Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Him.
Brooks Harrington. The man from her visions. The boy who had visited her grandmother’s shop twenty-five years ago, now a detective carrying the weight of a woman named Traci’s death. The shop had been preparing for him—the chipped cup with “B.H.” marked in steam, the phantom scent of cedar and leather and gunpowder, her mother’s journal promising he would be her anchor.
He was here.
Finally here.
Vivienne’s abilities flared, confirming what she’d already seen. The grief hung around him. The guilt that had driven him from Austin to this small coastal town he’d visited once as a frightened child. The bone-deep exhaustion of a man who had lost faith in everything, including himself.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, she had the distinct impression that he was studying her as intently as she was studying him. Then his gaze shifted to the chalkboard menu behind her, and the moment passed.
“Welcome to The Mystic Cup.” Vivienne wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the counter. “What can I get for you today?”
“Just coffee. Black.” His voice was deep, with a hint of a southern drawl that confirmed her suspicion that he wasn’t a local.
Vivienne’s hand moved toward the chipped cup tucked behind the others—the one that had appeared on the counter with “B.H.” marked in steam. Her fingers hovered over it before she caught herself and selected a standard mug instead. Not yet. The cup could wait until he was ready to understand what it meant.
“Coming right up. Anything to go with that? The lavender scones are fresh out of the oven.”
He eyed the pastries with what might have been longing before shaking his head. “Just the coffee.”
As Vivienne turned to pour his drink, she caught sight of the lighthouse through the shop’s bay window. For a split second, she could have sworn she saw a figure standing at the top. A young woman with long dark hair, her pale arm raised in what looked like a greeting.
Or a warning.
The coffeepot slipped from Vivienne’s grasp, shattering against the floor in a spray of glass shards and hot liquid.
“Damn it.” She grabbed a towel.
“You okay?” The stranger was already moving around the counter to help.
“Fine, I’m fine. Just clumsy.” Though they both knew that wasn’t true. As Brooks crouched to help gather the glass shards, his gaze caught on something near Mathilde’s table—a wet footprint on the dark wooden floor. He frowned. The floor had been dry when he entered. Before he could process it further, Vivienne shifted position, and his attention returned to the broken pottery. Their hands brushed as they both reached for the same piece, and she felt a jolt of recognition—not psychic, but human. Connection.
The stranger pulled back, his expression guarded. “You cut yourself.”
Vivienne looked down to see a thin line of red across her palm. She hadn’t even noticed. “It’s nothing.” But the blood was already seeping into the lines of her hand, forming a pattern that stopped her breath.
The shape of a lighthouse.
“You should get that cleaned up.” His tone made it clear he wasn’t making a suggestion. “Brooks Harrington,” he added after a pause, as if the introduction was an afterthought. “I’m new in town.”
“Vivienne Hawthorne.” She pressed the towel against her palm. “And I gathered that much. Nobody from Westerly Cove orders ‘just coffee’ at The Mystic Cup. Except for Old Jack. He’s the only one.”
A hint of a smile touched his face. “What do the locals order if they’re not Old Jack?”
“Tea, mostly. With elaborate names and specific brewing instructions. The coffee is for lost tourists and—” She studied him more intently. “—cops passing through.”
Brooks’s expression shuttered. “What makes you think I’m a cop?”
Vivienne almost smiled back. “Lucky guess.”
That wasn’t entirely true. She could still see it as clearly as the day it had struck her—standing in the shop two weeks ago, cataloging tea varieties when vertigo hit and the world spun away. She’d found herself elsewhere, watching a man slumped at a desk in a harsh fluorescent-lit police station, blood on his hands that wasn’t literal but she could see it clinging to him. A woman’s name on his lips: “Traci.” Then his head had lifted, and she’d seen eyes the color of midnight storms, haunted and desperate. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m requesting a transfer. Anywhere. Just away from here.”
The scene had shifted to a bus station. The same man stood before a schedule board, one name glowing brighter than the others: WESTERLY COVE. His finger had hesitated over the ticket machine. “Why there? I haven’t thought about that place in twenty years.” But his hand had moved without conscious decision, selecting Westerly Cove.
She couldn’t tell him any of that. Not yet. Men like Brooks Harrington—practical, logical, carrying the weight of cases solved and lives lost—didn’t want to hear that a tea shop owner had watched their breakdown in visions days before they arrived.