Chapter 7 The Stranger Again (Doris Vale POV)
I stare at the door after he leaves, my pen frozen mid-stroke on the page. That man. Something about him—the way he moved, the shape of his shoulders, the tired lines around his eyes. I've seen him before. Not just a few minutes ago at the counter, but… somewhere else.
Vegas?
No. Can't be. The stranger from Vegas is gone, buried in a night I'm trying to forget. This is just—coincidence. Déjà vu. A familiar face in a small town where everyone probably looks like someone you used to know.
I shake my head and go back to my sketch, but the lines don't come. My hand won't cooperate, the pen hovering uselessly. I close the notebook with a snap and take another sip of my latte. It's gone cold.
Outside, the sky has darkened, clouds rolling in heavy and gray. Rain starts to patter against the window, soft at first, then harder, drumming a steady rhythm. A few people rush past, heads down, jackets pulled tight. I watch them, my mind still circling back to the man. The graying temples. The tired eyes. The way he smiled—polite, distant, but with something underneath.
Stop it, Doris.
I pull out my phone, scrolling aimlessly through messages. Alisha sent a meme about London weather. James forwarded an article about finance trends. Priya posted a photo of her dog in a sweater. Normal things. Safe things.
The rain doesn't let up. I sit there for another twenty minutes, nursing my cold latte, until the downpour finally eases to a drizzle. I gather my things—notebook, phone, purse—and stand, pulling my jacket on.
"Heading out?" Claire calls from behind the counter, wiping down a mug.
"Yeah. Rain's slowing."
"Come back anytime, Doris. You're always welcome."
"Thanks, Claire."
I step outside, the cool air hitting my face. The pavement is slick, puddles forming in the cracks. I pop open my umbrella—a cheap thing I bought at Miller's Market yesterday—and start walking. The rain taps against the fabric, a soft, steady rhythm that matches my footsteps.
I don't think about anything in particular as I walk. Just the sound of the rain, the smell of wet asphalt, the way the streetlights blur through the droplets. My mind feels empty, a rare, fleeting quiet.
Back at the apartment, I kick off my shoes and drop my purse on the couch. The place feels colder somehow, emptier. I turn on the lamp by the desk, the warm light chasing away some of the gloom. My laptop is still open from this morning, the Henderson account file staring at me. I should work. I should finish the projections for Martin.
Instead, I pull out my journal—a leather-bound thing I bought in London years ago, pages filled with messy handwriting and half-finished thoughts. I flip to a blank page and uncap my pen.
First decent coffee since London. Might come back tomorrow.
I stare at the words for a moment, then close the journal and toss it on the desk. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since breakfast. I heat up leftover chicken from yesterday, eating it standing at the counter, my mind drifting.
That man. Why can't I shake him?
I push the thought away, finish eating, and crawl into bed. Sleep comes easier tonight, the sound of rain still tapping against the window.
Morning light filters through the blinds, softer today, muted by lingering clouds. I wake with a strange, restless energy, like I forgot something important. I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to place the feeling.
Then it hits me. The man from the café.
I sit up, annoyed. Why am I thinking about him? I don't even know his name. He's just some guy, a stranger who happens to live in the same town. It's nothing.
But the thought lingers, stubborn as a splinter.
I get dressed—jeans, a sweater, boots—and make coffee. The apartment feels too quiet, the silence pressing in. I check my emails while I drink. Nothing urgent. Martin sent over details on the Boston client, but I'm not in the mood to dive into it yet.
I grab my purse, my notebook, and head out.
The air is crisp, the rain from yesterday leaving everything damp and clean. I walk the two blocks to Bean & Bone, the café sign swinging gently in the breeze. I tell myself I'm just going for the coffee. It's good coffee. Better than what I can make at home.
That's all.
I push the door open, the bell chiming. Claire looks up from the espresso machine and grins.
"Doris! Back already? Told you this place was good."
"Couldn't resist," I say, forcing a smile.
"Same as yesterday?"
"Yeah. Medium latte."
"You got it."
I pay and take my usual corner table by the window. The café is quieter today—just an older woman reading a book near the door and a young guy with headphones hunched over his laptop. I pull out my notebook and phone, settling in.
Claire brings my latte over, setting it down with a wink. "Enjoy."
"Thanks."
I take a sip. Still good. Maybe better than yesterday. I open my notebook, flipping to a blank page, and start sketching the woman by the door. She's engrossed in her book, one hand holding the pages, the other wrapped around a mug. Her face is soft, relaxed, the kind of expression that makes you think she's forgotten the world exists.
The bell over the door rings.
I glance up, my pen pausing mid-stroke.
It's him.
Same broad shoulders, same graying temples, same tired eyes. He's wearing a different jacket today—dark blue instead of black—but it's definitely him. My pulse kicks up, a quick, involuntary thud.
He moves to the counter, his back to me. Claire greets him like an old friend.
"The usual, Don?"
"Yeah. Thanks, Claire."
Don. His name is Don.
He waits while she makes his coffee, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but weary. I force my eyes back to my notebook, but I'm not seeing the page anymore. My heart is pounding, my palms damp.
It's just coffee, Doris. Calm down.
Claire hands him his cup, and he thanks her. Then he turns, scanning the café, and his eyes land on me.
He stops. Just for a second, but it's enough. His expression shifts—surprise, recognition, something else I can't name. Then he starts walking toward me.
Oh god.
He stops at my table, his smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "You look familiar. Have we met?"
I force a small laugh, my throat tight. "Maybe. I was in Vegas a few weeks ago."
His eyes narrow, like he's trying to place me. Then they widen, just slightly. "The lounge bar at the Solace?"
I nod, my pulse thudding in my ears.
The moment hangs between us, heavy and electric. I see it in his eyes, he remembers. The heat, the whiskey, the way we stumbled into his room. He doesn't say it, but I know he's thinking it. And he knows I'm thinking it too.
He clears his throat, breaking the silence. "Well. Small world."
"Tiny," I say softly.
He gestures to the chair across from me. "Mind if I sit?"
I hesitate, then nod. "Go ahead."
He pulls out the chair and sits, setting his coffee down. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just sit there, the weight of recognition settling between us.
"So," he says finally, his voice low. "You live here now?"
"Just moved in a couple days ago."
"Welcome to Millbrook, then. It's… quiet."
"I noticed."
He smiles, faint and a little sad. "You mentioned moving when we..." He stops, his jaw tightening. "That night. You said you were running from something."
"I was," I say, meeting his eyes. "Still am, I guess."
He nods, like he understands. "Yeah. Me too."
We're quiet again, the conversation stumbling, both of us dancing around what we're not saying. I take a sip of my latte, and he does the same with his coffee.
"You said you're local?" I ask, trying to fill the silence.
"Born and raised. Though I'm barely home these days. Work keeps me busy."
"What do you do?"
He hesitates, his fingers tapping the side of his cup. "Law enforcement."
My stomach drops, but I keep my face neutral. "Must be intense."
"It has its moments." He looks at me, his eyes searching. "What about you? What brought you to Millbrook?"
"Work," I say quickly. "I do financial consulting. Remote, mostly. Needed a change of scenery."
"From London, right? You mentioned that."
I nod. "Lived there for over a decade. Came back to the States… to deal with some family stuff."
His expression softens. "I'm sorry. That's rough."
"Yeah." I don't elaborate, and he doesn't push.
We sit there, the awkwardness easing slightly. Beneath it, something else glows—an unspoken familiarity, a strange safety I can't explain. Like we've already crossed some invisible line, and now we're just figuring out where to go from here.
"You sketching?" he asks, nodding at my notebook.
"Just… keeping my hands busy."
"Can I see?"
I hesitate, then slide the notebook toward him. He flips through the pages—faces, buildings, random shapes. His expression is unreadable.
"These are good," he says, handing it back. "You've got an eye for detail."
"Thanks."
He glances at his watch, then sighs. "I should get going. Shift starts soon."
"Right. Of course."
He stands, grabbing his coffee. Then he pauses, looking down at me. "Guess I'll see you around, Vegas."
I laugh, a small, surprised sound, and feel my cheeks warm. "Yeah. See you around."
He walks to the door, glancing back once before stepping outside. The bell chimes, and he's gone.
I sit there, staring at the empty chair across from me. My heart is still racing, my thoughts spinning. Of all the people. Of all the towns.
I gather my things and leave, the cool air hitting my face as I step onto the sidewalk. I walk slowly, the notebook tucked under my arm, my mind replaying his smile, the way he said Vegas, the warmth in his eyes.
By the time I reach my apartment, I'm muttering to myself, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Of all the people in all the towns…"