Page 35 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Cassian

Things between Mal, Lilah, and me don’t move fast. Not because we’re unsure about us—fuck knows, I’ve never been more certain of anything—but because Birchwood Springs doesn’t make it easy.

There are thousands of issues that arise every day, like fires or Atlas taking on a woman who is running away from her sociopathic husband. Have I mentioned she’s also pregnant?

And then there’s the real problem with this town: the people. There are too many ears, too many eyes and too many mouths just waiting to run wild. It feels like everyone’s waiting for someone to give them a show.

They can wait all they want. We’re not providing them with any more wood for their gossipy fire.

Our relationship is fragile—not in a weak, uncertain way, but in that rare, just-barely-beginning way. That delicate balance where one wrong move could make it all unravel, and yet, it’s already the only thing that feels remotely real.

It’s only been a couple of months, and already it feels like I’ve set the whole damn town on fire for just one night of peace with the two of them.

One night without pretending I’m unaffected.

One night where I don’t have to pretend, I don’t want them—desperately, stupidly, and so recklessly that it almost feels like punishment.

Every glance. Every accidental touch. Every heated look that lingers just a little too long. It builds. Simmering between us like we’re all walking around with lit matches and gasoline in our pockets.

We talk, of course we do. There’s texts and voice messages that sometimes feel like mini-podcasts.

We have brief chats here and there when I visit Lilah at the coffee shop.

Sometimes, she shows up at the bar, her eyes scanning until they find mine—and then we say nothing.

Not really, because I’m too fucking busy.

The restraint between us? It’s a miracle none of us have snapped yet.

She’s usually in bed before I’m even free to breathe. My nights end when hers begin. Knowing she’s across town—flushed from our last interaction while I’m stuck pouring drinks for strangers—feels like a special kind of punishment.

Since the tattoo parlor opened, the town’s changed.

More visitors. More foot traffic. More people passing through, making me fidgety because one of these days, someone will come without me noticing and will fuck the town.

Yet, somehow, even in the middle of all that noise, I feel more exposed than ever.

Because nothing hides when I see them.

Nothing feels safe when I imagine how it could be—if we let go of the restraint if we stopped pretending that this doesn’t mean something. If we gave in. Not to mess. Not to drama. But to something honest. Something that burns like sin and salvation.

Fuck, thinking about it makes it harder to sleep.

It makes breathing feel like work when I picture her mouth parted with need. When I remember how Mal grips the edge of the bar like he’s one second away from pulling me across it. When I see her looking at both of us like we’re hers—and she doesn’t even know it yet.

Mal and I see each other more often, but most of the time, it’s all about work. About the Hollow Syndicate and the next whisper of a threat. It’s not about us. Not about her. Not about the three of us becoming whatever the hell this is turning into.

We have to be careful.

Because even a hint of this thing between us could turn into ammunition. Something they could use. Something that could ruin her.

Especially her.

If Lilah’s name ever got dragged into the wrong conversation—if the Syndicate even caught wind that she mattered to us—it wouldn’t stop at rumors or backroom talk.

It’d end in blood.

And that’s not melodrama. That’s our fucking reality.

The more time I spend in this town, the more I realize the Timberbridge brothers have targets painted on their backs. Maybe they always have. But now, the Syndicate’s closing in.

As if that isn’t enough, Atlas is playing house with a woman he claims is his wife.

Except she’s not.

She’s hiding—from a man who left bruises on her skin and fingerprints on her soul. A man who won’t stop until he drags her back—or destroys her trying. And that bastard has power. Influence. Connections that snake too close to the Hollow Syndicate to be coincidence.

Atlas decided she was worth protecting, even if it means building a lie so thick it leaves no room for truth.

He hasn’t told his brothers. Not even Mal, who might actually help instead of standing back.

But Atlas refuses. Won’t let them in. There’s too much history between them.

Too much hurt that never got patched up.

And I don’t get it—not really. Not how two men who’d take bullets for strangers can’t figure out how to talk to each other without drawing blood.

I’ve worked with both Timberbridge brothers. Seen how they move. How they protect. They’re loyal as fuck. Fierce and relentless. And just broken enough to think they have to do everything alone until the world knocks them flat on their backs.

So, I’m here. As a bar owner, Atlas’s backup, and also a vigilante.

Being Atlas’s babysitter isn’t my favorite part of this mission, if I’m being honest. Though I have to be because he’s fucking family in too many ways.

I could protest and tell him to send her on her way, but I’ve seen how he looks at her.

Somehow, his fake marriage doesn’t feel fake.

If he’s not already in love, then he’s falling—and falling hard. It’s written in the way he watches her when she’s not looking. The way his whole body reacts when her name is even whispered.

And maybe that’s what keeps me stuck here—half-tethered, half-waiting—wondering if it’s really that simple.

If it’s actually possible, just to decide the person standing in front of you is the one. The one you want to wake up next to. The one whose laugh stays lodged in your throat long after they’re gone. The one you’d fight for, bleed for, lie for.

Or maybe it’s not a decision. Perhaps it just happens without notice. There’s no logic, just hearts and souls connecting in ways you can’t see until you’re madly in love and consumed by everything. Is that even possible?

A knock pulls me from my thoughts.

I rush to the door, reaching for the door handle, my pulse tripping over itself because I know it’s her. Delilah Mora has arrived at the cabin so we can have some time together without worrying about anything—just us.

She’s standing there with that crooked smile, wearing snug jeans that hug her hips just enough to make breathing difficult, and a fitted long-sleeve turtleneck sweater layered under a soft jacket—unzipped like the cold doesn’t touch her.

Her hair’s tousled from the wind. Cheeks flushed a perfect winter-rose pink, lips slightly parted like she’s been holding something back all day—and maybe longer than that.

I don’t mean to reach for her.

But I do.

I step forward, one hand curling around her waist, the other sliding up to the back of her neck as I pull her into me. Her breath catches just before her body does. Her hands land against my chest, fingertips twitching like they’re deciding whether to push or hold on.

“Hi,” she greets me.

“Hey,” I murmur back, forehead brushing hers. My eyes drop to her mouth, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath, to taste the possibility between us.

She smells of vanilla and something citrusy—not perfume, but her. Skin warmed by a car heater. Lemon tea steeped into the fabric of her coat. The scent of someone who’s braved the cold all day and just stepped into warmth for the first time.

I don’t move. Neither does she. The silence stretches, but it isn’t empty. It hums between us, thick with everything we haven’t said. Everything we haven’t touched.

“Are you going to let me in?” she asks, voice low and laced with something that coils heat low in my spine.

“Already did,” I murmur, fingers still at her waist, reluctant to let go.

But I step back. Barely. Just enough to reach behind her and push the door open.

She walks in slowly, eyes sweeping the room like it might disappear if she blinks too fast. I follow, closing the door with a solid click of finality. Whatever’s out there—Rosalinda, the town, questions we’re not ready to answer—can wait.

“Do you think Mal minds that we’re here without him?” she asks, finally breaking the silence as she shrugs off her coat.

“Not even a little,” I say, hanging her jacket on the hook by the door. “He said we could use it whenever we needed. And today feels like a good ‘whenever’ day, don’t you think?”

I wiggle my eyebrows, smirking just enough to make her roll her eyes—but not enough to hide how damn good it feels to have her here.

“How long can you stay?” I ask, the question scraping closer to want than it probably should.

Lilah gives me a sideways glance and a groan that’s too soft to be a real annoyance.

“A few hours. Maybe until before dinner,” she says, crossing the living room.

“My mom would know within seconds that I’m up to no good if I’m late.

I’m pretty sure she keeps a spreadsheet of my location.

Times. GPS coordinates. Probably color-coded tabs for ‘mildly suspicious’ and ‘definitely getting laid’ activities. ”

I laugh, the sound spilling out before I can stop it. “You could move out of the house, you know?”

“It’s my house,” she calls out, already halfway to the kitchen. “It’d be weird.”

“What’s going on with her place again?”

“She’s doing renos—one of those ‘stage-by-stage’ things that makes the whole damn place unlivable—for two years.” She pops open the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. “Honestly, I think it’s just an excuse to live with me. I mean, Grandma lived with us until she died.”

“Your grandmother lived here?”

She nods as she twists the cap open. “Yeah. Once my grandfather passed, Mom dragged her from California to our sleepy little town. I was seven.”