Page 15 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)
Chapter Twelve
Malerick
I should’ve drawn a line and ignored them.
When Cassian walked into that coffee shop, I should’ve slammed my laptop shut and requested reassignment. Disappeared. Vanished. Pulled an MIA act so complete, they’d name a new protocol after me.
I should’ve booked a one-way trip to Mars the second Delilah looked at him like he wasn’t a man—but a complication she wanted to unravel slowly, maybe with both hands and probably her mouth.
That look should’ve been a warning. A bright red fucking flare telling me to leave the bar, burn all my accounts, and never look back.
But I didn’t.
Because there’s too much going on in this town just to bail and let the whole place detonate. I’m too fucking responsible for that. Too stitched together by guilt and protocol to let everything fall apart on someone else’s watch.
I’m the one who deals with the wreckage—cleans blood out of carpet, betrayal out of memory, stitches silence into the gaps no one wants to speak about.
The one who stays behind after they’ve all unraveled, acting like it’s fine.
Like I’m not cracking in places I pretend don’t exist. Like I was made for it.
Like it doesn’t wreck me more with every damn breath.
“This brooding at work should be illegal.”
I glance up, jaw already clenched, expecting my assistant or one of the deputies. But no. Of course not.
It’s Rosalinda, striding into my office like she owns the building—scarf flapping like she’s summoning a storm, tote bag swinging with the confidence of someone who knows she’s always carrying the upper hand and at least three containers of divine punishment.
“Oh, good. You’re still here,” she says, like I’m a figment she conjured and not the sheriff of this cursed town.
“I work here,” I mutter.
“Details,” she waves her hand, dismissing my entire career like it’s interpretive dance. “We need to talk.”
I rub my temples. With Rosalinda, “we need to talk” could mean anything from organizing a neighborhood watch to declaring war on squirrels. This woman is adorable most days, but I don’t have time to entertain her nonsense.
“Rosalinda, with all due respect?—”
“I cooked you something.”
I pause because that intrigues me. The Mora women know their way in the kitchen like no other person I’ve known.
“You . . . cooked for me?”
She thrusts a container into my hands like it’s an offering and a challenge. “Don’t look at me like that. I know you haven’t been eating properly. You’ve got that hollow look. Like you’re skipping meals and calling it strategy.”
It doesn’t even make sense, but she’s not wrong about my eating habits.
I glance down. Empanadas. Mole. My fucking favorite.
The smell of spice and golden pastry hits me, and my stomach betrays me with a growl loud enough to file a noise complaint.
“Mole?” I ask quietly.
“Yes, those are your favorite.” Her smile softens into something dangerously maternal. “I promised Therese I’d keep an eye on you, and I’ve been slacking.”
“Thanks,” I say, because I don’t know what else to do when the mother of the woman I’m trying not to love is looking at me like I’ve already failed her.
She plops into the chair across from my desk, the queen on her throne. “Now, let’s talk about my daughter.”
Fuck.
“Rosalinda—”
“She’s a disaster,” she says brightly, like it’s a compliment. “But she’s my disaster. And if you—or that tall, brooding friend of yours—break her heart, I will hex your plumbing and file a very pointed complaint with your ancestors.”
I blink. “You believe in plumbing hexes?”
“I believe in consequences.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then I almost laugh. Almost, but I don’t because this woman can be a little terrifying—more like a lot.
Rosalinda narrows her eyes, voice dropping low with eerie calm. “You love her.”
It’s not a question.
I look down at the empanadas like they’ll tell me what the hell I’m supposed to say. “I don’t know what I feel.”
“Bullshit.”
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“It’s not that simple,” I manage eventually.
“It is,” she says, folding her hands in her lap like she’s about to lead prayer. “You either show up or you don’t. That’s the difference between men who stay and men who run.”
My jaw tightens. I close my eyes, just for a second. “You don’t know everything.”
She snorts, unimpressed. “Hombres. Son más necios que un burro.” A sigh escapes her like she’s been carrying my secrets for too long. “You walk around like you’re not allowed to want anything. Like wanting is a weakness. Like love’s a thing you admire from the window but never dare touch.”
Her words land like a punch wrapped in velvet.
“And I know my daughter,” she continues. “She doesn’t give her heart easily. But if she ever does? If you’re the idiot lucky enough to be holding it—” her gaze slices through me, calm and brutal “—then you better not drop it because you’re too scared of what you want.”
I could say maybe she’d be better with Cassian, but that would be a lie.
I fucking know it, he fucking broke my heart,or at least that’s how it felt.
After our brief conversation last week, I’m not sure how things ended.
Not that I know exactly how they began. It just happened and suddenly it was over.
But I don’t have many guarantees that he’ll stay. What if he leaves things wrecked and ruined and hollowed out?
Why the fuck am I letting him stay? He should be evicted out of this town. No second chances, not even if he’s the man who’s supposed to help me with the Syndicate.
Rosalinda stands and pats my shoulder like she’s bestowing a blessing—or a final warning. “Eat the empanadas. There’s more food in the bag. And fix whatever the hell is going on. Before I do it for you.”
Then she leaves.
Just like that.
No dramatic monologue. No exit music. Just a woman on a mission, walking out of my office like she didn’t just strip me down to the bone and shame in under five minutes.
I stare at the container in my hands.
Empanadas.
Then, glance back to the empty space. Well, at least now I know where Delilah learned to walk away like that.
Like she’s already won. If only I knew what the fuck I just lost.