Chapter 3
Greta
I’ve wiped the same spot on the counter so many times the laminate is probably going to shine through the apocalypse.
My heart still hasn’t calmed down. Not since I found that note under the napkin holder. Not since he—the man I ran from, the reason I changed my name, the reason I sleep with a chair wedged under the doorknob—proved he knows exactly where I am.
I keep telling myself maybe I dropped it. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe my brain is spiraling because I watch too many crime dramas when I can’t sleep.
But I know his handwriting.
I know what Bunny means. I know how it felt when my stomach dropped through the soles of my shoes.
So I keep scrubbing the counter. Because it’s easier than facing the cold fact that everything I built here might fall apart again.
I’m so focused I don’t hear the door until the bell chimes.
I jump.
I locked that.
I whirl around—and see Nate.
Tall. Solid. Wearing that same weathered flannel from earlier like it was stitched onto him by some flannel-loving deity. His dark hair’s tousled like he ran a hand through it too many times. There’s snow melting on his shoulders and something harder than usual in his eyes.
“I locked the door,” I say, breathless.
He holds up a hand. “Don’t panic. I still had pie on the brain.”
I blink. “You broke into my diner… for pie?”
He doesn’t smile. Not really.
“No,” he says, stepping further inside, voice quiet but firm. “I forgot something.”
I eye him cautiously. “What?”
“You.”
My stomach flips.
Nate Bishop, master of brooding stares and emotionally unavailable energy, just said me like I was the thing he came back for. Like I matter. Like I’m not just a woman with a past trying to keep her hands from shaking.
I swallow hard. “Nate…”
“You weren’t okay,” he says, cutting right through me. “Something happened. And I let you pretend otherwise because I figured you’d tell me when you were ready. But I’ve been sitting in my truck for an hour and I can’t shake the feeling that you’re not safe.”
My lips part. But nothing comes out.
He steps closer. “Talk to me, Greta.”
I can’t hold it in anymore. My chest tightens and the words fall out, wobbly and raw.
“I found a note,” I whisper. “Under a napkin holder.”
I reach into my apron and pull it out, unfolded now, creased from how many times I’ve read it. I pass it to him with hands that won’t stop trembling.
His eyes scan the short message.
You always hated the cold, Bunny.
His jaw goes tight as I tell him it’s a letter from my abusive ex. The muscle ticks. He folds the paper slowly and slides it into his pocket.
“I need you to do something for me,” he says.
I nod, heart racing.
“Close the diner. Right now. Pack a bag. You’re coming with me.”
“What?”
“You’re staying at my place until this is handled.”
My head spins. “Nate, I—I can’t. I can’t just close the diner. It’s my job. I need this income.”
“Then I’m working here now,” he says without missing a beat. “You serve coffee. I scan the room for threats. We both wear aprons.”
I stare at him, half-laughing, half on the verge of sobbing.
“Are you seriously suggesting you play bouncer at my diner?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” he says, voice low and even. “If this guy found you once, he can do it again. I’m not leaving you alone to see what he does next. Either you come with me now, or I move into that booth over there and sleep on the table.”
He points to table three like he’s already claimed it.
I laugh again, but it cracks in the middle. Because this is insane. And also… kind of comforting.
Nobody’s ever insisted on protecting me before.
And Nate—he’s not doing this because he wants something from me. He’s not the kind of man who plays games. He’s doing it because he cares.
Because somewhere along the way, I stopped being a server who flirts too much and started being his problem. Or maybe something more.
My heart is pounding for entirely different reasons now.
“I’m going upstairs,” I say, grabbing my keys. “I’ll pack a bag. You wait right here, Bishop.”
He nods once, already dragging a chair closer to the door like he’s preparing for war with a view of the sidewalk.
I lock the diner behind me, flip the sign to closed, and race up the back stairs to my small apartment above the kitchen.
The second I step into my bedroom, I collapse against the door.
What am I doing?
Packing a bag. Leaving my apartment. Letting a man I’m barely close to take me into the woods like I’m Goldilocks and he’s the Big Bad Wolf. A very hot wolf, but still.
But then I remember the note. The sick way he called me Bunny, like it was a nickname I should still wear like a collar.
Nope. No way. Not again.
I grab my duffel and shove in jeans, warm sweaters, my fleece pajamas with gingerbread men on them. Lip balm. A hairbrush. Toothbrush. I hesitate over the photo on my nightstand—me and Mom, before everything went sideways—and gently tuck it in too.
My hands shake again, but not as bad.
Because downstairs, waiting like a sentry, is Nate.
He’s big and steady and quiet, and under all that broody lumberjack energy, I know there’s a man who would take a bullet before letting someone lay a finger on me.
Also, his arms. I’m sorry, but they deserve their own zip code. The flannel. The beard. The voice.
I grab my favorite sweater—the one that dips just off one shoulder—and smile to myself.
If I’m going into hiding… might as well look a little cute while doing it.
And truth be told, I don’t feel entirely scared anymore. I feel… something else.
Safe.
Seen.
And maybe, just a little bit wanted.