Page 8 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Six

Delilah

“There are too many changes happening in this little town.” I stare at my glass of wine, swirling it as if it might reveal something I haven’t admitted to myself yet.

I’m not even sure what I mean—or what exactly is bothering me.

“What exactly are we talking about?” Nysa lifts her glass, clinking it gently against mine and Galeana’s, like this, is just another casual girls’ night and not a low-key therapy session wrapped in wine and denial.

“Is it the bar? I don’t think it’ll affect you.

He opens by the time you’re closing—or something like that. ”

I nod, because technically she’s right.

The bar itself isn’t the problem. It never was before it closed, and I doubt my sales will decrease now that it has reopened. It’s the man behind it. Cassian Harlan.

The name alone does something to my spine.

Not a chill, not quite tension—more like a quiet disruption that hums beneath my skin.

He’s . . . off. Not in a serial-killer way.

In a why-the-hell-are-you-here way. There’s something too polished, too observant.

Like he’s not just watching the town—he’s . . . I’m not sure what he’s doing here.

And, yeah, maybe I’m exaggerating. But seriously, who buys a bar in a town drowning in bad luck and whispered omens?

It’s like we’re cursed.

Every month, something else falls apart.

Businesses close. Pipes burst. The local vet’s roof collapsed on New Year’s Eve. Even my espresso machine gave up last week, like it sensed the shift and wanted out. I had to accept help from Galeana, who bought a new one—but not until after I made her sign a contract where I promise I’ll pay her.

Mom keeps lighting candles as if we’re living inside a spiritual siege.

She has a rosary in hand and is praying every night.

I wouldn’t be surprised if she starts sprinkling salt across doorways.

She’s gone full-on telenovela mystic. Her anxiety?

Through the roof. Beyond the roof. It’s orbiting somewhere around Mars.

This is one of the reasons I came back to Birchwood Springs: to help her with the bakery, but also because she seemed off. She keeps saying that she’s seen my father. Which would be sweet—if he weren’t dead. As in: died-before-I-was-born dead.

I want to believe her visions are just grief, stress, maybe a side effect of too much patchouli tea and not enough sleep. Every doctor I’ve taken her to insists she’s fine. Their words bounce around my head: “She’s cognitively intact,” “Mental faculties fully preserved,” “No cause for concern.”

While she was visiting my aunts in Mexico, they took her to doctors, even a tarot reader. She’s going to live forever—and her mind is sharper than many. According to my aunties, I’m just hovering. Me. I’m the one hovering.

So, basically, Mom’s brain is functioning better than mine on a Monday.

Still, something’s off. Something I can’t explain and definitely can’t say aloud without sounding like I’ve started drinking spiked holy water in my lattes.

Those are problems I can’t solve. Can’t even speak aloud without someone trying to fix them, or worse—trying to fix me.

“There’s a tattoo parlor opening,” I say, shifting gears, unsure if they’ve heard. “Do we even need one in Birchwood Springs?”

“It’s Atlas’s.” Nysa drops the information like a bomb, but she’s not even aware of the intensity. Just: boom.

My head jerks toward her. “As in Atlas Timberbridge? Your soon to be brother-in-law.”

Because what the fuck?

“My best friend,” she adds, “but yes. He’s opening it. Should be here soon, in case you’re wondering when it’ll happen.”

Of course, it’s Atlas. Of course, it’s one of them.

I don’t mind the Timberbridge brothers coming back—except I do. It’s not personal. At least, I don’t think it is. But they left. All of them. Ghosted this town like it meant nothing. Like we meant nothing.

Now they’re just . . . showing up?

Planting roots?

Opening businesses like Birchwood Springs in some quaint little town that forgives and forgets?

Spoiler: it doesn’t.

Not really. Not when it matters.

Me? I’m different from them. I left to chase a degree. That’s all. There was no dramatic exit, no middle finger to the town sign, no scandal.

Just school.

Was I coming back? At some point, because the goal was always to run my mother’s bakery. That was the plan—leave, learn, and return. I wasn’t running from anything. I was building something out of my mother’s bakery. Everyone loves it, but I wanted it to make a mark.

I spent my twenties working two jobs and studying in libraries that smelled like ambition and overpriced coffee.

I interned at high-end bakeries where no one smiled, and the macarons were somehow always too perfect.

I walked through cities that buzzed with electricity and loneliness, collected bruises and burned croissants, and learned how to keep going even when everything said stop.

I watched other people fall in love, get married, mess it up, and try again while I stayed focused.

Disciplined. I lived out of suitcases, shared walls with strangers, and told myself the struggle was worth it—because one day, I’d come back to Birchwood Springs with enough grit and savings to start the life I wanted.

On my terms and in my town, and I did it. Okay, I came earlier because Mom’s health was worrying me, but I’m still here, happy, and making sure The Honey Drop is the best bakery in Vermont.

But them? The Timberbridges?

Why are they coming back?

What did this town offer them after they left it behind?

They vanished like Birchwood was a chapter they couldn’t wait to close. And now they’re here, as if they never ghosted the place, never broke things they didn’t bother to fix. And maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe people change, find clarity, and realize what matters.

Or maybe they’re just passing through. Again.

That’s the part that pisses me off. I mean, Hopper and Ledger are here to stay for good.

There’s no doubt about that. Ledge is married to Gale.

Hop is engaged to Nysa. I don’t see either one of them uprooting just because they got bored with this town.

Now, Malerick . . . I still don’t understand why he left his job at the bureau to become the sheriff.

There’s something that just doesn’t fit.

Atlas coming back . . . that’s too weird.

Why now?

More importantly, why does it feel like they’re bringing something with them?

“Is he coming to set up shop and then leave?”

Nysa shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. There’s something about the town needing a hand.”

“A hand with what?” I stare at her suspiciously.

She looks at Gale, who looks away from me.

“Oh, so we have secrets. I thought we were best friends.” I glare at the pastries I brought. “You just want me for my goodies.”

Nysa winces. Good. Guilt suits her. Gale, on the other hand, crosses one leg over the other and sips her wine.

“We have to tell her,” Nysa says.

Gale lets out a sigh that’s part exhausted, part exasperated. It’s almost as if she’s saying, Fine, do it, but it’s going to get fucking messy.

“She has to know,” Nysa insists.

“She’s already spiraling,” Gale says, not even trying to sugarcoat it. “If we tell her this town might be taken over by some mafiosos, she’s going to lose her shit.”

“Stop, rewind. Did you just say . . . what the fuck are you talking about?”

They look at each other.

Then, at the ceiling.

Then down at the table, as if it holds answers.

“Mafiosos, Gale?” I repeat. “Is that even a word, or did you binge ‘The Godfather’ while munching on those sleepytime edibles again?”

Nysa laughs. “In her defense, she thought they were gummies.”

Gale points at her. “Your grandma needs to separate real gummies from edibles or at least warn this girl.”

“Can we focus on the mafiosos for a moment?” I interrupt before they digress because that whole I ate your grandma’s gummies thing was hilarious, but this isn’t the time to talk about it. “What do you mean by that?”

This is the last thing the town needs. Fuck, I want to scream. Or throw something. Or eat an entire danish and then scream.

Gale dares to smile. “Technically, no one said mob. Just . . . organized people. Doing organized things. Quietly. Suspiciously.”

I narrow my gaze. “What kind of things?”

“You remember that time when my grandfather’s home exploded?”

I nod, because even though I was on vacation, the moment I came back in town, I learned Gale had married Ledger Timberbridge, and the pipes in her grandfather’s house had caused a fire, totaling the place.

“Wait, the marshal said that it was a fire.”

She shakes her head. “It was actually a syndicate that wants to take over the town. They want to buy Old Birchwood Timber and Maple Haven. Neither the Timberbridge brothers nor I want to sell and let them take over.”

I open my mouth, and close it. Open it again but . . . nothing comes out because what in the fucking hell is happening here?

I turn to look at Nysa. “You . . . does your stalker have anything to do with them?”

Nys flinches.

“And neither one of you told me you were in danger?” I stand up because this is big, too big. “Do you understand—” I begin, pacing now, because of course, I’m pacing?—

“It’s not that bad,” Gale says as if that will calm me. “It’s just organized crime, really. They’re taking care of it.”

“Oh, good,” I say, voice rising. “So not criminals, just highly efficient introverts who traffic . . . what, exactly? Locally sourced heirloom tomatoes?”

No one laughs.

Which is when my chest goes tight, and not in the romantic ‘he’s-looking-at-me-that-way kind of way’. No. This is the ‘we-are-fucking-going-to-die’ kind. The knowledge sits behind my ribs and pushes all my organs making it almost impossible to breathe.

“You’re telling me this now?” I ask, softer. “After I bought the building, so I can expand the coffee shop. After I signed up to run the fall festival committee and volunteered to walk Mrs. Crenshaw’s evil cat twice a week?”

“But you love Pickles,” Nysa says, though it sounds more like a defense mechanism than an actual argument.

“I love boundaries, too,” I shoot back. “And you two apparently love secrets.”

Neither of them speaks.

There’s too much in the room now—my anger, their silence, the pastry tray between us acting like Switzerland.

“I moved here to help my mom, the town,” I say, my voice low. “To start over. To . . . instead, I’m starring in a small-town thriller where the mafia might be running bingo night?”

“We didn’t say that,” Nysa argues.

I scoff and narrow my gaze.

“We didn’t want to scare you,” Gale finally says, but even she doesn’t sound like she believes her excuse. “Malerick was very adamant in keeping this within our tight circle. Not even Keir knows about it.”

“Phew, at least I’m just like Keir, living happily in ignorance.” I glare at them. “You’re telling me Malerick knows, huh? Of course he does, he’s the sheriff and . . .” It suddenly hits me.

That’s why he’s here. These mafiosos, not because of the town and?—

“What is it?” Nysa asks.

“Of course he knows,” Gale says. “He’s a good sheriff. Ledger still can’t comprehend why he left his other job and came to this town, but at least he’s better than the old guy who used to run the town.”

“Yeah, he is good,” I agree with her. He thinks he’s good, but I’m better.

“What is it?” Nysa insists.

I shake my head and wave a hand dismissively. “Nothing. I’m just very disappointed in all of you.” Lifting my chin, I add, with a touch of dramatic flair, “You . . . I thought we were my friends. My besties.”

That should be enough to convince them that I’m sulking over the whole nobody-told-me-what-was-going-on situation.

Am I actually hurt? Probably. But now isn’t the time to dwell on that—not at all. There’s something bigger to deal with.

I finally see them.

Everything that’s been hiding under my nose. I knew there were too many weird things happening, but I just . . . fuck, how did I miss all this?

Now, every piece of the puzzle starts to click into place. I’ll dig a little deeper before I confront . . . I’m not sure who yet, but I will be confronting someone soon.