Page 3

chapter

two

Strays always seemed to find Vanessa Harmon.

Three cats. A mangy, one-eyed dog. A bearded dragon. A chinchilla. And now, apparently, a six-foot-something ex-con with a haunted stare and scarred hands that looked like they could snap a man’s neck.

Maybe had snapped a man’s neck.

Oh, God. She must be crazy.

She hadn’t planned on giving him a ride.

Hadn’t meant to invite him into her bakery.

It was stupid and reckless, and after spending the whole of her son’s life doing everything in her power to protect him, it was completely out of character.

But there was something about Jax… something broken that felt familiar.

And, God help her, but she’d always had a soft spot for the broken ones.

She pulled into the alley behind the bakery and turned off the ignition. The engine ticked as it cooled. Morning fog still clung to the mountains, but here in town, the air was crisp and clear.

Jax hadn’t said a word since they’d left the side of the road. He sat motionless in the passenger seat, eyes fixed out the window, one hand clenched around the strap of his duffel like he was waiting for someone to rip it away.

“You coming in?” she asked lightly.

He didn’t move.

She unbuckled her seatbelt, climbed out, and rounded the back of the car to get Oliver. The little boy was already working on his seatbelt with the kind of grim determination that meant he really needed a bathroom or he was starving, possibly both.

By the time she got the door open, Oliver launched himself out like a tiny rocket. “Can I have a monster muffin?”

“We’ll see.”

Jax had finally gotten out of the car. He stood beside it, tall and still, his duffel slung over one shoulder, hazel eyes scanning the storefront like it was enemy territory.

His dark blond hair was messy from the wind, jaw shadowed by stubble, and the worn T-shirt stretched just enough to suggest the muscles underneath weren’t just for show.

Nessie’s breath caught.

He wasn’t classically handsome, not in the polished, movie-star sense. He was raw. Rough-edged. The kind of man who looked like he’d seen too much, survived too much, and could still break you in half if he wanted to.

And, judging by the sudden clenching low in her belly, that worked for her.

God, she had terrible taste in men.

She turned to look at the bakery, trying to see it through his eyes. Anything to keep from staring at the man who made her pulse do something it hadn’t done in a long, long time.

The bakery was a narrow brick building sandwiched between Bitterroot Drug and Maple Street, its green awning faded by a dozen Montana winters and summers.

Upstairs, her apartment windows looked out over Main Street, their flower boxes stuffed with cheerful marigolds and trailing ivy.

The sidewalk was cracked in places, the wooden porch slightly warped with age.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was hers , and it had kept her and Oliver safe for four years.

His gaze landed on the sign hanging over the porch— Nessie’s Place— complete with a stylized green sea monster rising out of a steaming cup of coffee, her tail curling into a heart.

Nessie braced for the inevitable comment. The raised brow. The smirk.

Instead, he just stared at it like he couldn’t figure out what the hell he’d walked into.

She shrugged. “What? You think I wasn’t gonna lean into the name?”

His mouth twitched—almost, almost a smile—but it faded just as fast.

“Your monster has eyelashes,” he said flatly.

“Of course she does. She’s a lady. Don’t be rude.”

Another flick of a smile, there and gone in a blink, and she suddenly, desperately wanted to see a real smile from him. He was already a handsome man, if a bit rough around the edges. But she bet, when he really smiled, he was stunning.

Oliver ran ahead and danced impatiently in front of the door as Nessie unlocked it, then he flung it open. “Come on, Jax! You’ll like it here. It smells like cinnamon!”

Jax hesitated again, gaze darting from the sign to the window to the bright teal front door like he was weighing all his escape routes.

“You can sit by the window,” she offered, and flipped on the light. “Closest to the exit.”

His jaw flexed. Then he gave a short nod and followed her in.

Oliver had already disappeared behind the counter, chattering to himself as he climbed onto a step stool. “Mom, can I help make the coffee? I know how to push the buttons!”

“Not yet, baby. Let me get everything started first.”

Jax chose the table closest to the front door, just like she’d suggested. Set his duffel on the floor beside his chair and kept his back to the wall, eyes on the street outside.

The man looked like someone had taken all the fight out of him, leaving nothing but nerves and scars.

Nessie had seen that look before. Mainly in her own mirror, after she’d finally escaped Alek.

She moved behind the counter, flipping switches and firing up equipment. The espresso machine screeched to life, and she winced. She desperately needed a new one.

She tied her favorite apron around her waist—bright yellow with a cartoon donut that said “Donut Worry, Be Happy”—and started pulling ingredients from beneath the counter to start the first batch of muffins.

Lemon raspberry today, she decided. She wanted something bright, something that would look pretty in the pastry case.

And she’d do some of the monster muffins Oliver loved—mixed berry with green frosting and little candy eyes.

But she had to get a move on. She was already behind and would only just have the first batches done by the time she opened at seven.

“Coffee?” she called over to Jax.

He nodded without looking away from the window.

“What do you take in it?”

“Black.”

Of course he did. Men like him always took their coffee black, even if they didn’t like it, as if a sweetener might somehow diminish their masculinity. She’d bet money he took his whiskey neat and his bad news standing up, too.

She bit back a smile and started the first pot brewing while Oliver climbed onto the chair across from Jax.

“Mom makes the best coffee in Montana,” he said matter-of-factly, as if he knew the difference between a good cup and a bad one. “Mrs. Pendry says it’s strong enough to wake the dead.”

“Good.” Jax’s voice was rough, like he didn’t use it enough.

“Jax, do you like monsters?”

“No.”

Oliver’s face fell, but only for a second. “What about good monsters? Like Mom’s monster? She’s not scary. She just wants to give people coffee and yummy treats and make them happy.”

Jax turned to look at her son. The man had the most fascinating eyes, not quite green, but not brown, either, and rimmed with thick lashes any woman would envy. Now those eyes watched Oliver with equal parts trepidation and fascination. “I don’t know if I believe in good monsters.”

“Well, you should. ‘Cause they’re the best kind.”

“They sure are.” Nessie ruffled her son’s hair, then turned to grab mugs from the shelf.

The morning routine was familiar, comforting in its predictability.

Flip the switches on the industrial coffee maker.

Check the pastry case. Turn on the ovens.

Count the register. In thirty minutes, she’d need to start the first batch of muffins if they were going to be ready by opening time.

But right now, she had a stranger in her bakery who looked like he might bolt at the slightest provocation. She poured the coffee into a heavy ceramic mug—one of the yellow ones with the hand-painted daisies that made even black coffee look friendly—and carried it over to his table.

“Thanks.” He wrapped his hands around the mug like it was the only warm thing he’d touched in years.

“You hungry? I’ve got day-old Danish, or I could scramble some eggs.”

He shook his head, took a sip, and couldn’t quite hide his grimace. “Coffee’s fine.”

Uh-huh, he liked it black, all right. Next time, she’d add cream and sugar without asking.

She lingered by his table, studying the sharp angles of his face, the way his shoulders hunched forward like he was trying to make himself smaller. “When’s the last time you ate?”

His jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of surprise that she’d called him on his evasion. Then the shutters came down again.

“Yesterday,” he said finally.

“Breakfast yesterday, or dinner yesterday?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.” She turned back toward the kitchen. “Eggs it is.”

“I don’t need charity.”

“It’s not charity. It’s breakfast.” She kept her tone light. “And if you’re worried about paying, I can put you to work. The delivery guy stacked all the flour bags in front of the freezer again, and I need them moved.”

Something like relief crossed his face. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Great. I’ll fix you something to eat, and then you can earn it.” She turned back toward the kitchen. “Oliver, show Jax where the bathroom is if he wants to clean up.”

She hadn’t meant anything by it, but when she glanced back, Jax’s shoulders had tensed again. He looked down at his hands—dirty from changing her tire—and his jaw tightened.

“Second door,” Oliver offered, pointing down the hallway. “The first one’s a closet with mops. It smells funny. You don’t wanna go in there.”

Jax nodded stiffly and stood, leaving his duffel by the chair. He disappeared down the hall without another word.

Nessie exhaled slowly. What was she doing? She didn’t know anything about this man except that he was from Valor Ridge, which meant he had a record. A serious one. Walker Nash didn’t take on shoplifters and jaywalkers. He worked with men who’d done real damage.

And she’d just invited one into her bakery. With her son.

The smart thing would be to call Boone Callahan. He’d want to know about his escapee.