Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WILLOW
T he bakery feels like a tomb with cops inside taking pictures, dusting for prints. The smell of paint still lingers in the air, sharp and stifling, and every piece of broken glass and spray-painted wall feels like a jab to my chest.
I need air.
Stepping outside, I lean against the brick wall, staring at nothing in particular as the early morning chill bites at my skin. I feel hollow, like someone scooped out everything good and left me with the mess.
Footsteps echo on the pavement, and I turn to see June walking up, her face tight with worry. She must’ve seen the police cars.
“Oh my God,” she says, her voice low as she looks at me and then at the bakery. “What the hell happened?”
“Someone broke in,” I say, my voice flat. “They trashed the place.”
Her eyes widen, and she steps closer, pulling me into a hug. “Willow, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
I nod against her shoulder, but the truth is, I’m not.
She pulls back, narrowing her eyes as she scans my face. “Look, you shouldn’t be alone right now. Come stay with me for a few days. I’ve got room, and you shouldn’t have to deal with this by yourself.”
Her offer is kind, but I can’t bring myself to say yes. “Thank you, June, but I can’t. I don’t want to drag you or anyone else into this.”
“You’re not dragging me into anything,” she says sharply. “You’re my best friend. Let me help.”
I hesitate, glancing away before finally meeting her eyes. “This isn’t the worst part.”
Her brow furrows, and she stares at me, waiting.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” I say quietly, my voice shaking. “But someone… someone did the same thing to my house last night.”
June’s eyes bug out of her face, and she steps back like she needs space to process what I just said. “What?” she snaps.
I nod, my throat tightening as the memory of my destroyed living room flashes through my mind. “It was the same thing. The door was open, and inside… it was wrecked.”
Her face hardens, her hands going to her hips. “You’re telling me someone trashed your house and your bakery in less than twenty-four hours, and you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I told Brock,” I say softly.
She throws her hands in the air, exasperated. “I’m not talking about Brock. I’m talking about me. Why didn’t you tell me, Willow? Do you not trust me?”
“It’s not that,” I say quickly, guilt twisting in my chest. “I just… I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I thought maybe the house was random, but after this?” I gesture toward the bakery, my voice breaking. “It’s not random, June. Someone’s doing this to me on purpose.”
June stares at me for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Tessa,” she says, her tone flat.
“I don’t know for sure,” I murmur, though the weight of the lie feels heavy in my chest.
June crosses her arms, frowning deeply. “Fine. But if you don’t tell me the second something else happens, we’re going to have a problem.”
“I will,” I lie, the words hollow in my mouth.
As she turns to head back to her shop, I lean against the wall again, Frankie sitting at my feet. The street feels too quiet, the bakery too empty, and my thoughts too loud.
Tessa’s playing a game, and I’m barely keeping up.
When Brock walks over, his jaw tight and his eyes full of concern, I know he’s going to insist I come back with him.
“You ready to head back to my place?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
His brow furrows. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I mean I need to be alone,” I say, my voice trembling slightly. “I’m going to check into a hotel for a few days.”
Brock steps closer, his expression hardening. “Like hell you are! Willow, someone is after you, and staying in a hotel won’t make you any safer.”
“I’ll be fine,” I insist, lifting my chin. “I need some time to think, Brock. I can’t keep leaning on you like this.”
His eyes flash with frustration, and I see his jaw tighten. “You think this is too much for me? You think I don’t want to be here for you?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” I reply quickly, my voice rising slightly. “I just—I don’t want to put you in the middle of this.”
“You’re not putting me in the middle of anything,” he snaps, his voice sharp. “I’m already in it, Willow. Whether you like it or not.”
I swallow hard, the weight of his words pressing down on me. “I know that,” I say, my throat tightening. “But this is too much, Brock. We’ve only been together for a few weeks. You shouldn’t have to deal with all of this.”
His expression darkens, and he shakes his head. “You think how long we’ve been together changes how I feel about you? That it changes the fact that someone is targeting you, and I’m not about to sit back and let it happen?”
“I’m not saying it changes how you feel,” I say, my voice cracking. “But it’s not fair to you. You didn’t sign up for this.”
“Fair?” he repeats, his tone incredulous. “Willow, I’m not here because it’s fair. I’m here because I care about you. Because I want to keep you safe.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. “I just need space, Brock. Please understand that.”
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he says, his voice low and rough. “You want space? Take it. But don’t expect me to sit around and act like everything’s okay while you’re out there alone.”
“It’s not forever,” I whisper, but he’s already turning toward his truck.
“Just let me know where you’re staying,” he says over his shoulder, his voice cold. “So I know where to find you.”
B y the time I settle into the small, sterile room at the Evergreen Inn, it’s late afternoon. Frankie curls up on the bed beside me, his little snores the only sound in the room.
I glance at my phone, at the text from Brock that’s been sitting unanswered for hours.
Brock: Let me know when you’re settled.
I haven’t replied yet. I don’t know what to say. How do you explain to someone who’s been nothing but kind and supportive that you needed to get away—from everything, including him?
I sigh, staring at the blank walls. Maybe this was a mistake.
But then again, what hasn’t been lately?
The room is cold and still when I wake up, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Then it hits me—this isn’t my bed, this isn’t my home, and nothing about this feels normal.
Frankie is curled up beside me, snoring softly, his small, warm body pressed against my side. I reach down and scratch behind his ears, but it doesn’t bring the usual comfort.
I feel horrible.
My house isn’t safe. My bakery is a wreck. I can’t go back to either, and now I’m stuck here in this sterile, impersonal hotel room, with nothing but my thoughts and the growing ache in my chest.
For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself into feeling something other than this deep, restless frustration. But it doesn’t work.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my hands over my face. Frankie stirs, blinking up at me with his wide, sleepy eyes.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper, my voice rough. “What do you say we get out of here for a bit?”
He wags his tail like he understands, hopping off the bed and trotting to the door while I slip on my sneakers and grab his leash.
The air outside is crisp and cool, and for the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe. The streets around the inn are quiet, just a handful of cars passing by and the occasional sound of a dog barking in the distance.
Frankie trots beside me, his little legs working overtime as we wander aimlessly down the sidewalk. He stops every few feet to sniff at a lamppost or a patch of grass, and I let him, grateful for the distraction.
I don’t have a destination in mind—I just need to move. To feel like I’m doing something.
But the more I walk, the heavier the weight on my chest feels. What am I supposed to do? My house is a crime scene. My bakery, my dream, is a disaster zone. And Brock...
I swallow hard, trying to push the thought of him aside, but it’s impossible. The way he looked at me this morning, hurt and frustrated, keeps flashing in my mind. He didn’t deserve that, but what else was I supposed to do?
I stop at a small park, sitting down on a bench while Frankie sniffs around the base of a tree. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, my heart skipping a beat when I see Brock’s name on the screen.
Brock: Just checking in. You okay?
I stare at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I want to tell him I’m fine, that I’ve got everything under control. But the truth is, I don’t.
Me: I’m okay. Just needed some air.
Brock: Did you eat?
Me: Not yet.
Brock: Go grab something. You need to take care of yourself, baby.
His words bring a lump to my throat, and I shove my phone back into my pocket before I can reply. He’s trying so hard to take care of me, and all I’ve done is push him away.
Frankie barks, snapping me out of my thoughts. He looks up at me expectantly, his tail wagging.
“Alright, alright,” I say, standing and brushing off my jeans. “Let’s keep walking.”
As we head back toward the inn, the weight in my chest doesn’t feel any lighter, but at least I feel a little less trapped.
One step at a time. That’s all I can do.
When Frankie and I get back to the inn, the sun is starting to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the quiet street. The fresh air hasn’t done much to clear my head, but at least I feel a little less like I’m suffocating.
As I step into the lobby, Frankie trailing behind me on his leash, the front desk receptionist looks up from her computer and gives me a polite smile.
“Miss Hart?” she asks, her voice soft but curious.
I pause, my hand tightening on Frankie’s leash. “Yes?”
She glances down at something on the desk before sliding it toward me. “Someone dropped this off for you earlier. They said it was urgent.”
My stomach flips as I reach for the envelope, my fingers trembling slightly. It’s plain and unmarked, with my name scrawled across the front in neat, looping handwriting I don’t recognize.
“Did they say who they were?” I ask, my voice tighter than I’d like.
She shakes her head, her brow furrowing. “No, just that it was for you. I thought maybe it was a friend or a family member?”
“Right,” I say weakly, clutching the envelope. “Thank you.”
When I get to my room, I lock the door behind me, my heart pounding as I sit on the bed and stare at the envelope. Frankie jumps up beside me, curling into my side as if he knows something’s wrong.
I rip it open carefully, pulling out a single sheet of paper. The handwriting inside matches the envelope—precise, almost delicate—but the words are anything but.
Willow,
Do you like how your life’s falling apart? Your house? Your bakery? This is just the beginning. You don’t belong with him. If you want to make sure nothing else happens, you’ll do the right thing! Break up with Brock and everything stops. Stay, and it will only get worse.
Your choice.
My stomach churns as I read the words again, each line cutting deeper than the last. My hands shake as I set the paper down, my mind spinning with questions and dread.
Who would do this? Why?
The obvious answer rises to the surface immediately. Tessa.
She’s the only one who fits. The only person who has a reason to target me, to try to scare me.
I clutch the paper tightly, my breathing uneven as the reality of the situation sinks in. She’s not just trying to hurt me—she’s trying to take Brock away from me.
But breaking up with him? Walking away? That’s not an option. Is it?
I glance at Frankie, who’s watching me with his wide, concerned eyes. “What do I do, buddy?” I whisper, my voice cracking.
He whines softly, nudging my hand with his nose.
I know what I need to do.
T he next morning, I drive to the bakery to assess the damage. If I’m ever going to rebuild my life, I have to start somewhere.
When I pull into the parking lot, I freeze. The windows that were shattered the last time I was here are now boarded up neatly with plywood. My heart skips a beat, and a mix of confusion and unease washes over me. I didn’t even think to do that. Was this Brock?
“What the...?” I whisper, stepping out of the car with Frankie at my heels.
Frankie sniffs the air, wagging his tail as if nothing is wrong, but I can feel my pulse quicken.
The door swings open easily, and I step inside, expecting to see the same wreckage from yesterday. Instead, the mess is gone. The counters have been fixed, the broken glass swept away, and the walls, while still faintly streaked with graffiti, have been scrubbed down as much as possible.
It’s not perfect, but it’s a hell of a lot better.
“Hello?” I call out hesitantly.
Frankie barks, his tail wagging furiously as he bolts toward the back.
“Frankie!” I whisper, my voice trembling as I hurry after him.
The sound of his excited yips echoes through the quiet bakery, and my heart jumps when I hear a faint shuffle coming from my office. My grip tightens on the rolling pin I grabbed from the counter as I nudge the door open.
Inside, sprawled on my tiny office couch, is Brock.
His long legs dangle off the edge, his head resting on one of my throw pillows, and Frankie is pawing at his chest like he’s trying to wake him up.
“Brock?” I whisper, lowering the rolling pin.
He stirs, blinking groggily as he sits up, rubbing his hand over his face. His hair is mussed, his shirt wrinkled, and he looks utterly exhausted.
“Willow?” he says, his voice rough with sleep.
I stare at him, my heart pounding for a completely different reason now. “Did you... Did you sleep here?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, stretching his arms over his head. “I didn’t want to leave the place unguarded.”
I blink, trying to process his words. “You... cleaned?”
He shrugs, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “It was a mess. I couldn’t stand thinking about you coming back and seeing it like that.”
“You boarded up the windows?”
“Yeah,” he says, standing and towering over me as he runs a hand through his hair. “Figured it was the least I could do.”
“Brock...” My voice breaks, and I shake my head, unable to find the right words.
He steps closer, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear I didn’t even realize had fallen. “I know you said you needed space,” he says, his voice low and firm. “But I couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. Someone came into your life and tried to rip it apart. That doesn’t sit right with me, Willow.”
I swallow hard, my eyes searching his. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
He leans down, his forehead nearly touching mine as his voice drops even lower. “Yes, I did. Because I’ll be damned if I let anyone hurt you again.”
His words send a shiver down my spine, and I feel the weight of his protectiveness settling over me like a shield.
“You’re not alone in this,” he continues, his grip on my hip tightening slightly. “You’re mine, Willow. And no one messes with what’s mine.”
The possessiveness in his tone would have intimidated me from anyone else, but from Brock, it feels like safety.
Frankie barks again, breaking the tension, and Brock smirks, glancing down at him. “Even your dog knows I’m right,” he teases.
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
He straightens, looking around the room, his expression hardening slightly as he takes in the remnants of the destruction. “This place is important to you,” he says, his voice firm. “We’re going to fix it. All of it.”
The intensity in his gaze makes my chest tighten, and I find myself nodding before I can think. “Okay.”
“Good,” he says, his jaw clenching. “Because whoever’s doing this? They’re not going to win. Not as long as I’m here.”