No. Not just Maggie.
Magnolia Rowe.
The realization hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. The DIY expert from that home improvement show that River was always watching. The one X and River argued about, with River insisting her restoration techniques were revolutionary and X claiming she was “just another pretty face selling power tools to housewives.”
His lungs seized. He took an involuntary step backward, nearly tripping over Bramble.
“Anson?” Maggie—no,Magnolia—frowned. “Are you okay?”
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The woman he’d been writing to for six years, pouring his soul out to, confessing his darkest thoughts and deepest fears... was famous. A television personality with millions of viewers. A woman whose face was recognized in cafés and grocery stores, whose life existed in high definition, beamed into living rooms across the country.
And he was... this. Scarred. Broken. A convicted felon who could barely string two sentences together in front of the checkout girl at the hardware store.
“You’re her.” The words scraped his throat raw. “Magnolia Rowe.”
Her expression shifted, wariness replacing the open warmth from moments before. “Yes. That’s... my show name. For work.” She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly defensive. “I thought you knew.”
“No.” He took another step back, his boot catching on the edge of the porch step. “I didn’t.”
She frowned. “But I mentioned it in my letters. The renovation projects.”
Had she? He scrambled to remember. She’d written about work—restoration projects, salvage finds. But he’d pictured her working for a small contractor, maybe a local renovation company. Not... this.
“I thought you were just a builder.” His voice sounded distant, even to his own ears.
“I am a builder.” Something flashed in her eyes. Hurt? Frustration? A mix of both? “The show came later.”
Bramble pressed against his legs, sensing his distress. The pressure grounded him, but not enough. His mind raced through every letter they’d exchanged, every confession, every vulnerability he’d laid bare.
To a stranger. No, worse. To a public figure.
“I should go,” he said, the words coming out clipped and flat. He stepped back, nearly stumbling off the small porch. “It’s late.”
“Anson, wait?—”
But he was already moving, turning away, his shoulders hunched against the sudden weight pressing down on his chest. The distance between them—between who she was and who he was—yawned like a canyon too wide to cross.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he managed, the lie bitter on his tongue.
He wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
Not now that he knew the reality of who she was.
seven
A thin, cut-off cry yanked Maggie from sleep. She froze, breath trapped in her lungs, ears straining against the pre-dawn silence. Nothing followed—no footsteps, no voices, no sound at all—but that single noise had been enough. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she lay perfectly still, the old habit of playing dead kicking in before conscious thought could catch up.
Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.
She slid her hand beneath the pillow, fingers closing around the hammer she’d tucked there last night. The metal felt cold against her palm, solid and reassuring. Three months of waking to strange sounds outside her Tampa apartment had taught her never to sleep without a weapon within reach.
The silence stretched, unbroken except for the quiet hum of the cabin’s ancient heater. She forced herself to count breaths—in for four, hold for four, out for four. The exercise did nothing to slow her racing pulse.
What the hell was that noise?
Not a tree branch. Not the wind. Something alive. Something hurt, maybe. Or someone.
