Greta’s framed in the diner window like something out of a snow globe. Warm light. Red lips. Curvy hips that haunt my damn sleep. And eyes—big and brown and guarded—that tell me whatever she’s carrying didn’t start today.
I slide the phone into my jacket and step out of the truck, boots crunching against the thin layer of frost on the pavement.
Whatever’s after her, whoever she’s running from… they’re gonna have to get through me now.
And that?
That’s not gonna happen.
3
Greta
I’ve wiped the same spot on the counter so many times the laminate is probably going to shine through the apocalypse.
My heart still hasn’t calmed down. Not since I foundthat noteunder the napkin holder. Not sincehe—the man I ran from, the reason I changed my name, the reason I sleep with a chair wedged under the doorknob—proved he knows exactly where I am.
I keep telling myself maybe I dropped it. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe my brain is spiraling because I watch too many crime dramas when I can’t sleep.
But Iknowhis handwriting.
Iknowwhat Bunny means. Iknowhow it felt when my stomach dropped through the soles of my shoes.
So I keep scrubbing the counter. Because it’s easier than facing the cold fact that everything I built here might fall apart again.
I’m so focused I don’t hear the door until the bell chimes.
I jump.
Ilockedthat.
I whirl around—and see Nate.
Tall. Solid. Wearing that same weathered flannel from earlier like it was stitched onto him by some flannel-loving deity. His dark hair’s tousled like he ran a hand through it too many times. There’s snow melting on his shoulders and something harder than usual in his eyes.
“I locked the door,” I say, breathless.
He holds up a hand. “Don’t panic. I still had pie on the brain.”
I blink. “You broke into my diner… forpie?”
He doesn’t smile. Not really.
“No,” he says, stepping further inside, voice quiet but firm. “I forgot something.”
I eye him cautiously. “What?”
“You.”
My stomach flips.
Nate Bishop, master of brooding stares and emotionally unavailable energy, just saidmelike I was the thing he came back for. Like I matter. Like I’m not just a woman with a past trying to keep her hands from shaking.
I swallow hard. “Nate…”
“You weren’t okay,” he says, cutting right through me. “Something happened. And I let you pretend otherwise because I figured you’d tell me when you were ready. But I’ve been sittingin my truck for an hour and I can’t shake the feeling that you’re not safe.”
My lips part. But nothing comes out.
