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Chapter Twenty

Emma

T wo days after our return from the cabin, I unlock the front door of Chapter & Grind, breathing in the familiar scent of a gorgeous Iron Ridge morning.

Everything looks exactly the same, like it has for years now.

The wooden floorboards still creak, the vintage register sits patiently waiting, and the espresso machine gleams in the early sunlight streaming through the windows.

But I feel irrevocably changed.

My eyes drift across the street to Summit Café, the SOLD sign in its window a reminder of how quickly things can shift. Clara's finished, and with the trade rumors surrounding Logan, I can't help but worry about what other changes might be coming.

The thought sends a familiar ache through my chest.

I'm trying not to dwell on it, on what might happen if Logan gets traded, but it's hard when everything feels so precarious, so wonderful, and so terrifying all at once.

Logan loves me. He says we'll figure it out together, no matter what.

I move through my morning routine, checking inventory, grinding beans, setting out the day's pastries as I think about the Arena Experience Day and everything that still needs doing.

While I work, my mind keeps circling back to the mountain. To Logan's brothers. To the way he held me after I confronted him about hiding the trade rumors. To what it felt like when he promised we'd face whatever came next together.

The bell above the door chimes at precisely 7:45, fifteen minutes before official opening. I look up, expecting Mrs. Henderson, who always arrives early for her morning latte.

Instead, my mother stands in the doorway, clutching her pristine handbag like a shield.

"Mom," I say, unable to hide my surprise. "This is... unexpected."

My mother looks distinctly uncomfortable, eyes darting around the café like she's cataloging potential health code violations. "I was in the area for the garden club. Thought I'd stop by."

I raise an eyebrow. The garden club meets on Thursdays. It's Tuesday.

And it's before 8AM.

"Is that right? Any particular reason?" I ask, my back stiffening slightly.

She hesitates, then sighs. "Melanie mentioned you were away for the weekend. With your hockey player friend."

"My boyfriend, Logan," I correct automatically. "His name is Logan."

"Yes, well." She steps further into the shop, running a finger along the counter's edge. "I stopped by over the weekend but you weren't here. I just wanted to see if you were back safely."

The statement hangs in the air between us, its simplicity masking layers of unspoken meaning.

My mother has never just "stopped by" before. In three years of owning Chapter & Grind, she's visited exactly twice—once for the grand opening and once when Dad insisted she should.

Three times if you count this weekend while I was gone, according to Grandpa Walt.

The thought makes my stomach tighten.

What was she looking for? Proof I'm failing? Evidence that Logan's just another mistake?

I watch her now, fingers drumming against my counter like she's counting down the seconds until she can leave again. But there is something different about her expression today… less judgment, more... worry?

It doesn't fit her.

My mother doesn't worry about me. She corrects me.

Everything between us has always been filled with things left unsaid. Her disappointment in my choices. My refusal to follow Melanie's path. Years of practical suggestions that felt like paper cuts—small but stinging.

But Logan saw me. Really saw me.

The version of myself I'm most proud of. Ambitious, determined, capable of building something beautiful from nothing but coffee beans and stubborn hope.

God… What happens if he leaves? If these trade rumors pull him away from Iron Ridge? From me?

I straighten my spine, feeling the wolf plushie he won me watching from its perch by the register. I've survived worse than a broken heart. I've built this place with my own two hands when everyone said I couldn't.

"I'm back safely, Mom," I confirm, continuing to arrange freshly baked scones in the display case. "We had a nice weekend at his family's cabin. Logan's brothers were there."

Her eyebrows lift slightly. "You met his family?"

"Yes." I straighten, meeting her gaze directly. "They're good people. A little rough around the edges, but genuine."

"I see."

She shifts her weight, clearly uncomfortable.

In Carter family terms, meeting family is one step away from a diamond ring and matching cemetery plots.

"And this community program I've been hearing about? How's that going?"

I blink, surprised by her knowledge of my business. "The Arena Experience Day event is coming up. The final task. is tough, but… I'm getting there with the preparation."

"Melanie says you have a good chance of winning."

"I do." I say it with certainty, not arrogance.

After all the work Logan and I have put in, I'm finally allowing myself to believe it. Even if I still have so much left to do.

My mother glances toward the window, her eyes resting briefly on Summit Café across the street.

" Ahhh … So it's true. I heard Clara Sullivan sold her place. Quite sudden."

"Yes. She's moving to London."

"Hmm. And you're not worried about taking on all that extra business? With Summit gone, you'll be the only coffee shop in town."

The question feels like a test. One of the many she's been giving me since I first announced I was opening Chapter & Grind instead of using my business degree for something "sensible."

"I'm ready for it," I reply, surprising myself with my confidence. "In fact, if we win Outreach Program, I'll have two locations to manage."

My mother studies the café, taking in the carefully arranged books, the warm atmosphere, the modest but undeniable success evident in every corner.

"You've put a lot into this place, Emma."

"It's my dream, Mom," my voice softens. "It always has been."

"Dreams are risky," she says, almost to herself. "When I was your age, I wanted to open a flower shop."

I stare, momentarily stunned. "You did? I never knew that."

"Your father was just starting his practice. We couldn't afford for me to take chances." Her voice is matter-of-fact, devoid of self-pity. "So… I made a practical choice."

"And you've always wanted me to do the same."

She doesn't deny it. "In life… security matters, Emma."

"So does happiness," I counter gently. "I wouldn't be happy doing anything else. Not accounting. Not marketing. This—" I gesture around the café, "—this is who I am."

Something flickers in her eyes.

"And your hockey player… Logan," she corrects herself, "he understands this? What this place means to you?"

I think of Logan's hands building shelves, carrying supplies, fixing everything I need without being asked. How he truly sees me. The way he looked at me when I cried about not feeling good enough, and how he told me I was already more than enough.

"He does. Better than anyone."

She nods slowly. "I worry about you, Emma. Even though you probably think I don't."

The admission catches me off guard. "Mom..."

"No, let me finish." She raises a hand. "I worry because I know how much it hurts when dreams don't work out. But..." she glances around the café again, "it seems yours is working quite well."

It's not quite approval, but it's the closest we've ever come. I swallow against the unexpected tightness in my throat.

"Would you like to try the coffee, Mom?" I offer. "On the house."

She hesitates, then nods. "Well, alright. A small cup. No sugar."

As I prepare a perfect pour-over, I watch my mother from the corner of my eye. Cynthia Carter stands stiffly among the mismatched furniture and literary paraphernalia. Completely out of place, yet somehow, for the first time, making an effort to belong.

"Here," I say, sliding the cup across the counter. "My signature blend. They went crazy for it at the Charity Game a few weeks ago. I called it Hat Trick ."

She takes a careful sip, her eyebrows lifting slightly. "Oooo, yes. This is quite good."

"You sound surprised," I observe, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

"I am," she admits, and the honesty is so unexpected I almost drop the cloth I'm holding. After another contemplative sip, she adds, "Your father mentioned this Arena Day event. When is it exactly?"

"This weekend," I reply, still processing the fact that my parents are apparently discussing my business at home. "Saturday morning at the arena."

"Hmm." She takes another sip. "And Logan will be there?"

"Of course."

I try to keep my voice steady, pushing away the nagging worry about the trade rumors that have been swirling around him. Logan hasn't said anything about an official meeting yet, but the locker room talk is getting louder.

"Well," she says, adjusting her purse. "It would be nice to see what all the fuss is about. And perhaps meet Logan properly."

I nearly choke on air. "You want to come?"

The words escape before I can stop them, shock overriding my usual filter.

"Is that so surprising?"

There's a defensive note in her voice.

Yes , I want to say. Yes, it's as surprising as if you showed up with a tattoo and announced you're joining a motorcycle gang.

Instead, I manage, "I'd like that."

And the strange thing is, I mean it.

After seeing Logan with his brothers, the easy way they communicate despite their differences, I find myself wanting something like that with my own family. Not perfect, not Instagram-worthy, but real.

My mother places her half-finished coffee on the counter and turns to leave. "I'll speak with your father. Perhaps we'll both attend."

The bell tinkles as she departs, leaving me staring after her, mouth slightly open. I'm still standing there when my phone buzzes with a text from Logan.

Morning, gorgeous. Sleep okay without me?

I shake myself out of my daze and type quickly:

OMG. You'll never believe who just stopped by. My mother actually tried my coffee. And LIKED it. She's talking about coming to Arena Experience Day.

His response comes immediately:

Did you check her for a fever?!

I laugh, feeling some of the tension in my shoulders release.

I know, right? Maybe all those years of polite smiles finally broke something in her brain.

As I tuck my phone away, the bell chimes again. It's Mrs. Henderson, right on schedule, followed by the usual stream of morning regulars.

I fall into the familiar rhythm of grinding, brewing, and serving, but my mind keeps circling back to my mother's visit.

For most of my life, I've defined myself in opposition to her expectations.

When she wanted me to be practical, I chased dreams. When she pushed for stability, I embraced risk.

And somehow, in fighting so hard not to become her, I never really saw her.

But today, for just a moment, I glimpsed something different.

A woman who once had dreams of her own. Who made choices—hard ones—and has spent decades wondering "what if."

As I steam milk for Mr. Harrow's cappuccino, I realize Logan isn't the only one facing a crossroads. My mother, in her own way, is trying to bridge a gap too. Making an effort, however awkward and insufficient it might seem.

And isn't that what family really is? Not perfect understanding, but the willingness to try?