Chapter 7 Greta
Greta
Nate’s lying to me.
It’s not the words he says—it’s the ones he doesn’t. The way his jaw tightens when I ask questions. The way his eyes flick to the door every few minutes like he’s expecting trouble to walk through it.
He tells me he hasn’t heard from Micah yet, but I know better. There’s a look men get when they’re sitting on bad news, when they’re deciding how much to tell the woman who might break if they do.
I’m not fragile. I’m just tired.
And right now, I’m tired of being kept in the dark.
The diner’s empty. It’s almost closing time. The jukebox hums quietly with some twangy country song that makes me want to throw something. Nate’s wiping down counters that don’t need wiping, pretending he’s not watching me do the same.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “You gonna tell me what you’re not telling me?”
He freezes mid-wipe. “What makes you think I’m not telling you something?”
I shoot him a look. “I’m not new to lies, Bishop. You think I can’t spot one?”
He sighs. “Micah’s tracking your ex. He’s close.”
That’s all he says. His tone is flat, like he’s reporting the weather.
My stomach drops anyway. “Close as in… how close?”
His gaze cuts to the window. “Close enough that I don’t want you walking anywhere alone. Not even across the street.”
A cold shiver snakes up my spine. I force a laugh to cover it. “Well, good thing you’re here. You seem like the overprotective type.”
He grunts, noncommittal. Which, in Nate-speak, means you have no idea.
We clean in silence for a few minutes, the air between us thick and heavy with everything we’re not saying.
Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “You ever think about leaving Timber Creek?”
The question catches me off guard. “What, and abandon my empire of coffee and sarcasm? Never.”
“Be serious.”
I glance over at him, leaning against the counter, rag in one hand. The firelight from the kitchen flickers against his face, carving sharp lines and soft shadows.
“I tried running once,” I admit quietly. “Didn’t really fix anything. Turns out, wherever you go, you’re still you. Same fears. Same memories. Just a different zip code.”
He nods, eyes thoughtful. “I know the feeling.”
“Yeah? What were you running from?”
His mouth lifts at one corner, but it’s not a smile. “Myself.”
Before I can say anything, the doorbell jingles.
I frown. “We’re closed—”
Three men step inside, shaking off the cold. Big guys. Leather jackets. The kind of swagger that screams trouble looking for fun.
“Evening, sweetheart,” the tallest one says. His grin’s oily, practiced. “Heard this is where Greta Pine works.”
My pulse stumbles. Nate’s head snaps toward them.
“Who’s asking?” Nate’s voice drops to something low and lethal.
The man smirks. “Friends of Travis Carrick. He’s been lookin’ for her. Thought we’d stop by, see if she was in the mood for company.”
“Wrong night,” Nate says, stepping forward.
They fan out a little—predatory instinct. One circles toward the counter. Another leans against a stool, tapping his fingers on the Formica. The one in front crosses his arms.
“Where’s Greta, big man?”
Nate doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. He just watches them like a wolf deciding which one to break first.
I swallow hard. “You should leave.”
“Ah,” the tall one grins. “There she is.”
He takes a step toward me.
Nate’s on him before I can blink.
One second the man’s smirking, the next he’s flying backward into a table. Wood splinters. Coffee cups crash to the floor. The second guy lunges and gets a forearm to the jaw so hard he stumbles into the jukebox. The third swings at Nate and might as well have punched a brick wall.
It’s chaos and I can’t breathe, can’t move, can barely process the speed of it.
“Nate!” I shout, ducking behind the counter.
“Stay down,” he growls.
I fumble for the diner phone, heart hammering, and dial 911 with shaking fingers.
“This is Greta Pine at Sugar Pine Diner,” I say to the dispatcher. “We need the sheriff—now.”
The men curse, one spitting blood, the other crawling for the door. Nate grabs him by the collar and slams him back against the wall.
“Tell Travis,” he says, voice like steel, “if he comes near her, I’ll bury him so deep the worms’ll need GPS.”
The guy nods frantically, face pale, lip bleeding.
Nate releases him, lets him drop. He’s shaking—not from fear. From fury he’s barely holding back.
The door bursts open, bell clanging, and Sheriff Tom Donaldson storms in, hat low, badge glinting under the diner lights. Two deputies follow.
“Christ, Nate,” Tom says, surveying the mess. “Couldn’t wait for me?”
“Didn’t have time,” Nate answers.
The sheriff eyes the three groaning men on the floor. “Someone wanna tell me what the hell happened?”
“They came looking for me,” I say, voice still shaky. “Said they were friends of Travis Carrick.”
Tom’s expression darkens. “Carrick’s in my jurisdiction now?”
“Looks like it,” Nate says. “And these three idiots are his messengers.”
Tom nods to his deputies. “Cuff ’em.”
As the men are hauled out, cursing and muttering, Tom crosses his arms and looks at Nate. “You really know how to make my nights interesting, Bishop.”
“You’re welcome,” Nate says dryly.
Tom smirks. “I’ll get in touch with Micah and Hale. See what we can pull on this Carrick fella. You sure you’re good watching her?”
Nate’s gaze slides to me. It’s protective, possessive, and something else I can’t quite name.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve got her.”
Tom claps him on the shoulder. “Then I’ll sleep easier tonight.”
He leaves with his men, the bell jingling behind him.
The diner is quiet again, except for my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Nate exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders like a fighter coming down after a match.
I glance at the broken table, the shattered dishes, the splattered coffee. “Guess that’s one way to close up.”
He looks at me then—really looks—and for a moment, the danger fades.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“I will be,” I say. And for the first time, I almost believe it.
Because if Nate Bishop’s standing between me and the past I ran from, then maybe—just maybe—I’ve finally stopped running.