Chapter One

Buffalo, NY

2024

Cole ducked his head against the driving wind and crossed the street, thankful that the wind was not yet—or again—accompanied by snow. Ahead stood the Swan Street Diner, which was fronted by an old train car and boasted a long counter with red leather stools. Seating was limited, with five booths of the same red leather made just for two and only a handful more larger booths and tables, each of which would comfortably fit four. It was Aunt Rosie’s favorite place for breakfast so even though snow was expected, and he’d offered to drive out of the city for their weekly breakfast, she’d opted to drive into Buffalo.

“If I can’t drive in Buffalo snow by now, at sixty-one years old,” she’d texted him yesterday, “I got no business driving at all.”

Aunt Rosie was basically the only family Cole had left in Buffalo. His parents were both gone, he had no siblings, and he wasn’t married. So it was just her—and she took that role seriously. Every week, no matter what, they had breakfast together after his shift at the firehouse. Fortunately, Aunt Rosie had retired early, so she could work around his consistent but unusual shift schedule. He worked a 24-hour shift on Day One of the week, which was Tuesday this week, followed by 24 hours off, then another 24-hour shift on Day Three—Thursday this week. After that, he’d get five days off before the cycle repeated. Since it was Friday, he was already done for the week, even though he’d only worked two days. But regardless of when his week ended, he and Aunt Rosie always met for breakfast after his second shift.

The wind tugged at the door of the diner as he opened it, but Cole’s grip held firm. He stomped his boots on the black commercial rug just inside the entrance, knocking off snow that had fallen two days earlier. Running a hand through his hair, he tried to tame the mess the wind had made of it.

As he passed the counter, he gave a quick nod and half-smile to Kirsten, the long-time server who stared wide-eyed while she absently refilled salt and peppers. Cole’s smile faded as soon as he moved out of her line of sight.

Kirsten had gushed over him, embarrassingly loud, when that ridiculous calendar came out a few months ago, causing Cole to instantly regret his participation. Buffalo’s shirtless fireman calendar wasn’t a new concept, but this was his first year in it. Combine that with adorable puppies from the rescue of the charity being supported—one of which he’d have adopted if his schedule wasn’t so crazy—and it became the talk of the city for weeks. He’d been July’s image, and thanks to his MVP status from the Buffalo Bandits’ championship lacrosse season, his photo had made the rounds on TV and social media more than anyone else’s.

He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the attention. Not the constant ogling, at least. He’d be lying if he said his ego hadn’t swelled a bit at first, but the novelty had worn off fast. Now, whenever women started fawning over him or if they simply stared overlong— talking about you, Kirsten —it was just awkward. And the guys at the firehouse, even those who’d taken part in the charity calendar themselves, would not let him forget it.

Aunt Rosie had already arrived—no surprise there. She had her back to him, but her smile was instant and wide as he showed himself, kissing her cheek before sliding into the booth across from her.

“There you are,” she said. “Did you skate unnoticed by what’s-her-name behind the counter or did she eat you alive again? That girl needs a man—not you, of course; she’s not your type—but a man for sure.”

Cole smiled. He loved his mother’s sister. Aunt Rosie was practical, no-nonsense, and called it like she saw it. She always said what she meant and meant what she said. She didn’t whine, rarely complained about people, and was never—ever—without a smile. And she had plenty of opinions about everything and everyone. Curiously, Cole never felt like she was judging anyone. Instead, it was more like she saw the solution to whatever their problem was—if only they’d had asked her or listened to her.

“Sally Shriner’s walking like she’s got one leg shorter than the other. Should’ve went to Dr. Philips for the hip replacement like I told her and not that butcher on the West Side.”

“Pete Shaughnessy—remember him from high school? He married Tamara Barkley last weekend. Of course they don’t call them shotgun weddings anymore, but that’s what it was. I told his mother she would trap him, didn’t I?”

“Father Rob says hello and goodbye. He’s being transferred up to some church in Lewiston, so there goes that, the only priest I ever liked at Saint Barbara’s and they’re putting him out to pasture because he made some comment—totally blown out of proportion, mind you—about Connie Blecker’s boobs. What? Like you never noticed them? C’mon, they’re visible from the space shuttle for crying out loud.”

Rosie was nothing if not entertaining. She knew everybody, from all different parts of Western New York and from all walks of life, and could have—Cole’s mother had often said about her sister—‘talked Christ off the cross.’ She knew more than half the guys at the firehouse, having taught elementary school in the city for thirty years.

Coffee was already waiting for Cole, courtesy of Rosie.

“We’ll have the usual, right Cole?” She said when Kirsten ambled over, cheeks ablaze while her gaze fixed almost too purposefully on Rosie. “The veggie benny for me and he’ll have the regular eggs benedict. Side of bacon and a side order of pancakes for him, also.” Rosie put her hand to the side of her mouth and said, in what Cole’s mom used to call her ‘sober Irish whisper’, “He’d order himself but sometimes the Tourette’s twitch is out of hand and clamping his lips really saves him tons of mortification.”

Cole did clamp his lips, but only to keep from laughing. From the day Kirsten had begun her fangirling, Rosie had introduced a new disease, condition, or disorder each week, intending, she’d said, to dissuade the server from her crush.

A sneak peak at Kirsten before she skipped away with the menus showed her eyeing Cole with what looked like adoring pity.

Rosie shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she’s a glutton who loves a good project.”

“Might be,” Cole said, shaking his head and grinning. “And you’ve made me quite the project—Tourette syndrome now? An actual condition? On top of all the fictional ones you’ve invented for me?”

“Well, hell’s bells. I thought for sure the mention of a chronic case of IBS would have turned her off for good. I couldn’t think of anything else that wouldn’t have killed you by now.” Rosie leaned forward and giggled like a woman much younger. “She probably googled the shit out of Aphylactic Myelitis a few weeks back—I was certainly proud of that one.”

“And Syndrome Xytoplasia,” Cole reminded her, the only other fake ailment his aunt had used whose name he could remember.

“That was a good one, too” Rosie decided, beaming with pride.

“I’m surprised I can still work,” he teased.

“Ah, but you’re a trooper, not about to let a little rare genetic disease get you down.”

“You’re nuts, you know that?”

“Not yet, but I probably should lay off the sci-fi books for a while.”

Cole and Aunt Rosie sipped their coffee and talked about the impending snow, they dissected the Buffalo Bills’ game from last Sunday, and Cole updated Rosie on Jenna Volkosh, the wife of a firefighter who’d been struck by a vehicle several weeks ago and was still recovering, all before their breakfasts were served.

Rosie then launched into a predictable recitation of her schedule for the week, which had her going morning, noon, and night, mostly with church activities, lunch dates, and her regular volunteer duties at different churches, two libraries, one school, and the Friends of the Night soup kitchen. Retirement hadn’t slowed her down. She had a sweatshirt that said, Stop Me Before I Volunteer Again . It basically summed up her life: service to others.

She’d never had children, and her husband was gone now more than twenty years. Marty Patronik had one day been painting their house when he stepped off the ladder, called into the house he was running out for cigarettes, and drove off, never to return. While Rosie had been devastated at first, numbed by pain and confusion, when six months later she’d received divorce papers from an attorney’s office in Nevada, she’d gotten over it. “Took him long enough,” she’d begun to joke then. “I don’t know how many maps and glossy brochures of resorts on the other side of the country I’d left in his car before he got the hint.”

All in all, she was exceptional. And honest to God, though Cole sometimes thought the hand he’d drawn in life sucked, that he lost his mom so young and then his dad when he’d just turned eighteen, that he had no siblings, and yeah, that he sometimes even at almost thirty years old felt like an orphan, he was grateful all the time to have Rosie in his life. If he was only to have this one person, she was perfect, filling every role admirably, generously, and most of all, happily.

“And what ever happened with that date with...ah—what was her name?” she asked when they were nearly done with their breakfasts. “The dental hygienist?”

“Sarah,” Cole supplied and grimaced.

“I assume since I haven’t heard anything,” Rosie said as she pushed her plate off to the side, “that she didn’t light your fire.” She winked at him.

Cole smirked. “No, she did not. No fire at all to speak of.” Ah, and there had been such promise. Sarah was gorgeous, smart, and initially seemed really fun. But about fifteen minutes into dinner, she’d pulled out her phone and barely put it down the rest of the night. By the end of dinner Cole had felt like he’d spent the evening with the top of her head.

“I had better conversations with the waiter,” Cole said, half-amused, still half-pissed about her rudeness.

“Idiot,” Rosie concluded with a roll of her eyes. “No worries. And no rush. You’ll find her. She’s out there, the perfect girl for you. You’ll know it when you meet her.”

Cole shrugged dismissively at his aunt's words. He wasn’t desperate for a wife, not like some of his friends who had gotten married young and were already raising kids and navigating marriage, family, and jobs. But he knew, in a quiet corner of his mind, that he wanted a family someday.

The thing was, with his lacrosse career, timing had never felt right. The last few years with the Bandits had been a whirlwind—championship seasons, his MVP award, and the high of playing at his best—but lacrosse wasn’t like football or baseball. It didn’t come with a massive salary or great prospects of career longevity. He wasn’t delusional. He knew the younger guys coming up behind him were faster, hungrier, and ready to take his spot when he started to slow down. And thirty was creeping up on him fast. He’d always told himself he’d focus on a relationship after the season ended, after the next big game, or when his contract was up. He liked the idea of a wife, a partner, kids, even. But he knew there was no urgency at the moment—or at least he didn’t feel that way. And yet, while he didn’t want to rush into anything just because his friends were settling down, he also didn’t want to wake up one day and find out he was too late.

But then, the bottom line, to which Rosie had just alluded: he simply hadn’t found anyone that he wanted to make a priority in his life right now.

Just as Cole took another sip of coffee, the diner’s door swung open with a gust of cold wind, and a familiar voice boomed through the small space.

“Cole!” Was shouted across the diner, in the same drawn-out manner the fans did at the Bandits’ game when Cole scored or made a great play. “Knew I’d find you here, dude,” said Hank “Tank” Morrison as he strode toward the table, his grin easy, natural. Without hesitation, he plopped down onto the end of the booth seat next to Cole’s aunt, uninvited, and helped himself to a few leftover home fries from Rosie’s plate. “Morning, Rosie,” Hank said with a wink, unabashedly popping the home fries into his mouth. “As beautiful as ever.” He flashed a charming grin, the kind that made everyone forgive his brashness.

It wasn’t unusual for one or more of the guys from the firehouse to join them for breakfast. In fact, it was rare that Cole and his aunt were able to dine alone. Aunt Rosie knew and loved all the guys and they her. If Cole was forced to cover a shift and miss their breakfast date, Aunt Rosie would invariably stop by the house with a tray of cookies, packages of bagels and cream cheese, or sometimes an entire casserole, enough to feed the whole crew.

“Hank,” Rosie greeted her former pupil with a chuckle. “I swear you sniff out leftovers. Help yourself,” she said belatedly, though there was hardly any chastisement in her tone.

“Sharing is caring,” Hank replied as he did indeed help himself, picking up the fork Rosie had used and digging into the mound of fried potatoes with peppers and onions.

Hank was built like a tank—his nickname fit him well. Broad shoulders, thick arms that strained the fabric of his Buffalo Fire Department hoodie, and a beard that made him look like he could handle anything life threw at him, from raging fires to bar fights.

“Cole, I’m serious about the Scotland thing,” Hank said around the food in his mouth. “Come with me.”

Rosie frowned at her nephew. “What Scotland thing?”

Tank turned his head, facing Rosie, his beard scraping his shoulder. “Doreen’s gone. Kaput. Finito . But we had plans for a trip to Scotland—her idea, by the way—and I’m stuck with everything. It’s all paid for. Flights, hotels, tours—everything. Doreen bailed, and I’ve been bugging this knucklehead to go with me.” He turned his attention to Cole. “C’mon, man. I’m not doing Scotland by myself.”

Cole shook his head, deflecting with, “He only asked me because I’m the only guy he knows with a current passport.” More seriously, he refused Tank again. “I can’t, man. I told you; I’ve got the tile guy coming to redo the bathroom floor next week. We’ve got Steve’s stag this weekend and I’m back to work next Wednesday.” He also wasn’t a big fan of last minute, big plans.

Hank groaned dramatically and grabbed a napkin from the table to swipe at an imaginary tear. “Come on, dude. Don’t leave me hanging. We’ll hit the Highlands, drink some whisky, forget about snow and everything Buffalo for a whole week. Craig said he’d cover your shifts—you’ve got vacation days, I know. Jesus, if anyone needs a vacation, it’s you.” He shot Rosie a wink. “Am I right, or am I right?”

Rosie laughed softly and tilted her head at her nephew. “Hank is right, actually. You should take a break. I can be at your house when the tile guy comes.”

Cole glanced down at his coffee, trying to think of other reasons he couldn’t go. The idea of heading to Scotland had its appeal, sure, but he wasn’t exactly eager to jump on a plane and head halfway across the world at the drop of a hat. Then again, it wasn’t like he had anything really keeping him here, nothing that couldn’t be missed or rescheduled, or apparently, taken care of by his aunt.

Hank, clearly sensing the hesitation, leaned in closer. “Worst case, we hit some pubs, see some castles, and have ourselves a wee good time,” he said, employing at the end what turned out to be a terrible Scottish accent. “Back in time for Thanksgiving.”

Rosie aided and abetted Tank, adding her own encouragement. “When would you have an opportunity like this again? Do it. Go. And don’t whine to me if you don’t and then regret it.”

Reluctantly conceding, Cole nodded, hoping he wouldn’t regret it. Tank could be a lot to handle—he always ran on full throttle, was loud, brash, and assertive, and never did anything halfway. Whether it was fighting fires, hitting the gym, or tossing back beers, Tank operated like life was a competition, and Cole didn’t know if traveling with him would be an adventure or a headache.

“I guess I’m going to Scotland,” Cole said, the smile he forced being larger than what he felt.

Hank grinned wide and stole one last fry from Rosie’s plate. “’Atta boy!”