7. Willow
SEVEN
Willow
Of course.
Of course the men half the town has been gossiping about are living at Hawthorne House.
I’ve heard the rumors for weeks. Everybody has. The old estate sold. Renovations happening day and night. Expensive equipment deliveries. Strange SUVs coming and going at all hours. Redemption Falls has basically treated the whole thing like a community conspiracy theory with better landscaping.
But hearing about it and standing in the middle of it are very different experiences.
I stand in the entrance of the estate with four takeout bags cutting angry red lines into my fingers and try very hard not to look as stunned as I feel.
This isn’t going well.
The drive up here should’ve been my first clue.
Nobody in Redemption Falls has a driveway that long unless they’re either old money, new money, or hiding bodies. The iron gates at the front were already enough to make me roll my eyes.
I remember this place from when I was a kid, back when people still called it Hawthorne House in that half-whispering way small towns do when a building gets old enough to collect rumors.
It used to look haunted from the outside.
Not in a charming Halloween way, either.
In a peeling paint, rotting porch, maybe there’s a woman in white upstairs kind of way.
Now it looks like a magazine spread for rich people who want to “disconnect” while still having six bathrooms and imported stone floors.
I stand here in my diner apron with a pen tucked behind one ear, staring at Gabe Stockton on the staircase like maybe if I blink hard enough, he’ll turn into literally anyone else.
He doesn’t.
He just stands there halfway down the sweeping front stairs, one hand resting lightly on the banister, looking maddeningly composed in a dark button down with the sleeves pushed up.
His blond hair is still unfairly perfect, his expression still calm in that deeply unsettling way that makes it feel like he’s already had three thoughts about me before I’ve even managed one coherent one about him.
His eyes move over me once, quick but thorough.
Then they flick to the bags in my hands.
Then back to my face.
“Willow.”
I tighten my grip on the bags. “No, actually, let’s not do this. I’m dropping off food, someone is paying me, and then I’m leaving before the house reveals a ballroom or a butler or another deeply unnecessary rich person feature.”
One of his brows lifts. “We don’t have a butler.”
“Well, thank goodness. I was worried things might be getting ridiculous.”
The entrance hall is obscene. That’s the only word for it.
The ceiling is easily twice the height of my entire living room. There’s polished dark wood under my boots, a chandelier overhead the size of a small satellite, and windows tall enough to give a person a crisis about their own tax bracket.
The old bones of the house are still there, the carved banisters and crown molding and that slightly haunted elegance, but now everything’s been restored and warmed and made expensive in a way that feels almost rude.
And that’s just the entry.
Beyond Gabe, through an archway, I can see movement. People crossing halls. Someone carrying what looks like a guitar case. Another person with a headset and a tablet moving fast enough to suggest there’s a schedule and everyone in this building fears it.
I narrow my eyes.
I knew they were setting up some kind of label out here. I didn’t realize they meant this.
Before I can say anything else, a voice cuts across the room from somewhere behind a wall. “Please tell me that’s food and not another contract.”
Julian appears like he was summoned by the scent of carbohydrates.
He comes around the corner in a black tee and dark jeans, hair messy in that ridiculous way that should look lazy but somehow doesn’t, grin already in place the second he sees me.
“Well,” he says with entirely too much delight, “this is becoming a pattern.”
I deadpan at him. “You say that like I’m stalking you, which feels rude considering I’m the one carrying your dinner.”
He takes two of the bags from my hands, glancing inside one.
“I’m not saying stalking,” he says. “I’m saying fate.”
“It’s not fate. It’s fried chicken.”
“Same energy.”
He pulls open one container right there in the foyer and steals a fry before I can stop him.
I stare. “Did you just start eating before paying?”
Julian chews, completely unbothered. “Mm. Yes.”
“You still have to pay for that.”
Gabe’s mouth definitely twitches this time.
Julian waves a fry vaguely in my direction. “Willow, I need you to know how much I respect that even in a house this size, under these circumstances, you remain committed to the principle of financial transaction.”
“I’m committed to not getting fired.”
“Fair,” he says, and steals another fry. “But in my defense, if death comes for me tonight, I want it known that I went out with decent seasoning.”
I rub the back of my neck and look at the ceiling for strength.
“This,” I say, “is why people don’t trust rich men.”
Julian grins wider. “I thought it was tax reasons.”
Gabe finally comes down the last few steps.
He moves with the same controlled ease he always seems to have, like he’s never rushed toward anything in his life and doesn’t intend to start now.
Up close, he smells clean. Expensive. Citrusy and sweet.
His gaze drops to my empty hands, then to Julian already halfway into a side dish like he hasn’t eaten in a week.
“We will pay for that,” Gabe says calmly.
“Wonderful. I’d hate to have to physically fight him in your foyer.”
Julian looks delighted by the idea. “Would you win?”
“Yes.”
He considers me. “You know what? I believe you.”
Gabe reaches into his pocket for his wallet, then glances toward the card slip still tucked under the delivery order in my hand.
“Do you want to come into the kitchen while we sort out payment?” he asks.
No, thank you, I don’t need to step farther into the giant mysterious estate owned by three arrogant men who keep appearing in my life like handsome jump scares.
No, thank you, I have dignity and self-preservation instincts and at least two more deliveries after this.
No, thank you.
Julian is already walking backward deeper into the house with the food bags. “Come on.”
I look at Gabe. “Is he always like this?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It can be.”
Julian gasps softly from halfway down the corridor. “I can still hear you both, and I want it noted that I’m fun.”
“You’re more like a fry thief with good hair,” I call back.
“Still counts.”
Gabe takes the order slip from my hand. Our fingers brush for half a second, and the contact is warm.
I pull my hand back.
He notices.
Everything about Gabe suggests he notices things for a living.
And because apparently my judgment has gone soft from lack of sleep and exposure to nonsense, I follow them.
Just a few steps.
Only because I need the receipt signed.
Only because I’m a professional.
Only because I absolutely refuse to look like I’m intimidated by square footage.
The hallway opens into a room so large and bright I physically stop.
“This is a kitchen?” I say.
Julian, who has already set the food out across an island the size of my first apartment, glances up. “Yeah.”
“No, I need you to hear how crazy that sounded. This isn’t a kitchen. This is a venue.”
It’s all marble and dark cabinets and industrial lighting softened by warm wood and a wall of windows looking out over the grounds.
There are stools lined up at the island, fresh flowers on one end, some kind of built-in espresso machine that probably costs more than my car, and beyond that, open doors leading into what looks like a lounge area with deep couches and bookshelves, and, because apparently subtlety died here, a baby grand piano.
I point at it. “Why is there a piano in your living room?”
Julian follows my finger. “For piano reasons.”
“You say a lot of things that make me tired.”
“Yet you keep coming back.”
Gabe steps around me to set the card slip down on the counter. “You can charge the company card.”
“Tempting,” I say. “Do you think they’d notice if I added emotional damages?”
He glances up, green eyes sparkling. “How much are emotional damages for this particular delivery?”
I fold my arms. “At least three hundred dollars and one sincere apology for the fry theft.”
Julian laughs from the island. “That seems low.”
“Don’t encourage me.”
“Never.”
Gabe hands over the card.
I take it, looking only at the card and not at the hand holding it because I already know what these men are like. One is intense enough to make standing still feel like a confrontation, one is all weaponized charm and zero respect for boundaries, and this one…
This one is quiet in a way that feels more dangerous than either of the others.
I run the card through the portable machine clipped to my order board, hand it back, and hold out the slip for him to sign.
He signs without comment.
I glance down at the amount after he adds the tip and nearly roll my eyes hard enough to detach my retinas. “Oh, absolutely not.”
Julian looks up with interest. “How bad?”
I turn the slip toward Gabe. “What’s wrong with all of you?”
He looks at the number, then back at me. “It seemed appropriate.”
“It seems unhinged.”
“It’s a large order.”
“It’s six sandwiches and a family-size existential crisis.”
Julian leans over the island to see. “Mm. No, that’s fair. I might’ve gone higher.”
I stare at him.
He pops another fry into his mouth like the conversation has nothing to do with him.
“Why are you like this?”
Julian grins. “Natural talent. Tragic upbringing. Great hair.”
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
Because, irritatingly, that’s funny.
Gabe takes his card back and slides it into his wallet. “You can argue about the tip if you want,” he says, “but we’re not changing it.”
I prickle.
Maybe it’s the calm certainty.
Maybe it’s because all three of them have some variation of I’ve decided a thing and now it is true in their personalities and it makes me want to throw objects.