Chapter 2 #2
“Concussion,” Colt said. “You’re going to have a headache for a while. Maybe some nausea. I need you to rest, stay quiet, minimal stimulation for the next twenty-four hours.”
“Okay.” She started to sit up, then clearly thought better of it. “Who shoots up a bakery on a Tuesday morning? This is Laurel Valley, not Detroit.”
The way she said it—like she was trying to make sense of something that made no sense—hit Grant harder than it should have.
Colt stood. “I’m going to head to the hospital, make sure Blaze gets into surgery okay.
Grant, keep an eye on her. Any changes—vision problems, vomiting, increasing confusion—you call me immediately.
” He handed Grant a card with his number.
“I’ll have someone swing by with something for that headache. ”
After Colt left, silence filled the apartment. Grant stayed kneeling beside the couch, very aware that Liza was watching him.
“This was about you,” she said. Not a question.
He nodded.
“You know who did it.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to drag it out of you?”
Despite everything, Grant felt his mouth twitch. Even with a concussion, even scared, she had fight in her. He pulled out his phone and showed her the text.
Liza stared at the photo of herself on the screen. At the message below it. Her stomach turned, and not just from the concussion.
Pretty girl. Would hate for her to have an accident.
The first emotion that hit was anger. Pure, white-hot rage that some psycho had been watching her this morning, photographing her without her knowledge, marking her like prey.
She’d been hauling boxes, for crying out loud.
Minding her own business, trying to figure out whether to stay or sell, and some lunatic had been stalking her.
The second emotion was more complicated.
Fear, yes—she wasn’t stupid enough to pretend getting shot at didn’t terrify her.
But underneath the fear was something darker.
Frustration. Bitter, exhausted frustration that she’d finally found a place that felt like it might be worth staying for, and now she was being hunted by someone else’s past.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Of course this happens. Because why would anything ever be simple?”
“Liza—”
“No, I’m just—” She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to ease the pounding in her head while her mind raced.
“I drove three thousand miles to get away from one mess, and now I’m neck-deep in another one.
Except this time the crazy person has actual guns instead of just a lawyer and a fragile ego. ”
Grant’s expression shifted with something that might have been guilt or respect. She couldn’t tell which.
Liza looked at the photo again. 7:47 a.m. She’d been making her eighth trip to the car, arms full of bakery boxes, hair probably a disaster from the wind. Just a normal Tuesday morning in what was supposed to be a boring mountain town.
Nothing about her life had ever been normal. Why should now be different?
She thought about Richard. About walking in on him and that woman, about the white-hot fury that had driven her to get in his car and put it through his bedroom wall. Everyone had told her she’d lost control, that she’d snapped, that she was reckless and self-destructive.
But she hadn’t lost control. She’d made a choice. A deliberate, calculated choice to show him exactly what she thought of his betrayal. She didn’t regret it. And his insurance covered the repairs.
This felt different. This wasn’t about choices or control. This was about being collateral damage in someone else’s vendetta. About being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person.
Except Grant wasn’t the wrong person. Even now, even scared and concussed and threatened, she knew that much. Whatever this thing was between them—this instant, impossible connection—it was real. She’d felt it the moment he walked into her bakery.
And now some psychopath wanted to kill her for it.
“Well,” Liza said, her voice steadier than she felt, “this is definitely not how I imagined my day going when I woke up this morning.”
Grant’s mouth twitched despite the tension. “No?”
“No. I was planning on selling pastries, flirting with a hot stranger, maybe figuring out whether I was going to stay in Laurel Valley or move to LA.” She looked at him. “Getting shot at wasn’t on the schedule.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Stop apologizing.” She cut him off, sharper than she intended. “You didn’t do this. She did. You didn’t ask for some psycho to fixate on you. You didn’t ask to walk into my bakery this morning. And you sure as heck didn’t pull that trigger.”
She sat up slowly, fighting the dizziness and the nausea and the fear that threatened to overwhelm her if she let it. “I’m not a victim. I refuse to be a victim. I’ve been through bad breakups and family drama and all kinds of garbage, but I’ve never been helpless. And I’m not starting now.”
Grant was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. Admiration, maybe. Or concern that she was in shock and not processing reality.