You always hated the cold, Bunny.
My heart drops straight into my boots.
Nobody calls me Bunny. Nobody buthim.
My ex.
The man I ran from five years ago with nothing but a duffel bag, a half-tank of gas, and the very real fear that if I didn’t leaveright then, I wasn’t going to leave at all.
And now he’s here.
InTimber Creek.
I look up, scanning the room, but there’s no one—just Nate, half-finished coffee in one hand, eyes already locked on me.
“Greta?”
I fold the note fast, tucking it into my apron like it’s nothing but a receipt. I must be pale because Nate’s already rising, every muscle going tight like a wire pulled taut.
“You good?”
I force a smile. “Yeah! Just, uh… brain freeze. From the whipped cream air.”
His frown deepens.
Okay, yeah. That was a dumb excuse.
I grab the checkbook, trying to look normal. “Want me to box up the rest of that pie? You look like a leftovers kind of guy.”
“Greta.”
The way he says my name? Low. Steady. It does something to me. Something that makes me want to tell him everything and also bolt for the back door.
“I’m fine,” I lie, because I don’t know how to benot fineout loud.
But Nate Bishop is not an idiot. He’s been in enough places, seen enough people to know what it looks like when someone’s trying to smile with a wolf at their heels.
He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a business card—plain white, no logo, just his name and a number.
“If something’s wrong,” he says, voice quiet, “call me.”
My throat closes. I don’t nod. I don’t thank him. I just take the card like it might burn me and slide it into the front pocket of my apron right next to the note.
He leaves after that. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t linger. Just pushes back his chair, drops cash on the table, and gives me one last glance like he’s memorizing the shape of me in case he needs to follow it into the dark.
When the door shuts behind him, the bell jingles like it always does, like everything’s normal. But the air feels heavier now. Charged.
I head to the back, duck into the walk-in cooler, and lean my head against the metal shelf of pickles until the sting behind my eyes fades.
He found me.
Hefound me.
And I don’t know how. I changed my name. Moved three states. Got a new job, a new laugh, a new life. I’ve kept to myself, never told anyone the full truth, not even myself—because the real me hasn’t existed since I ran.
But that note? That handwriting?
It means the man I thought I left behind… is back.
