Greta
Nate’s lying to me.
It’s not the words he says—it’s the ones hedoesn’t. The way his jaw tightens when I ask questions. The way his eyes flick to the door every few minutes like he’s expecting trouble to walk through it.
He tells me he hasn’t heard from Micah yet, but I know better. There’s a look men get when they’re sitting on bad news, when they’re deciding how much to tell the woman who might break if they do.
I’m not fragile. I’m just tired.
And right now, I’m tired of being kept in the dark.
The diner’s empty. It’s almost closing time. The jukebox hums quietly with some twangy country song that makes me want to throw something. Nate’s wiping down counters that don’t need wiping, pretending he’s not watching me do the same.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “You gonna tell me what you’re not telling me?”
He freezes mid-wipe. “What makes you think I’m not telling you something?”
I shoot him a look. “I’m not new to lies, Bishop. You think I can’t spot one?”
He sighs. “Micah’s tracking your ex. He’s close.”
That’s all he says. His tone is flat, like he’s reporting the weather.
My stomach drops anyway. “Close as in…howclose?”
His gaze cuts to the window. “Close enough that I don’t want you walking anywhere alone. Not even across the street.”
A cold shiver snakes up my spine. I force a laugh to cover it. “Well, good thing you’re here. You seem like the overprotective type.”
He grunts, noncommittal. Which, in Nate-speak, meansyou have no idea.
We clean in silence for a few minutes, the air between us thick and heavy with everything we’re not saying.
Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “You ever think about leaving Timber Creek?”
The question catches me off guard. “What, and abandon my empire of coffee and sarcasm? Never.”
“Be serious.”
I glance over at him, leaning against the counter, rag in one hand. The firelight from the kitchen flickers against his face, carving sharp lines and soft shadows.
“I tried running once,” I admit quietly. “Didn’t really fix anything. Turns out, wherever you go, you’re still you. Same fears. Same memories. Just a different zip code.”
He nods, eyes thoughtful. “I know the feeling.”
“Yeah? What were you running from?”
His mouth lifts at one corner, but it’s not a smile. “Myself.”
Before I can say anything, the doorbell jingles.
I frown. “We’re closed?—”
Three men step inside, shaking off the cold. Big guys. Leather jackets. The kind of swagger that screamstrouble looking for fun.
“Evening, sweetheart,” the tallest one says. His grin’s oily, practiced. “Heard this is where Greta Pine works.”
My pulse stumbles. Nate’s head snaps toward them.
