Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Meadow

Morning comes way too damn early, and I groan as the alarm blares, reminding me I'm an adult with responsibilities. Joy. My brain grudgingly kicks into gear, dragging me through the fog as I remember my packed schedule—a class at the high school, festival prep, and the gallery because of course, everything has to be done by yesterday.

Rolling out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a hungover sloth, I stretch and stumble my way into a standing position. But then, something sparks in me as I remember—Jane and I have rom-com night. A grin creeps across my face, there's something fun to look forward to today. Not that everything else isn't important, just watching movies where people fall in love is my jam.

But, yoga first. Gotta keep the zen going.

I roll out my mat and go through the motions—Downward Dog, Warrior II—focusing on my breath, fighting my mind that is already running through all the things I have to get done today. Stay present, Meadow. It's just me, the stretch, and . . . okay, maybe I'm already picturing the hot shower I'll reward myself with after holding this triangle for what feels like forever without falling down. Balance and all be damned.

When I finally hop into the shower, I tell myself to be quick—there's no time to waste. But the hot water hits, and damn, it feels too good to rush. So, I stand there, letting it cascade down my body for a few extra indulgent minutes. It's not procrastination if it's self-care, right?

Once I'm finally out, I grab my favorite pair of curve-hugging jeans—the ones that make me feel like I could conquer the world—and a cozy tan sweater. It's cool enough outside to justify the layers, but not so cold I'll regret it later. I blow-dry my auburn hair, pulling it back into a ponytail. Functional, not fancy—gotta stay practical for a day like today. I swipe on a bit of makeup, more for myself than anyone else. A little glow never hurt anyone.

Grabbing my keys, I head out, the cool morning air waking me up fully as I make my way to town. First stop—my caffeine fix followed by a McFolley pastry.

I walk into the coffee shop. The door chimes behind me as I step in, and that's when I see him . Standing in line, tall and broad, he's got this presence that pulls you in before you even know what's happening. His hair's dark, a little messy like he's run his fingers through it a few times, and there's this subtle hint of silver at his temples that makes him look even more striking. Rugged, but polished in that "I don't even try" way.

He's staring at the menu above the counter, jaw clenched like he's thinking about more than just coffee. His dark, intense eyes flicker as if the weight of the world is resting on him, and then—he catches me. For a split second, our eyes lock, and there's something there. Curiosity? Amusement? Whatever it is, it's enough to make my heart do that stupid little flip it does around men like him.

The rough stubble on his jaw only adds to his whole rugged, I-just-walked-out-of-a-forty-ish-dream vibe. And me? I'm standing awkwardly behind him, pretending I don't care that he makes me feel like I'm back in high school, crushing on the bad boy.

"Hey, Meadow."

The female voice startles me, and I jump a little, turning to find McKay McFolley smiling at me.

"Morning," I reply, giving her a nod, trying not to look like I've been ogling her very handsome, very grumpy sibling.

"Is it just me, or is everything in here pumpkin-flavored?" Raffa's voice rumbles, low and a little irritated, like the season itself has personally offended him. That gruff tone hits me in the chest, making me melt a little. Ridiculous. I should not be fantasizing about this man. He's too old for me anyway, right? But then again, maybe someone older would be better. At least older men wouldn't cheat on you seven ways to Sunday like the younger ones do.

"It's the season," I answer, trying to sound nonchalant.

"You should stick with tea anyway," McKay chimes in, throwing him a pointed look. "Remember, caffeine is on your top list of no-nos."

"I knew I should've come here without you," Raffa grumbles, the corners of his mouth twitching in frustration.

McKay rolls her eyes. "No worries, everyone in town now knows your dietary restrictions, big brother. No one's gonna serve you greasy food, caffeine, or any of that shit."

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "Dietary restrictions?"

"Yeah, big brother here had a something-something-NSTEMI heart attack a few weeks ago," McKay replies, all too casually as if I'll understand what something and all that gibberish means. "It wasn't that bad, but it's not great."

I nod, as if the last part made everything clear. It's not that bad. "Right, you were out of town because someone in your family was sick. I thought it was your father. You're too young for a?—"

"He's forty going on ninety-five," McKay interrupts with a smirk. "The old man's never taken care of himself. He thinks running on adrenaline and stress is enough to keep him going. Real bad for the heart, by the way."

"We have a cholesterol condition in the family," Raffa snaps, his tone defensive, clearly not loving the attention on his health.

McKay crosses her arms. "Which is all the more reason to avoid caffeine."

"You won't even let me go to the gym," he growls.

"Your physical therapist will let you know when you can start doing more," McKay shoots back, rolling her eyes. "And don't even think about sneaking off to the gym like last time while he was busy with another patient."

Raffa groans. "That was one time, and I wasn't even doing anything intense."

"Yeah, just lifting weights you weren't supposed to touch and nearly giving yourself another heart attack. Real smart."

"I was fine," he grumbles, folding his arms like a sulky teenager. "You people can't keep babysitting me forever, you know. I'm forty, not eighty like you said."

"Ninety-five, I said ninety-five." McKay gives him a withering look. "And you're acting like a grumpy old man. Plus, you can't handle following simple instructions, but sure, you're ‘fine.'"

"I follow instructions just fine," Raffa snaps back, clearly annoyed. "I just don't need you hovering over me like some kind of health warden."

"Hovering? Hovering?" McKay laughs, shaking her head. "If I wasn't ‘hovering,' you'd be chugging espresso and eating fried bacon sandwiches right now while working yourself to death."

"Protein's good for you," he mutters under his breath.

"Yeah, protein is good, all that delicious grease and fat will work wonders for your health if . . . you want another trip to the ER, sure." McKay leans forward, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe they'll name a wing after you if you keep this up."

"I'm starting to think you just like bossing me around," he growls, glaring at her.

She grins. "Only because you make it so easy."

I can't help but stifle a laugh, biting my lip as I watch them. It's oddly endearing, seeing this gruff, brooding man get absolutely owned by his little sister. Raffa, with his clenched jaw and stormy eyes, might act like a grumpy bear, but there's something softer underneath—hidden, but just barely. And it's kind of . . . cute. Not that I'd ever admit that out loud.

Before I can get too lost in watching the sibling banter, the barista calls out, "Next."

Raffa grumbles under his breath one last time as he steps up to the counter, clearly not thrilled about it. "Jasmine tea latte with almond milk and a pumpkin spice latte," he orders with a voice so full of irritation it almost makes the order sound like a punishment. Then he turns to me, his eyes sharp and lingering a little too long. "And what do you want?"

"Pumpkin cinnamon latte double shot espresso," I say, without missing a beat. "Extra caffeine."

He groans like I just kicked a puppy. "Fuck, I miss caffeine." His eyes slide down to my lips for a second, and I swear, my stomach flips in response. He stares like he's both pissed off and jealous at the same time. "You're lucky, you know. I'd kill for that right now. Give you my entire fortune and anything you want."

I shrug, trying to ignore the fact that his gaze has me feeling a little too warm. How about a kiss, a quickie in the bathroom. Can he even have a quickie after a heart attack? Note to self, google about heart attacks and sex. "Gotta enjoy the perks while I can."

He mutters something under his breath, shaking his head like he can't believe I get to indulge. But then those eyes—dark and brooding—settle on me again, this time with a flicker of . . . something. It's enough to make me wonder what's going on in that grumpy brain of his.

He slaps his card down and pays for all three of us, like it's no big deal, but there's definitely a "don't say anything" vibe in the air.

McKay catches on, grinning. "Oh, look at you, Raffa, buying drinks and not even growling about it."

"Fuck, you make me sound like some ogre. Can't a guy buy his sister and"—his eyes flick back to me, and he pauses—"her friend a drink without getting shit for it?"

"A brother can, you . . . you always bitch about everything." McKay laughs, clearly enjoying every second of this. I'm struggling to keep from laughing too, but I manage to play it cool. For now.

As soon as the drinks are ready, I grab mine like it's a lifeline and wave them off with a quick, "Thanks, gotta run," before making a swift exit. I need space, and fast. Raffa's got this weird pull, and I do not need to be thinking about things like his lips or how different he is from Bryce the Bastard. Yeah, I'm not falling into that trap again.

But damn, if he isn't making it hard to remember why staying away from men is a smart choice.