Still, I couldn’t look away. At least not from the picture.
He barely showed his face around Harmony Haven anymore, but a few weeks ago, he’d stepped into Fiddlers with Miles. I’d recognized him instantly. He didn’t stay long, and I didn’t stare, but I saw enough. Tall, intimidating, sharply dressed. He lookedlike a man who didn’t ask for permission, he expected it. But just for a second, I’d seen something else in his eyes. Uncertainty. Maybe even fear.
And I was pretty sure I was the only one who noticed.
“Ma’am?” the cashier said gently, trying not to startle me.
“Oh! Sorry.” I smiled, shaking myself back to reality.
I didn’t know her name. Harmony Haven was small, but not everyone- knows- everyone small. I liked it that way.
I paid, took my ice cream, and headed back to my car.
As I drove home, my thoughts drifted back to that image of West. Not the one in the picture, but the one in my head that was ingrained since that night in the bar. One I couldn’t shake, and I think I finally knew why.
Because even in a two-second glance, I’d seen the one thing that didn't match his perfect exterior.
A crack.
And I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to wedge it open and watch him bleed.
Chapter Two
WEST
I satthrough yet another mind-numbing meeting, resisting the urge to rub my temples while my team clicked through their sleek presentations. Graphs danced across the screen. Numbers. Projections. Growth. All telling a story I no longer had the energy to narrate even though it was mine.
The story of how I bought and rebuilt old homes in Harmony Haven. How I’d made them appealing to young couples who wanted a place to plant roots. It kept people local, gave the town new life, and proved that beneath the dust and neglect, those old towns still had something to offer.
Across the polished conference table, Mr. McConnell, an investor straight out of Texas with boots, bravado, and more money than God, leaned in. His narrowed eyes made it clear that despite Devin, my right-hand man, giving it his best effort. He wasn't buying the pitch. Not yet.
This wasn’t a get-rich-quick kind of investment. It wasn’t even going to make us any money. We both knew it. I hadn’t flown him to Atlanta for a fast return. I brought him here because we shared something rare: a stubborn belief that small towns were still the heartbeat of America.
Places like Harmony Haven, where porch lights stayed on late, and neighbors actually gave a damn.
The irony? I was the poster child for the people who left and never looked back. I had walked out of Harmony Haven at eighteen with my heart hollowed out and pockets stuffed with the ten grand my parents left me when they died. I chased something bigger, something shinier than Harmony Haven could ever have offered.
I turned that ten grand into an empire so sprawling, so insulated, that money became white noise. And yet, none of it filled the hollow spaces. None of it felt like enough.
To fill the void, I began buying and rebuilding homes. It wasn't about real estate for me, it was about redemption. About taking the pieces of my soul that I was convinced were destined for hell, and turning them into something good.
Repentance.
No matter how many therapists I paid, I never stopped blaming myself for the fire that took my parents. Twenty years later and that guilt still sat in my chest like an anvil.
Mr. McConnell’s voice cut through the fog of memory. He was frowning and his thick accent dragged over every syllable.
“Mr. Brooks,” he said slowly, “this ain’t the kind of commitment folks make unless there’s big money in it. Says right here in black and white that you know this won’t be lucrative. So if you don’t mind me askin’... what’s in it for you?”
My fingers itched to drum against the table, but I kept still and leaned back. I tried to fake a calm I didn’t feel.
“What do you mean?” I asked, already knowing damn well what he meant.
He grinned. “It’s admirable, what you’ve done in Harmony Haven. But why expand? What’s really pushing you?”
It was a fair question. One I had no intention of answering honestly because he’d never believe me.
“Well,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “what motivates you, Mr. McConnell?”
