Willow
FORTY-THREE
Iseriously consider running away.
Back to my house. Back to my diner. Back to my tiny, uncomplicated life where the worst thing that happened to me was Bill complaining about pancake flour.
Instead, I’m sitting cross-legged in one of the guest rooms at Hawthorne House while the internet argues about whether Gabe Stockton looked “possessive” during a two-second clip filmed outside Commas Park.
Spoiler alert: He did.
Unfortunately for my emotional stability, the comments are somehow worse.
Someone made an entire slow-motion edit of him stepping in front of me when Caitlyn started filming.
Another person zoomed in on the exact moment he looked down at me afterward and captioned it: HE LOOKS LIKE HER SAFETY IS HIS RELIGION.
Which is objectively insane.
I throw my phone onto the bed dramatically. “This is a nightmare.”
Daisy lifts her head from the rug.
I point at the phone accusingly. “They’re making edits again.”
She yawns.
A soft knock sounds at the door before Julian pokes his head into the room. “You good?”
“No.”
“Excellent. Dinner’s ready.”
“I’d rather perish.”
“Unfortunately, Gabe made pasta, and if you reject his carbohydrates, he’ll become unbearable.”
That gets a reluctant snort out of me. “You’ve gotta stop doing that.”
“Being charming?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible.”
He disappears again before I can insult him properly.
I stare at the ceiling for another few seconds before finally dragging myself off the bed, because as much as I want to go home right now…
I know Gabe’s right. The compound is safer.
At least until Caitlyn releases whatever nightmare article she’s clearly preparing.
The thought makes my stomach twist again.
I hate feeling watched all the time. I hate that strangers think they know me. I hate that part of me still wants to hide every time things get loud.
But underneath all of that, I hate the idea of leaving them more.
By the time I head downstairs, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce fills the house.
The kitchen feels warm under hanging lights, music playing softly from one of the speakers while all three men move around the space in different stages of domestic life.
Julian is stealing Parmesan directly from the container. Gabe is plating food with the concentration of a surgeon. And Xander looks up the second I walk in.
My stupid heart does backflips.
“There she is,” Julian says dramatically. “Our persecuted celebrity.”
“I’m going upstairs again.”
“No you’re not,” Gabe says calmly without looking up. “Sit down.”
I do.
Dinner settles, becoming surprisingly normal after that.
Well. Normal for us.
Meaning Julian tells a wildly exaggerated story about getting banned from a casino in Prague. Gabe keeps correcting details. Xander watches all of us like he’s trying to memorize the room.
I mostly eat pasta and try not to think about my public downfall.
Then Julian makes the mistake of opening social media. “Oh no.”
Gabe doesn’t even look up. “What?”
“There’s a fan theory thread.”
Xander sighs like a man exhausted by humanity. “What now?”
Julian bursts out laughing. “Okay, this one says Willow is secretly the mastermind behind Redemption Records.”
I blink. “What?”
“Heavy is the head that wears the diner apron,” Julian says solemnly.
I throw a bread roll at him. He catches it one handed, looking deeply pleased with himself.
“Another one,” he continues, scrolling now, “thinks the four of us are soft launching a cult.”
“That one’s fair,” I mutter.
Gabe laughs into his wine glass.
Xander leans back in his chair. “So, solutions.”
Ah, yes. The business meeting portion of dinner. My favorite.
Julian points his fork dramatically. “We fake our deaths.”
“No.”
“We release twelve fake scandals to bury the real one.”
Xander shakes his head. “That’s worse.”
“We frame Gabe for tax fraud.”
Gabe finally looks up. “I’m not discussing finances with you anymore.”
“Coward.”
I snort despite myself. Xander’s mouth twitches.
Gabe folds his hands calmly against the table. “We need narrative redirection.”
“Which sounds deeply evil when you say it like that,” I inform him.
“It’s practical.”
“It’s PR manipulation.”
“Those are synonyms.”
Julian leans back in his chair. “What if we leaned harder into the mysterious compound thing?”
I stare at him. “You want to become cryptids?”
“Yes.”
Xander says dryly, “You already dress like one.”
Julian gasps in betrayal.
I’m laughing hard enough now that my chest hurts, which is probably their goal. Distract me until I stop spiraling. Unfortunately, it’s working.
Gabe watches me over the candlelight for a second before speaking again. “What’s the real concern here?”
I exhale. “The town.”
That sobers the room, because they understand.
“This place matters to me,” I say. “And now all these people are showing up because of us. Reporters. Fans. Influencers.” I rub the back of my neck tiredly. “I don’t want Redemption Falls turning into some weird celebrity circus.”
Julian says, “You know what’s funny?”
“That sentence never ends well.”
“You’re doing the thing.”
I narrow my eyes. “What thing?”
“The protecting the town thing.”
Gabe’s attention sharpens.
Xander leans forward. “Explain.”
Julian gestures toward me with his wine glass. “She knows everybody here. The businesses. The people. What works. What doesn’t.”
I blink. “Well yeah, obviously.”
Gabe’s expression changes subtly. “You’re uniquely qualified for this situation.”
Julian’s gaze stays fixed on me steadily. “You understand the town,” he says. “And you understand us.”
“I barely understand you.”
“That’s fair.”
Julian points excitedly now. “Oh shit.”
“What?”
“You could literally become the bridge between both worlds.”
I stare at him. “What do you mean?”
Gabe’s already mentally building spreadsheets behind his eyes. “We’re going to have artists coming into town constantly now. Managers. Crews. Producers. Media, eventually.”
“And?”
“And most of them won’t understand Redemption Falls.”
Slowly, despite myself, I begin understanding where this is heading.
Oh no.
Xander watches realization hit me in real time. “You could protect the town from becoming exactly what you’re afraid of.”
The room goes quiet. Because this doesn’t sound ridiculous anymore.
It sounds…
Possible.
Gabe continues gently, “You’d help us coordinate artist stays. Work with local businesses. Preserve the character of the town while making sure people coming here actually respect it.”
Julian grins. “You’d basically become the hot mayor of celebrity drama.”
I point at him. “You’re ruining this pitch.”
“Counterpoint: improving it.”
But I barely hear him.
Because my brain’s moving too fast now. The diner. The town. The compound. The artists.
Purpose.
Not hiding upstairs while life happens around me.
Actually doing something.
“You really think that could work?” I ask.
“All jokes aside?” Gabe says. “Yes. I think you’d be exceptional at it.”
I glance around the table. At these three impossible men in this ridiculous house that I just love.
Then I laugh and shake my head. “This is completely insane.”
Gabe’s mouth curves. “Yes.”
Julian raises his wine glass. “To insanity.”
Xander reaches for me under the table, then, fingers brushing lightly against my knee, and finally, I don’t feel quite so afraid anymore.