Chapter 2
Henry
The Doc’s alternator is dead. I can tell before I even get a good look. The clicking sound, the way nothing powered up when she turned the key. It’s a common problem in Montana winters, but it doesn’t make it less of a pain in the ass.
Especially not when she’s standing behind me, and I can feel her eyes on my back, and all I want to do is turn around and tell her that I’d fix a thousand cars if it meant spending more time with her.
Get a grip on yourself.
I’ve been watching Willa Monroe walk into my bakery every morning for three months.
Same time.
Same order.
Same guarded expression that makes me want to know what she’s running from.
Because she’s definitely running.
I see it in the way she holds herself. Those shoulders slightly hunched like she’s trying to take up less space. In the way her eyes dart to the door whenever someone enters. In the dark circles under her eyes that speak of sleepless nights and demons that won’t let her rest.
I know about demons.
Mine have names like “abandonment” and “not enough” and “what if you’re not worth staying for.”
But hers... hers seem worse somehow. Hers seem like they’re still chasing her.
“So?” Her voice is soft behind me, and I straighten up, wiping my hands on my jeans even though they’re not particularly dirty.
“Alternator’s shot.” I close the hood and turn to face her.
God, she’s beautiful.
Even with the worry lines between her brows and the way she’s hugging herself against the cold.
I continue, “You need a new one.”
“How much is that going to cost?” She’s already reaching for her phone, probably to call a tow truck, probably to tell me thanks but she’s got it handled because that’s what she does— handles everything alone.
“Let me give you a ride to the clinic.” The words are out before I can second-guess the choice. “Jake —he’s a mechanic friend of mine— he can take a look and give you a fair price. But right now, you’re going to be late for work if you don’t leave soon.”
She hesitates, and I can see the war playing out across her face. Accept help and be vulnerable or refuse and maintain control. The choices are few and I know which one I hope she chooses.
“I don’t want to be an inconvenience,” she says finally, and something in my chest cracks at the careful way she says it. Like she’s been told too many times that she’s inconvenient. That she’s too much trouble.
“Willa.” I wait until she meets my eyes. “You’re not an inconvenience. You’re a woman whose car broke down and who needs a ride to work. Let me help.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to refuse. But then she nods, just a tiny dip of her chin, and says, “Okay. Thanks, Henry.”
The way she says my name is like honey dripping from Baklava.
“Wait here. Let me grab my keys and tell Mark I’m taking a break.” I jog back into the bakery, my heart pounding harder than it should just from helping someone with car trouble.
But this isn’t just someone.
This is her.
The woman I’ve been half in love with since the first time she walked through my door looking lost and scared and trying so damn hard to pretend she was neither.
Mark looks up from the register when I rush past. “Where’s the fire?”
“Doc’s car died. I’m giving her a ride to the clinic.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Is that so?”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.” But his grin says otherwise. “Just saying, you’ve been making googly eyes at her for three months. Maybe this is the universe giving you a push.”
“The universe gave her a dead alternator. That’s not romantic.”
“It is if you play your cards right.” He tosses me my keys from the hook by the office door. “Go. And Hunter? Don’t fuck this up.” Mark’s the only one who gets to call me by my last name. Except her, she’s allowed to call me whatever she wants.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” But I’m already heading back outside, where Willa is standing by my truck, looking small and uncertain in her puffy coat.
I unlock the passenger door and open it for her. “Your chariot awaits.”
She manages a small smile as she climbs in. “Some chariot.”
“Hey, this truck has… character.” I close her door and round to the driver’s side, my breath fogging in the cold air.
When I slide into the cab, the space suddenly feels intimate.
Small. I’m hyperaware of her presence— the way she’s pressed against the passenger door, giving me as much space as possible.
The way she’s clutching her coffee like a lifeline.
The subtle scent of her shampoo, something floral that cuts through the cinnamon that probably clings to my clothes.
“Seatbelt,” I say gently, and she clicks it into place.
“Better to be safe, than sorry.”
I nod and start the truck —which thankfully roars to life on the first try— and pull out of the parking lot.
For a minute, neither of us speaks. The heat slowly kicks in, and I turn it up, directing the vents toward her. She’s shivering, tiny tremors running through her body.
“You okay?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road.
“Just chilled.” But her voice shakes too, and I don’t think it’s entirely from the temperature.
I want to ask what’s wrong. Want to know what put that fear in her eyes. Want to tell her that whatever or whoever hurt her, they’d have to go through me to get to her now.
But I don’t know her well enough for that. We’ve exchanged maybe fifty words total over three months. I don’t have the right to her story.
So instead, I say, “That photo on my dash… that’s my son, Ben. He’s seven.”
She leans forward slightly, looking at the picture I keep clipped to the sun visor. Ben’s grinning face, missing two front teeth, his dark hair sticking up in every direction.
“He’s adorable.” Her voice softens, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
“Agreed, but he’s also a handful.” I can’t help but smile. “But he’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Is his mom...?” She trails off, like she’s not sure if she should ask.
“Not in the picture.” I keep my voice neutral. “She left when he was two. Said motherhood wasn’t for her.”
“I’m so sorry.” And she sounds like she means it.
“It’s okay. We’re better off.” I glance at her. “Sometimes the people who leave are doing us a favor. Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time.”
She’s quiet for a moment, staring out the window at the snow-covered streets of Valentine. Then, so quietly I almost miss it, she says, “Yeah. Sometimes they are.”
And I know that she’s not just talking about my Jenna.
She’s talking about someone who hurt her.
Someone she left behind.
Someone who made her believe she needed to make herself small.
And I hate that person in this moment.
The clinic comes into view too soon, and I pull into the parking lot, already wishing I had an excuse to spend more time with her.
“Thank you,” she says, unbuckling her seatbelt but not moving to get out. “For the ride. And for looking at my car. I appreciate it.”
“I’ll have Jake call you with an estimate.” I’m scrambling for a reason to see her again. “And I can pick you up after work if you need a ride back to the bakery to get your car.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Willa.” I wait until she looks at me. “I know I don’t have to. But I want to.”
Her eyes widen slightly, and color floods her cheeks— not from the cold this time but from something else. Something that mirrors the heat building in my chest.
“Okay,” she whispers. “That would be... that would be nice.”
“I get off at three. Text me when you’re done with patients.” I pull out my phone. “What’s your number?”
She rattles it off, and I send her a quick text so she has mine. When her phone buzzes in her pocket, she pulls it out and looks at the screen.
Henry: It’s your friendly neighborhood baker, Henry Hunter. Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything.
She reads it, and a smile —a real, genuine smile that transforms her whole face— spreads across her lips.
“Thank you, Henry Hunter.” She opens the door, cold air rushing in. “I’ll text you later.”
“Hey, Willa?”
She turns back.
“You be safe today.” I hold her gaze. “I’ll see you at three.”
She nods, that smile still playing at her lips and climbs out of the truck.
I watch her walk into the clinic, and I’m still sitting there like an idiot when she disappears through the glass doors.
My phone buzzes.
Bossman… great.
Mark: So?
Henry: So what?
Mark: Did you get her number?
Henry: Maybe.
Mark: That’s my boy. Don’t fuck it up.
I laugh and put the truck in reverse. But as I drive back to the bakery, all I can think about is the way she smiled at me. The way her eyes lit up, just for a second, before the walls came back up.
I’ve spent five years protecting Ben from getting hurt again. Five years telling myself I don’t need anyone else. That we’re fine, just the two of us.
But Willa Monroe walked into my bakery three months ago, and suddenly “fine” doesn’t feel like enough anymore.
I want more than fine.
I want her.
And for the first time since Jenna left, I’m willing to risk getting hurt again to find out if she wants me too.
I hit a button to call my man, Jake the mechanic.
“Hey, man. Need a favor,” I say while turning back toward the bakery.
“What’s up?” Jake sounds amused, like he already knows I’m about to ask him something ridiculous.
“There’s a sedan in the bakery parking lot. Dead alternator. Can you take a look, get it fixed today?”
“Today? Henry, I’m backed up until—”
“Jake. Please.” I pause. “It’s for… her.”
Silence.
He says slowly, “The coffee girl? The one you’ve been mooning over for three months?”
“I don’t moon,” I shoot back quickly.
“You abso-fuckin’-lutely moon. Mark texted me last week that you spent twenty minutes staring at the door after she left. Twenty minutes, dude.”
“I wasn’t… I didn’t… Fuck!” I sigh. My friends can read me like a pitiful open book. “Can you fix the car or not?”
That is the only thing I really need to know.
“For the woman who finally got you to make a move? Hell yeah, I can fix the car. I’ll have it done by this afternoon.”
“Thank you.”
“Henry?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fuck this up.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?!” I hang up before he can answer, but a wide smile settles into my jaw and I slip out of the car to the bakery.
Sourdough is calling my name.
And hopefully Willa will be too soon.