Page 1 of Wrecked By Rev

CHAPTER 1

ANGEL

The alarm goes off at four-thirty, and I’m already awake.

I’ve been awake since three, staring at the ceiling, running through prep lists in my head because that’s easier than thinking about anything else. Bacon. Eggs. The sourdough that should be ready for its final proof. Whether I remembered to order more half-and-half or if I’m going to be making apologetic faces at the morning regulars again.

I swing my legs out of bed and plant my feet on the cold floor. Deep breath. Another day.

Sunrise Café opens at six. I’m usually there by five, because the bread won’t bake itself and the coffee won’t brew itself, and nobody else is going to do it. That’s the deal I made when I opened this place three years ago. No loans. No investors, and no one to answer to but myself.

It cost me everything I had saved and about two years off my life expectancy from stress, but it’s mine.

The drive is quiet this early. Tucson is still sleeping, the streets empty except for delivery trucks and the occasional jogger who’s either extremely dedicated or regretting their choices. I park in the back lot, check my mirrors twice—habitnow, four months of the same habit, and I scan the shadows before I get out.

Nothing. No one.

I hate that I have to check.

Inside, the café smells like yesterday’s coffee and the ghost of cinnamon rolls. I flip on the lights, tie my apron, and get to work. The sourdough needs attention. The espresso machine needs warming up. The bacon needs to hit the flat-top by five-forty five if I want it ready for the first rush.

This is the part I love. The quiet before the doors open. Just me and the hiss of the grill and the rhythm of prep work. I built this. Every tile, every menu item, every stupid decision about what colour to paint the walls. Sunrise Café is proof that I can make something good out of nothing.

I needed that proof, after Jonah.

By six, the first regulars are trickling in. Marta, who’s been coming every morning since I opened and always orders the same thing—two eggs over easy, wheat toast, black coffee. She takes the same stool at the counter, unfolds her newspaper, and settles in like she owns the place. In a way, she does. She was my first customer. Showed up on opening day, ordered coffee, and told me my prices were too low and my portions were too big. Then she came back the next day. And the next.

Dave from the hardware store two blocks over. A couple of nurses from the hospital on night shift, looking for breakfast before they crash. They order pancakes and coffee and talk in the kind of quiet, exhausted voices that come from twelve hours of keeping people alive.

I pour coffee. I crack eggs. I smile and chat and pretend everything is fine.

I’m good at pretending. Three years of running this place has given me a customer service mask so convincing I almost believe it myself some days. Today is not one of those days.

During the seven o’clock lull, I realize I left my phone charger in the car. Stupid. I’ve been running on four hours of sleep, and it’s starting to show.

I slip out the back door—and stop.

There’s a note on my windshield.

It wasn’t there when I arrived. I would have seen it. I checked, the way I always check now, scanning for anything out of place before I got out of the car. The windshield was clear at five this morning.

It’s not clear now.

My feet feel heavy as I cross the parking lot. The paper is folded neatly in half. Tucked under my wiper blade with care, positioned exactly in the center of the windshield. He does everything with care. That’s the part that gets me—the precision of it. The patience. The fact that he was here, in this parking lot, sometime in the last two hours, while I was inside pouring coffee and cracking eggs and pretending everything was fine.

I unfold the note.

Thinking of you.

No signature. No name. Just those three words in neat handwriting on plain white paper.

My stomach drops. I look around the lot, scanning the street, the alley entrance, the cars parked along the kerb. Nothing. No one. He’s already gone.

That’s almost worse.

Four months. Four months of this, and it still hits me fresh every time. The notes. The texts from numbers I don’t recognize. The way he shows up at the café and orders coffee and looks at me like we have something, like I owe him something, when all I ever did was say no.

His name is Niall Garrett. He owns a landscaping company. Coaches youth soccer. Volunteers at the food bank. Everyone in this neighborhood thinks he’s a great guy.