Page 7 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Five

Cassian

Who knew a trip to the coffee shop would end in . . . whatever the fuck that was?

Did I come on too strong?

Fuck. I probably did, but I couldn’t help myself.

Let’s rewind.

The woman who owns The Honey Drop café? Yeah.

I noticed her the second she arrived. It was almost four in the goddamn morning, and she was all bundled up and beautiful, unlocking the back door like it didn’t take the wind three seconds to bite through bone.

Her name’s Delilah Mora and she’s been wrecking my focus since the first time I laid eyes on her.

Did I run a background check on her?

. . . Don’t judge me. It wasn’t personal. Just protocol. Let’s call it a smart move. Someone who shows up that early to a café that doesn’t open until six-thirty? That screams something. Commitment, sure. Secrets, maybe. Crime . . . what if she’s laundering money? Smuggling drugs?

Okay, I’ve been doing this job for too long and I don’t trust easily.

I could’ve bundled up and gone downstairs. Introduce myself and figure out her angle with a charming smile. But of course, I didn’t. I’m too fucking tired. That’s what you get when you don’t sleep for more than twenty-four hours.

Since I arrived, I’ve been behind screens—monitoring feeds from the cameras we planted, as well as a few I borrowed from the town without permission.

Mapping alleyways and escape routes. Evaluating the terrain and the people with surgical precision.

In under twenty-four hours, I already know more about this town than most people who’ve lived here their whole damn lives.

Confession time: while doing my job—neck-deep in angles, blind spots, and social patterns—I found him .

Malerick Timberbridge.

Respected sheriff. Local legend. Walking ghost of my past. The town calls him Sheriff Timberbridge like he’s carved out of granite and justice, but I know better. I know who he is underneath the badge and buttoned-up reputation. I tasted what’s underneath.

Or at least, I used to.

When he walked into The Honey Drop less than twenty minutes ago, I should’ve stayed away. I should’ve stayed rational.

Instead . . . fuck, I became irrational and lost my grip on reality.

I dressed like the goddamn building was on fire and ran like a dog chasing his favorite bone. And, no—I didn’t get the bone.

I got hard.

Stupid, throbbing, uncomfortably-hard.

Standing across from Malerick again, my pulse in my cock, and then—Delilah Mora.

And that’s when it really spiraled.

She’s sex and honey and eyes that don’t just see you—they read you. They strip you bare without lifting a finger. The way she moves, the way she holds her space—confident, warm, just a little untouchable.

My brain split in two—one half drowning in the memory of Malerick on his knees, mouth stretched around my cock, eyes locked on mine while he wrecked me in silence.

The other half already imagining Delilah with her back to the wall, dress bunched around her hips, lips parted, gasping that soft little whimper I bet she makes when someone slides two fingers deep and keeps her right there—desperate, wet, and aching for more.

I pushed them too far. I know that.

Too soon. Too much.

But I wanted it.

I wanted them—both of them.

At once. Alternating. Together.

I craved his mouth, her hands, and the sound of their breaths mixing with mine, our bodies tangling until we forgot which limb belonged to who.

And now?

I’m fucking hard.

Still.

And no amount of cold wind or self-control is fixing that anytime soon.

Fuck, the cold hits harder once I’m outside again.

Like Birchwood Springs itself wants me gone.

It stings—skin, bone, ego. Snow crunches beneath my boots as I start to make my way back to the bar—the one I’m pretending to own, the front I’m using to dig into the Hollow Syndicate.

But right now? It all feels like bullshit.

A second-chance story I wouldn’t buy even if it came with free whiskey.

This place—it’s pretty, postcard-worthy even. But I’ve been around long enough to know pretty towns rot, too. Sometimes the poison’s just wrapped in gingham and cinnamon rolls.

I wasn’t supposed to make an entrance.

The plan was simple: slide in, blend like wallpaper, gather intel, wait for orders. Low profile. No drama. Definitely no fucking complications.

I snort and mutter, “No entanglements, remember?”

Like that was ever a real option with Mal around.

The second the boss said, “Birchwood Springs,” something inside me twisted. I didn’t know for sure if Malerick was here, but, fuck, I felt it in my bones. This is his town. There was always a chance he’d be visiting. Of course, we’d cross paths again.

Did I tell anyone?

Not a fucking word.

Let’s just say I’m improvising. If they come back later, demanding why I didn’t mention my history with the local sheriff, I’ll spin some half-truth wrapped in charm and plausible deniability. Not like they’re going to fire me for assuming they already knew.

It’s no secret that Malerick and I were partners in the Bureau.

No one talks about it, but it’s there, between the lines of our service records.

What they don’t know is how many nights ended with bruised knuckles, clenched jaws, and mouths pressed together like we were trying to forget where we were.

What they don’t say—but maybe suspect—is that the line between us was crossed so long ago that it’s just dirt now.

Everyone assumes I left because I got a better offer. A promotion. A new start. And they’re not wrong.

But they’re not right either.

They’ve no idea of the version where I left because staying meant drowning.

Because loving him—and hating him—was too tangled up for us to survive in the same space.

Because there was a third heartbeat in our silence, one that made everything more combustible.

And because every time I saw them together, my insides twisted into something cruel and hungry.

We stopped pretending one night and suddenly, everything we buried started crawling out between us, demanding blood. She wanted us to choose—she didn’t want us together. Three wasn’t an option. Not for her.

And he . . . he wasn’t honest with himself either, so what was left for me to hold on to? I was in love with a man who couldn’t face what we were, tangled up with a woman who treated us like a game—until the moment she decided she wanted something permanent. But there could only be one.

Now here I am, a ghost returning to the scene of the crime—even if we’ve never set foot here before. There he is—same voice, same force behind every syllable. Time hasn’t touched him. His mouth still remembers mine. My body hasn’t forgotten a damn thing.

It remembers.

God help me. It remembers everything.

He looked at me like he never stopped. And I feel it—each glance, each breath—like it’s a question I’ll never be able to answer without bleeding.

We made choices once. I told myself that walking away was a form of survival.

But now?

Now we’re back in the same orbit. Him. Me. And that twist in my gut? It’s not just dread.

It’s memory.

It’s regret.

It’s the truth I never had the guts to say out loud.

The kicker in this whole scenario is that there’s something new too. Her. Delilah Mora.

What’s their story?

There’s something between them—undeniable, magnetic. I could feel it radiating off them like heat from a closed door. For a second—for one brief, sane moment—I considered walking away. Putting space between myself and the fire. But I didn’t.

No.

I leaned in.

I instigated. Provoked. Almost touched them both at once. Just to see what would happen. Just to feel the charge snap against my skin.

Because I wanted them.

Separately, together, all at once. A tangle of limbs, gasps, and desperate hands—everything we hadn’t dared say strung so tight between us it was bound to snap.

I know what it means to do something that reckless. To share someone you shouldn’t. To give a piece of yourself away and then watch it get devoured. You lose your heart, your fucking mind, and you never come back whole.

But still—God, I’m drawn to her.

Delilah.

She had me at: Pay for the coffee. That fire in her voice, the way she looked me dead in the eye like she could take me or break me and enjoy both. Or maybe it was the croissants—those buttery, golden, melt-on-your-tongue sins I know she’s been shaping since three in the goddamn morning.

Or maybe it was the way she looked at me like she was already planning my funeral—after she fucked the life out of me. Like she’d ride me until I begged for mercy, leave scratches down my spine, and then eulogize me with a smile.

Yeah.

That’s when I knew I was fucked. Instead of leaving, I stepped closer. I dared to imagine what it’d be like to burn with them—with her.

It’s not just that she’s beautiful. It’s that there’s something in her eyes—something wild and exhausted and full of bite. She doesn’t just light sparks. She carries matches in her back pocket and doesn’t give a damn if she burns herself along the way.

And fuck me, but I wanted to be the fire she set next.

I don’t know what possessed me to flirt, to dare her, to challenge them and make Malerick believe that I would take her from him.

That’s the thing: I wouldn’t hurt him. Not then, and not even now.

Do I hate him a little because it’s obvious that he’s not happy and he let his demons win over anything that resembled to happiness?

Just a little.

The door clicks shut behind me, and the wind slides down my collar like it’s trying to punish me. I duck my head, and move fast, and my feet are numb by the time I hit the curb.

But then . . . “Well, hello there.” A voice. Soft, warm the way sunlight is through frosted glass.

I stop mid-step. Turn toward a petite woman with dark waves streaked with silver.

She’s wrapped in a wool coat the color of ripe cherries, her lipstick even redder.

Her heels crunch delicately across the floor like she owns the place.

A force of nature in perfume and pearls.

It looks like it belongs to a big city, not a small town.

She smiles like she’s known me her whole life, which—let’s be clear—is impossible.

“You’re the new owner of the bar, aren’t you?” she asks. Her voice? Pure maternal plotting. The woman doesn’t wait for a response. “I saw you arriving yesterday. I was too busy, or I would’ve come to welcome you to our little town.”

I stare at her, because I didn’t notice anyone watching me. Did I look at the coffee place? I was too preoccupied with the hardware store, to be honest. Though I would’ve felt it if someone was watching me, and I didn’t. What the fuck?

Before I can get a word out, she adds, “My daughter Delilah owns The Honey Drop.”

She gestures toward the café like it’s the Taj Mahal.

“Have you met her? She’s single. And sweet. And you look like you could use someone like her to feed you properly.”

I blink a couple of times. Did . . . did I just get hit with the small-town matchmaking ambush?

“I’ve met her,” I say, voice rough. Too rough. Like gravel over regret. “And you are?”

She beams. Not smiles—beams. Her whole face lights up like she’s about to win a crown and a cruise.

“Rosalinda Isabel Mora Pineda,” she says, rolling every syllable like it’s dipped in honey and drama. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Then—because apparently, personal space is optional in Birchwood Springs—she steps forward and wraps me in a hug.

Not just a polite one. A full-body, pat-your-back, you’re-family-now hug.

I stiffen for half a second. Then—God help me—I let it happen.

There’s something grounding about it. Something .

. . maternal and disarming and absolutely terrifying.

“I’m Cassian. Cassian Harlan,” I mutter as she finally releases me, the scent of florals and perfume clinging to my jacket.

Rosalinda steps back, gives me a once-over, and clasps her hands together like she’s just officiated a sacred rite.

“Well, Cassian Harlan,” she says with a sly smile and a dramatic nod toward The Honey Drop, “if you break my daughter’s heart, I will come after you with my chancla.

But . . .”—she sighs, wistful and theatrical—“I think you might just be what she needs. A man with a little sadness in his eyes and too much silence around him.”

What the fuck does one even say to that?

Before I can figure it out, she pats my chest—twice—then turns to walk away.

“Oh, and Cassian?” she calls over her shoulder. “If you do end up marrying her, we’ll have the reception right here in town. The gazebo photographs beautifully in the fall.”

And just like that, Rosalinda Isabel Mora Pineda disappears into the morning fog, having nearly handed me her daughter like a blessing wrapped in café napkins and menace.

I stand there, stunned, freezing, and slightly scented like her lavender hand lotion.

Birchwood Springs doesn’t just want to ruin me.

It wants to marry me off first.