Page 66 of Bennett

As they descended the stairs, Bennett’s phone buzzed with a text. His chest tightened until he pulled out his phone and noted Mac’s name on the screen.

Thank God. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with more attempts at contact from his cousin.

He opened Mac’s text.

Gabe just called. Patrol tracked down the white pickup spotted near the diner. Belongs to the ex-server’s boyfriend. Guy’s been hanging around more than usual. Might just be an overzealous protector, but Gabe’s not ruling anything out.

Bennett exhaled slowly as the words confirmed his earlier thoughts about that perp. He wasn’t the one responsible for this mess.

The white pickup explained one piece of the puzzle, but not the rest.

The damage at the apartment. The tampered wiring. The broken cabinet doors. The mortar. That was too methodical—too targeted to be the work of a jealous boyfriend trying to play hero for his fired girlfriend.

No. That was something else entirely.

He looked back down at the text. Gabe might not be ruling the guy out, but Bennett already had.

This wasn’t about jealousy.

It was about pressure. Leverage. Control.

And someone was trying damn hard to push Annie Winslow into giving up that building.

“Something new?” Matthew asked when they reached the first floor.

“White pickup belongs to the ex-server’s boyfriend,” Bennett said, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “Guy’s been lurking. Could explain the burnt fabric and the note at the diner.”

“But not the rest,” Matthew finished with a frown.

“Exactly,” Bennett muttered. “That guy might be causing trouble, but he’s not the one with a grudge against this building.”

“Then we’ve still got two separate problems,” Matthew said.

Bennett nodded once. “And only one of them is escalating.”

A flash of Laurel’s earlier glance hit him—soft, unguarded. She’d thought he wasn’t watching.

He was.

And if whoever was behind this had any idea just how much that woman was becoming a reason for him to stay sharp?

They’d pick a different damn target.

Chapter Fourteen

The next day, the clink of dishes and the low hum of conversation filtered through the diner like a familiar lullaby. Mid-afternoon sunlight poured in through the front windows, casting wide golden rectangles across the linoleum floor. The rush was long over, and a sense of calm had settled into the building.

Laurel stacked a few empty plates onto a tray and offered a lazy wave to Arthur and Nelson, who were finishing their peach cobbler and arguing over the best decade for country music.

The late lunch crowd had thinned, leaving only a handful of regulars scattered throughout the diner. She slid behind the counter, where Belinda was refilling the sugar canisters, and Annie was sitting on a stool, sipping her tea and chatting with a woman from her poker club. Her aunt looked better today. Her cheeks were a little rosier, her hair tucked up in one of her brighter scarves. More like herself.

“Still breathing?” Belinda asked, side-eyeing Laurel.

“Barely. I think my feet gave up two tables ago.” Laurel pulled her ponytail a little tighter, then grabbed a towel to wipe down the counter.

A sharp jolt of memory of Bennett’s mouth on hers, the counter pressed to her back, the heat of his hands made her suck in a quick breath. She blamed the unseasonally warm heat. That was it. Not the way her body still reacted to the memory, or how her knees had almost given out when he’d whispered, “You’re not a mission,” a few days ago.

Belinda arched a brow. “You okay?”