Page 3 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)
Chapter Two
Malerick
“This town doesn’t need a bar,” I mutter, barely audible, as I stare at the building like it’s my sworn enemy. “We were fine without a bar.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve complained about it, and it won’t be the last. The place closed after a series of incidents that have been happening in this town.
Like the Doherty mansion catching fire. The Old Birchwood Timber warehouse catching fire.
Nysa, my sister-in-law, getting kidnapped .
. . yeah, this fucking town is a dumpster fire.
I don’t blame anyone who decides it’s not worth it to stick around.
In fact, I’ve been telling everyone I care about to pack their shit and find another place to settle, but do they listen to me? Nope. They’re so fucking stubborn. At least two of my brothers don’t give two fucks about the town and are staying away—Keir and Atlas. Let’s just hope it stays that way.
I have one too many things to deal with, including a syndicate that’s trying to take over the town.
That takes me to two. Why in the ever-fucking world people would want to move in here and open a new business is beyond me.
There’s that tattoo parlor which, right before I could try to figure out who was building it, I found out Crait Quantum Shield is involved.
Once I saw that the same contractor was working with the bar, I assumed they had something to do with the agency.
Should I ask what they’re doing? Honestly I try not to reach out to them because every time I do, I end up regretting it.
I have theories. They’re either bringing people to help with the Syndicate, or they liked the fucking town so much that . . . well, I don’t understand that part. I wouldn’t move here unless it was strictly necessary. Hence why I’m here.
Them . . . I need to figure out their motives.
Neither of the buildings changed much in their exterior. In the bar, they simply scrubbed the rust, painted the trim, and gave it a facelift convincing enough to fool outsiders. But not me. I know that place. Every fucking inch of it.
It still looks exactly the same as it did when I was fifteen, walking by, hoping my father was passed out inside and wouldn’t come home to break another plate, inflict another bruise, or shatter another happy memory.
“Another grumpy Timberbridge complaining about the town,” Delilah says with a loud sigh as she hands me a paper cup. “How innovative.”
I accept it wordlessly, wrapping my hand around the warmth as if it could defrost whatever part of me refuses to let go of this place. “For me?”
“Double espresso with two pumps of mocha sauce and some frothy milk—or what we in the ‘biz’ like to call a mocha latte, Sheriff.” Her voice drips with sarcasm, but her eyes are soft. Too soft. She always sees more than she ought to.
“Let me guess,” I murmur. “You want me to pay?”
She laughs, that sunburst of a laugh that always lands somewhere between flirting and calling me out on my bullshit. Honestly, that’s the only reason I said it. Not because I want free coffee.
Because I want to hear her laugh again. And maybe—stay a few minutes longer than I should.
There’s something about being around her that makes the edges of the day feel less brutal.
I like Delilah. A lot more than I probably should.
She’s one of the people I wish would leave this town before something bad happens to her business—or to her.
I can’t though, she’s too fucking stubborn, and I’m not sure what I would do if she were to leave. Do I like her? What’s not to like?
She’s all curves and quick wit, with sun-kissed skin and eyes that could convince a man to confess to crimes he hasn’t even thought of committing.
Her lashes are obscenely long, brushing against her cheeks when she blinks slowly and unbothered, as if the world can wait.
And her mouth—full, expressive, always flirting with a smirk—could probably persuade anyone into, or out of, just about anything.
Every movement she makes is purposeful but not rehearsed. There’s heat in how she tilts her head and confidence in the sway of her hips. She could shatter a man without raising her voice. And the kicker? I don’t think she knows it, and if she does, she hides it really well.
“You’re funny, Timberbridge,” she says, turning toward the pastry case as if she hasn’t just spun the air between us into something volatile. “Anything else to feed that broody soul of yours?”
“One of those egg sandwiches.” I point to the oven next to the espresso machine. “To go.”
I take a sip of my coffee, and then it happens.
The hair on the back of my neck bristles—not with cold, but with recognition. Or perhaps it’s instinct. That primal pull arrives before your gut has time to catch up.
I feel him , which is strange because there’s no fucking way he could be here. There’s more than just a shift in the room—something beneath the surface hums. Like the atmosphere’s been rewired, or someone opened the door to a life I’ve spent years bolting shut.
The bell above chimes when the front door of The Honey Drop opens. The air thins—not in a poetic, oh-look-he’s-here way. No. It thins in the real, holy-shit-you-can’t-breathe kinda way, as if the air has no oxygen and all the other gases are toxic and might kill you in an instant.
The click of boots against the tile draws closer calm, and leisurely—like whoever entered has got all the time in the world and knows exactly how much air he can steal from the room before anyone realizes they’re suffocating.
I know it’s not just anyone. I can feel it in my blood. My spine locks up. Coffee burns down my throat, but I don’t blink. I just turn.
And, yep, there he is.
Cassian fucking Harlan in all his motherfucking glory.
Tall—of course. Broad shoulders wrapped in a worn leather jacket that looks too expensive to be casual and too casual to be for show.
His face? Still criminal. Strong jawline, perfectly trimmed beard, and lips that have ruined people.
Not metaphorically—he actually fucks with your head and your heart and doesn’t let you catch up before he leaves you wrecked.
His eyes land on me—focused, unreadable. His hair is sun-warmed and tousled like he just dragged a hand through it on his way in, which only adds to the storm he always leaves behind. He walks in like he owns the place like he always did, and for a second, the past wraps tight around my ribs.
His presence? It still turns heads. Women look up from their drinks, men go still, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I’m stuck—dragged back to the version of me that used to watch him from across rooms, pretending I didn’t want what I knew I shouldn’t have.
His eyes lock on mine.
There’s no warmth. No pretense. Just that electric current snapping between us, the air shifting like it remembers everything we’re trying to forget.
My skin prickles. My throat tightens. And just like that, the past isn’t behind me anymore—it’s standing ten feet away in worn boots and a stare that still burns.
“What the fuck is Cassian fucking Harlan doing here?” I mumble under my breath.