Chapter 1

Jackson

I ease off the gas as my Range Rover glides into Millbrook, the quaint little town I once called home. The "Welcome to Millbrook" sign, faded and chipped, greets me like an old friend who's seen better days. Cute, but damn, it's like stepping into a time capsule.

"Well, well, look who decided to grace us with his presence," I mutter to myself, a smirk playing on my lips as I cruise down Main Street.

The same old buildings line the road, their paint peeling in the summer heat. Locals shuffle along the sidewalks, some stopping to gawk at my ride. Can't blame 'em. It's probably the most expensive thing they've seen all year.

I roll down the window, letting the warm air rush in. The scent of fresh-baked bread from Joe's Bakery hits me, and for a split second, I'm transported back to my high school days. But the moment passes as quickly as it came.

"Still making those cinnamon rolls, Joe?" I call out as I pass by. The old baker waves, a look of surprise on his weathered face.

The stoplight at the town's only intersection blinks lazily, as if it's given up on actually controlling traffic. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, impatient. In Chicago, I'd have blown through three green lights by now.

A group of teenagers loitering outside the ancient movie theater catches my eye. Their jeans are ripped, their hair dyed unnatural colors. At least some things change, I guess.

"Yo, check it out!" one of them shouts, pointing at my car. "Isn't that Jackson Moore?"

I give them a nod and a wave, reveling in their awe. It's good to be recognized, even in this backwater town.

As I cruise past the high school, memories flood back. The hockey rink where I became a star, the classrooms I barely paid attention in. It all seems so... small now. Like a doll house version of a real town.

"Christ, has this place shrunk?" I mutter, shaking my head. The buildings that once seemed so imposing now look like they could fit in my pocket.

I pass by the town hall, its white columns a sad imitation of grandeur. Mayor Frank's probably in there, dreaming up ways to put Millbrook on the map. Good luck with that, buddy.

My phone buzzes with a text from one of my teammates back in Chicago. How's Mayberry treating you?

I chuckle, typing back. Like I'm the second coming. These folks need to get out more.

As I near the outskirts of town, heading towards my parents' place, I can't help but feel nostalgia. It's nice to visit, sure, but damn, I'm glad I got out when I did. This town's too small for someone like me. Always has been, always will be.

I pull into the parking lot of Millie's Diner, the neon sign flickering like it's on its last leg. Just like everything else in this town. The lot's half-empty, which isn't saying much considering it only holds about ten cars max.

As I step out of my Range Rover, the smell of grease and burnt coffee immediately floods my senses. Ah, memories.

I push open the door, the little bell above tinkling. Every head in the joint swivels towards me. Guess I still know how to make an entrance.

"Well, I'll be damned," a familiar voice calls out. "Look what the cat dragged in."

My sister Jessica's standing behind the counter, pot of coffee in hand, grinning like she's won the lottery.

"Hey, sis," I say, sliding onto a stool at the counter. "Still slinging hash, I see."

She rolls her eyes, but her smile doesn't fade. "Someone's gotta keep this town fed. What brings you back to our humble abode, Mr. Big Shot?"

I shrug, drumming my fingers on the worn Formica. "Thought I'd grace you all with my presence. Maybe sign a few autographs, kiss a few babies."

Jessica snorts, pouring me a cup of coffee without asking. "Your ego's still intact, I see. Good to know fame hasn't changed you."

"Why mess with perfection?" I wink, taking a sip. The coffee's bitter, probably been sitting on the burner all day. But it's familiar, comforting in its awfulness.

"So, how long you sticking around?" Jessica asks, leaning on the counter.

I scan the diner, taking in the faded vinyl booths, the ancient jukebox in the corner. A couple of old-timers are hunched over their plates at a nearby table, whispering and shooting glances my way.

"Just a few days," I reply. "Gotta make sure the town's still standing without me."

Jessica laughs, shaking her head. "Oh, we manage. Though I'm sure Mayor Frank will be thrilled to see you. He's been yammering on about some new project he wants to pitch you."

I groan. "Christ, that guy never quits, does he?"

"Nope," Jessica pops the 'p'. "But hey, at least he's trying to drag this place into the 21st century. Unlike some people I could mention." She gives a pointed look to the old-timers, who quickly avert their gaze.

I take another sip of coffee, grimacing. "You ever think about getting out of here, Jess? Following your big brother's footsteps?"

She shrugs, refilling my cup without asking. "Every damn day. But someone's gotta keep an eye on Mom and Dad. Besides, where else am I gonna find such adoring fans?" She winks at a guy sitting at the end of the counter, who nearly chokes on his pie.

I chuckle. "Still breaking hearts, I see."

"Learned from the best," she quips back. "So what are you having?"

I'm about to place my order when the diner's bell jingles. Out of habit, I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see another local ready to gawk at the prodigal son's return. Instead, my eyes lock onto a face I haven't seen in years.

Emma.

She stands in the doorway, scanning the diner for an empty seat. Her curly hair's pulled back into a messy bun, a few stray strands framing her face. She's wearing a faded t-shirt with some obscure book quote on it—typical Emma. Her jeans have seen better days, and there's a smudge of what looks like ink on her left hand.

She hasn't changed much. Still got that bookworm vibe going strong.

Our eyes meet, and for a second, time stands still. Then reality crashes back in.

"Well, look who it is," I call out, my voice carrying across the diner. "Emma Thompson. Good to see you, stranger."

She freezes, like a deer caught in headlights. "Jackson," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.