Page 20 of Riptide
6
Cara stood in her office,staring at the closed door Gabe had just walked through.
Whatever you're hiding, whoever you were before Haven Cove...You’re a good person.
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they felt like knives.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to breathe through the panic.
Blaire had talked to Gabe, planting seeds of suspicion while establishing her cover story. And rattling Cara even more.
It was brilliant, actually. Evil, but brilliant.
Now Gabe was investigating Blaire. Which meant Blaire would escalate. Would apply more pressure. Would?—
Ringing filled Cara’s ears. She grabbed the edge of the desk, breathing slowly. Steadily. The dizziness ebbed, but not the panic.
Her phone buzzed.
Talked to your police chief today. SO protective of you. It's actually kind of sweet. Hope I didn't worry him too much! Tick tock. –B
Cara's hands shook so hard she nearly dropped the phone.
Blaire was toying with everyone around her. Creating chaos. Documenting everything for her audience.
And there was nothing Cara could do to stop it.
"Cara?" Piper's voice through the door. "You okay? There are customers."
Right. The bakery. Her business. The life she was desperately trying to hold together while everything crumbled around her.
"Coming."
She shoved her phone in her pocket, tried to smooth her expression into something resembling normal, and opened the door.
The afternoon crowd had picked up. Tourists wanting coffee and pastries. Locals stopping by for a break. The usual rush that should have been manageable.
Cara took her place behind the counter. "What can I get for you?"
The older man at the front of the line ordered a latte and a croissant. Simple. She could do this.
Except her hands were shaking.
Cara grabbed a cup, fumbled it, watched it roll across the counter. She caught it before it hit the floor.
"Sorry. Long day." She forced a laugh that sounded brittle even to her own ears.
She made the latte. Or tried to. The espresso shot pulled too long—bitter and over-extracted. The milk steamed too hot, scalding instead of silky.
"Here you go." She handed it over, knowing it was wrong but hoping he wouldn't notice.
He took a sip. Made a face. Set it down gently. "Actually, could I just get a regular coffee instead?"
"Of course. I'm so sorry." Heat flooded her face. "It’s on the house."
She poured coffee, nearly spilled it, managed to get the lid on. Grabbed a croissant from the case—realized too late it was yesterday's batch, already going stale.
The man took his order and left quickly, probably planning never to return.
