Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
brOCK
M y phone vibrates on the workbench, but it’s not the text I’ve been waiting for. Another client email, another distraction. Willow should have been here an hour ago. I’ve called and texted her a few times but she isn’t answering.
I pull out my phone again, typing a quick message.
Me: You home yet, baby?
I wait. Five minutes. Ten. Nothing.
I dial her number, pacing the length of my workshop as it rings. Straight to voicemail.
“Damn it,” I mutter, ending the call and trying again. Same result.
“Willow, call me when you get this,” I say into her voicemail, my tone sharp with frustration and worry. “I don’t care what time it is.”
Something’s off. I know her. She’d never just go silent like this.
I grab my keys, shrugging on my jacket as I head out to the truck. The knot in my chest tightens with every mile as I drive toward her place, my mind racing with possibilities.
When I turn onto her street, the flashing red and blue lights of police cars hit me like a punch to the gut.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, pulling up to the curb and throwing the truck into park.
I climb out, scanning the scene as I walk toward her house. The door is wide open, officers milling around the porch. My eyes dart around, searching for her.
But I don’t see her.
The knot in my chest tightens. My stomach churns as I quicken my pace, the worst-case scenarios flashing through my mind.
“Sir,” a cop calls out, stepping forward to stop me. “This is an active investigation. Are you—”
“Where is she?” I cut him off, my voice rough.
“Excuse me?”
“Willow,” I say, my tone sharper. “The woman who lives here. Where is she? Is she okay?”
“Are you family?” the cop asks, narrowing his eyes.
“I’m her boyfriend,” I snap, my hands balling into fists. “Now tell me—where is she?”
Before he can answer, I spot her.
She’s standing near the corner of the porch, talking to another officer. Her arms are wrapped around herself, her head slightly bowed. Relief crashes into me so hard I have to take a breath to steady myself.
“Willow,” I call, my voice softer now.
Her head snaps up at the sound of my voice, and the moment her eyes meet mine, I see the tension in her body ease.
“Brock,” she says, her voice trembling.
I don’t stop until I’m standing in front of her, my hands finding her shoulders as I look her over. “Jesus, baby,” I murmur. “What happened?”
“I came home, and the door was open,” she says, her voice cracking. “The house is trashed.”
My jaw tightens, and anger flares hot in my chest. “Did you see anyone? Are you hurt?”
“No,” she says quickly. “I called 911 as soon as I saw the door.”
I pull her into my arms, holding her tightly as I glance at the officer she was speaking to. “What’s the situation?”
The officer clears his throat. “Looks like vandalism, not burglary. No signs of forced entry beyond the front door, no valuables missing. Just damage to the interior—furniture, personal items.”
Vandalism. The word makes my stomach turn. Whoever did this wasn’t after her things—they were after her.
“Did you tell them about the tires?” I ask Willow, pulling back slightly so I can see her face.
“What?” she asks, blinking up at me.
“Your tires,” I say firmly. “The ones that were slashed last night. Did you tell the cops about that?”
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “No, I... I didn’t think they were related.”
I glance at the officer. “Last night, someone slashed two of her tires. Clean cuts, not random. We already reported it.”
The cop’s expression hardens. “Slashed tires and now this? Sounds like more than a coincidence.”
“No shit,” I mutter under my breath.
The officer nods to his partner, who starts jotting down notes. “We’ll include that in the report. Do you know anyone who might have a reason to target you?”
Willow shakes her head, her voice quiet. “No. I don’t know anyone who would do this.”
I can see the doubt in the officer’s eyes, but he doesn’t press her.
“Alright,” he says. “We’ll file this as an extension of the previous report. Increased patrols are already in place in your area. If you think of anyone who might have a motive, let us know.”
“Thanks,” I say curtly, wrapping an arm around Willow.
She leans into me, her body trembling slightly.
I press a kiss to her temple, the knot in my chest tightening again. Whoever’s doing this is sending a message, and I’m going to make damn sure they understand one thing:
You don’t mess with what’s mine.
The drive back to the cabin is quiet. Too quiet. Willow sits in the passenger seat, holding Frankie like he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the moment. Her gaze is fixed out the window, but I know she’s not seeing the dark trees rushing past.
I glance over at her, catching the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers clench and unclench in Frankie’s fur. I don’t push her to talk. She’s been through enough tonight.
But inside, I’m boiling. Someone broke into her house, trashed her things, and left her feeling vulnerable in a way that’s killing me to see. Whoever did this crossed a line, and they’re going to regret it.
At the cabin, I unlock the door and step inside, flicking on the lights. It feels safe here, quiet and warm, but I can tell Willow doesn’t feel it yet. She hovers near the doorway, clutching Frankie’s leash like she’s bracing for something to go wrong.
“Come in,” I say softly, motioning for her to sit on the couch.
She hesitates before sinking down onto the cushions, Frankie hopping onto her lap immediately. “Thank you,” she says quietly, not looking at me.
I crouch in front of her, my hands resting on her knees. “You don’t have to thank me, baby,” I say, my voice low. “I told you—I’ve got you.”
She nods, but her shoulders are still tight.
“I think I’m just going to go to bed,” She stands.
I nod. “Get some rest,” I say gently. “We’ll figure this out in the morning.”
She finally meets my eyes, her honey-colored gaze filled with exhaustion and worry. “Okay,” she whispers.
I ’m up before my alarm the next morning, pacing the kitchen with a cup of coffee in hand. I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. Her house wasn’t random, and there’s no way in hell her bakery wasn’t touched.
At 3:30, I nudge Willow awake. She stirs, Frankie lifting his head from where he’s curled against her side.
“Time to go to the bakery,” I say softly.
She blinks at me, groggy. “Already?”
I nod. “I’ll drive.”
We pull into the bakery parking lot a little after four, the streetlights still glowing dimly. At first glance, everything looks fine.
But as I step out of the truck, my stomach knots. Something’s not right.
“Stay here,” I say, glancing at Willow as she opens her door.
“What?” she asks, already climbing out.
“Just stay by the truck for a second,” I say firmly.
She frowns but doesn’t argue, staying put with Frankie in her arms as I walk toward the side of the building.
The second I round the corner, I see it—the shattered glass glittering under the light of the streetlamp.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, my hands clenching into fists.
I walk back to Willow, who’s watching me with wide eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“The window,” I say grimly. “It’s smashed.”
Her face goes pale. “No.”
I pull my phone from my pocket, turning the flashlight on as I unlock the door and step inside. The smell of paint hits me instantly—sharp, acrid, and wrong.
When I flip on the lights, the damage stops me in my tracks.
Spray paint covers the walls, hateful words smeared in black and red. The counters are tipped over, baking trays and utensils scattered across the floor. Glass crunches under my boots as I move deeper into the space, taking it all in.
“Brock?” Willow’s voice wavers behind me.
I turn just as she steps inside, her eyes scanning the destruction. Her expression crumples, and she sinks to her knees, clutching Frankie tightly.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
I’m at her side in seconds, wrapping my arms around her. “It’s okay,” I murmur, my voice steady even though rage is boiling inside me. “I’ve got you.”
“No, it’s not okay,” she chokes out. “They... they destroyed everything.”
I hold her tighter, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’ll fix it. I promise. But first, I’m calling the cops.”
The officers—Harris and Denton—arrive half an hour later. They’ve seen us enough in the past 24 hours that they don’t even need introductions. Harris takes one look inside the bakery and lets out a low whistle.
“This isn’t random,” he says, shaking his head.
“Gee, you think?” I snap, pacing near the door.
Denton scribbles in his notepad. “Any idea who might be targeting you?”
I glance at Willow, who’s sitting on an overturned stool, her arms wrapped around Frankie. She looks up at me, and I see the hesitation in her eyes.
I step closer, crouching in front of her. “Baby,” I say gently. “We need to tell them about Tessa.”
Her lips part, and she shakes her head. “We don’t know it’s her.”
“Who else would it be?” I ask, my voice low but firm. “Who else has a reason to do this?”
She swallows hard, glancing between me and the officers. Finally, she speaks.
“Tessa,” she says softly, her voice trembling. “Brock’s ex. She’s... she’s been causing trouble ever since she showed up at one of his events.”
Harris nods, jotting down the name. “You think she’s capable of something like this?”
“She’s petty enough,” I say, my jaw tight. “She doesn’t like that I’m with Willow, and she’s made that clear.”
“We’ll look into it,” Harris says, his tone measured. “But if she’s behind this, it might not be easy to prove. Do you have any hard evidence linking her to these incidents?”
“Not yet,” I admit, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. “But you better believe I’m going to find some.”
Harris exchanges a glance with Denton before closing his notepad. “We’ll do what we can, but be careful. Whoever’s doing this is escalating. If you notice anything else, call us immediately.”
When they leave, the bakery feels even emptier than before. Willow sits on the floor, staring at the destruction, her face pale and drawn.
I crouch in front of her, tipping her chin up so she has to look at me. “You’re not coming back here alone,” I say firmly. “Not until we figure out who’s behind this.”
She nods, her voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”
“I mean it,” I say, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’ll fix this, Willow. You’re not facing this alone.”
Her lips tremble, and she leans into me, her small frame fitting perfectly against mine. I hold her tightly, my mind already racing with plans.