”
Felicity props her elbow on the kitchen island and rests her chin in her palm, grinning at my son. “You know, we used to think Heart’s Edge was haunted. That we had some monster up in the hills, this big beast named Nine. Turns out it was just my friend’s husband, Leo.”
“Dude.” Eli’s eyes widen. “The guy with all the cool scars and tattoos?”
“That’s him.”
“I want to take pictures of him, but Dad won’t let me ask.” He pouts, shoulders sagging.
I start to open my mouth—but Felicity answers first. She rests her hand lightly on Eli’s shoulder, watching him with her gaze warm. “Sometimes people who’ve spent their whole lives feeling sensitive about how they look can feel self-conscious even when people think they look cool. We love Leo, but he’s still getting used to folks seeing him out in the open without being afraid. So your dad’s probably thinking about Leo’s feelings, and I’d bet you wouldn’t want to hurt him either, right?”
Eli’s brows knit together.
“Oh, right. I didn’t think about i
t like that. I mean...I get it. It’s just like if I have a pimple on photo day.”
“Just like that.” Felicity laughs softly, then blinks, lifting her head and looking at me standing there like a dumbstruck moose in the hallway. She flushes, clearing her throat. “Sorry.”
She has nothing to apologize for.
Except maybe the fact that my heart’s about to blow through my rib cage, watching this woman talk to my kid in such a sweet, reasonable way. Without even trying, she’s helping him work through things he needs to learn as an adult, but that my clumsy ass isn’t always equipped to teach.
The way to some men’s hearts is through their stomachs.
Looks like the way to mine is through my son.
I finally make myself stop gawking at her like a moon-faced moron and flash a smile.
“Hey, no worries. You want some coffee? I told him to ask, but I see you fell down the rabbit hole.”
“I really didn’t mind. Eli’s talented.” She flashes me a smile, while Eli beams at her with stars in his eyes. Her smile fades as she glances into my kitchen at the brewer going steady with a fresh pot. “I’m not drinking coffee if it’s out of that.”
I blink. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Drip is the lowest life form on the coffee hierarchy.” She pushes to her feet, sliding smoothly off the stool in a little undulating twist that pulls her blouse up. Just enough to show a tempting hint of velvety pale skin in the curve of her waist. “I know these cabins come with French presses. I’m the one who helped Ms. Wilma pick them out. So. I’ll drink coffee with you, on the condition that you let me make you better coffee.” She grins. “I even happen to have a case of my special Felicity-branded roast in the trunk of my car.”
“If it’s Felicity-branded, how can I resist?” I chuckle. “Also, we’ve got a rule here. If you’re making coffee, you earned breakfast. I insist.”
Felicity’s smile sinks.
She looks at me uncertainly, darting her eyes away, tucking her hair behind her ear with her fingers curved so lightly.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose, I just—”
“You’re not imposing. Stay,” I finish for her.
I want to yank that idea right the hell out of her head right now.
No matter the rumors, no matter what the fuck people say about her or what they’ve made her believe, I’m not judging her.
My opinion begins and ends with the woman she’s shown me from my first hurried coffee runs into her place for the crew. Now I see one who’s warm, caring, smart, thoughtful, willing to risk herself to save a kid who isn’t even her own. That’s the Felicity Randall I’ve met.
That Felicity Randall is welcome around me anytime.
Just to put her pride at ease, I grin and say, “I told you. You earned it. We’re trading services here. My cooking for your coffee.”
She still looks uneasy, and I wonder again what’s brought her to my doorstep. Somehow, I don’t think it’s a neighborly chat when we’re not proper neighbors—never mind small-town hospitality.
After a moment she nods and a small, troubled smile flickers over her lips. “Okay, deal. Give me a second, and I’ll bring in the grounds. The French press should be in the second cabinet above the sink.”
“I’ll get it washed out and ready for you.”
She only nods and gives Eli a warmer smile before turning and slipping out. I watch through the window while she pops the trunk of her car and then disappears behind it.
I tear myself away and focus on rummaging around in the cabinets for the—oh. Yep. There it is. I think?
This thing looks like it should be used for pressing something with this disc on a stick inside the large glass cylinder.
Look, I know how good coffee tastes.
I’ll leave the mechanics to the experts.
It’s a little dusty, but a quick rinse in the sink and a wipe with a towel has it gleaming good as new. By the time I set it down on the counter, Felicity’s already letting herself back in, fingers plucking at the little tabs sealing a tight-packed bag of grounds closed.
The moment it opens, the scent of nirvana fills the room, bursting into every corner—earthy, rich, dark, nutty. I take in a deep breath, flaring my nostrils.
“Damn, that smells divine.”
Felicity ducks her head, and a faint flush warms her cheeks until she’s nearly glowing. “It’s a hazelnut-caramel roast,” she says, giving me a dry look. “I know your order. You have a sweet tooth sometimes. Figured I’d go for a sweeter blend.”
“Pretty unique. Most people add their flavoring in after.”
“Yep. I wanted to try something new. Something different.” She starts to venture past the island and into the kitchen, then pauses with a questioning gesture, only to step farther inside a second later, passing me in a whiff of coffee, sweetness, and something deliciously Felicity as she moves to the French press. “Most of the time beans are mass-roasted for distribution. I’m distributing, too, but since I’m making small batches, I can afford to experiment. And most of my sales go to a candy shop and its spinoff café in Chicago, so I thought maybe people coming in for candy would appreciate something sweeter.”
I appreciate her sweetness, all right.
There’s this certain way she talks about her handiwork as she fills the kettle on the stove, her voice so soft, her eyes lowered, care in every word and every action.
It’s the same way I imagine you’d hear a master artisan talk about their craft, from a fine crafter of violins to a gifted painter.
Frankly, it’s beautiful.
I’ve always thought you can put that kind of love into anything you make, no matter how small or mundane it might seem. It’s clear Felicity has.
It’s also awfully clear I’m staring at her again like my eyes have no chill.
Good thing she’s busy with the coffee.
I clear my throat and get myself together, jerking my gaze from her face to her hands so I can at least look like I’m interested in the process and not just her.
“So you grind your own beans, too?”
“Mm-hmmm.” It comes out absent, murmured, as she leaves the kettle to simmer and then does some arcane thing to the French press that makes it come apart in neat pieces. “I bag and sell whole beans for the purists who want to grind their own. Grinding them makes them lose flavor, so it’s better if you buy whole beans and only grind when you’re ready to use them. But not everyone has time for that, or cares enough to bother.” She smiles ruefully and shrugs. “These were just ground and bagged last night, so they’re still strong.”
I could listen to her talk about this for days.
I’m barely even processing the words. Just listening to the soothing pride in her voice turning every syllable into silk and watching the absorbed expression on her face.
Not to mention the way she bites her lip so gently as she focuses on pouring steaming hot water into the press’ carafe, carefully streaming it down the sides till it forms a small puddle in the bottom.
I’m honestly confused. Guess it must show on my face, because she glances at me sidelong with a smile.
“You have to preheat the glass evenly for the best result,” she says, setting the kettle back down on the stove.
“Ah. Preheat. Got it.”
She turns the kettle off before stealing a measuring cup from my pantry, then shakes out some of those grounds. The movement releases another burst of delicious scent that makes my stomach rumble like it’s caught a whiff of hazelnut-caramel pastries.
Yeah, my gut’s as subtle as a grizzly bear waking up from hibernation.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Felicity stifles a giggle behind her hand, then glances at me, clearing her throat.
“I guess I made it smell pretty good in here,” she says. “Or you’re just starving. I did interrupt breakfast.”
“We hadn’t started in yet. I just need to let everything cook for a few more minutes.” I move next to her, tu
rning the burners back on the stove and putting the oven back on. The biscuits might be a little thick from turning off before they finished cooking, but we’ll survive.
It’s pretty comfortable for the next few minutes.
Felicity and I work side by side in extremely close quarters while I make sure the eggs are good and cheesy, the bacon crisp, the hash browns rich and buttery.
She puts grounds in the press and fills it up, releasing so much of that heavenly scent it’s nearly dizzying, only to stir and then do—something—that releases a rushing cloud of aromatic steam that flushes up like some kind of magic trick.
“That was so cool!” Eli gasps, and I jump. He’d been so quiet, watching us so intently, that I’d half forgotten he was there. He grins. “I gotta tell Mr. Leo about that. Zach says he hates making coffee over a campfire. It’s always gritty.” He stops, giving me a look that’s almost too cunning for a twelve-year-old. “I mean. I gotta tell him—if you give me permission to go camping.”
“I told you I haven’t made up my mind yet.” And I won’t, not till I get a chance to feel out the areas around town better and figure out just how safe they are. I point my spatula at him. “I’ll talk to Leo when we drop you off today.”
The impending pout immediately turns into a hopeful smile. “I still get to go hiking?”
“You still get to go hiking. After breakfast and a shower.” I toss my head toward the hall. “Food’s almost ready. Go clean up.”
I barely get the last word out before Eli’s off the stool, tablet abandoned as he zips toward the bathroom.
Oof. I miss having that kind of boyish energy.
Once he’s gone, though, I glance at Felicity and offer her a smile as I pull down a second coffee cup to add to the first I’d already put out. Then I start portioning up the food onto three plates.
I always make a little too much in case Eli needs a snack later, so I’ve got plenty for a guest. Felicity pours that amazing-smelling coffee and pulls over the tall sugar canister on the counter.
“I already know you take yours with a half-pound of sugar and a dash of heavy cream,” she teases. “In the fridge?”
