Broken Rules

Chapter Four

When we exit the car, Delaney and I head towards the entrance of the charming little coffee shop known as Hansen's Coffee Roasters. It's housed in one of the small brick buildings, tucked between a sandwich shop and a cute little vintage thrift store, on the main street of the lake. And while Ellis immediately starts Instagram storying the moment for her followers, Delaney and I step inside.

We're immediately greeted by the aroma of freshly ground coffee, the gentle hum of Maisie Rhodes playing in the background and the hiss of the espresso machine going off.

It's cozy in here. It's the kind of place where I could easily spend hours reading a book or working on my laptop. Brick walls and warm, dark woods. Like a New York City apartment. There are a handful of customers scattered across benches lining one wall, while chairs are neatly arranged on the opposite side of the tables. My eyes wander to the adjoining room at the back, which is even cozier with bookshelves, a couch, with a coffee table.

To the left of the tables, a bookshelf proudly displays a modest selection of books (that I am definitely going to come back for because, hello, Ali Hazewood and Emily Henry), along with coffee beans, cups, and various other items for sale. All of this is set alongside a neatly framed collection of articles.

As Delaney approaches the counter to look at the menu, my curiosity gets the best of me, and I can't resist perusing a few of the articles. Of course, I'm intrigued, given that they are all articles from the Seattle Sun Times. I figure they must have some connection to the coffee shop's opening, the lake, or maybe the small town itself.

But no. Every single headline appears unrelated to the next: "Apples Surpass Peaches as Top Georgia Fruit Crop," "Don't Put Away Your Shorts: Seattle Summer 'Is Not Done Yet,'" and "Drunk Woman Steals Ferry while Shouting 'I'm Jack Sparrow.'"

And then a sudden realization washes over me as I scan the articles once more, this time paying closer attention to the bylines. There, beneath each headline, the name "Wells Hansen" repeats itself like a mantra: Wells Hansen, Wells Hansen, Wells Hansen, and Wells Hansen.

No, no, no, no, no.

Turning around, suddenly feeling panicked, I ask, "Delaney, what's the name of this coffee shop again?" But instead of Delaney, I'm met with the sight of Wells Hansen leaning casually against the counter.

"Well, if it isn't Juniper Jenkins," he says, a smile tucked at the edges of his lips. "I thought that was you."

His wavy brown hair appears even more tousled than usual. His striking forest green eyes lock onto mine as he leans his tall, lanky, yet oddly athletically fit frame against the counter behind him.

Dressed in light-washed jeans, a dark blue shirt with the coffee shop's logo on it, and a pair of dirty white Converse, he's in a much more casual look than I'm used to seeing him in. Typically, he wears slacks paired with a collared shirt or some sort of muted-colored grandpa sweater to the office. But right now, at this moment, with his T-shirt and tennis shoes, there's an undeniable boyish quality to his appearance, one that some might find cute, but definitely not me.