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Hemlock’s eyes widened, half in disbelief, half in genuine amusement. “Truck,” his voice was a little more serious now that the same vulnerability was creeping back in.

Truck answered, sensing the shift. “Yeah.”

“How do I fix things with Charlie?” Hemlock’s words were quieter now, almost like he was bracing for something heavy. His fingers laced together, his uncertainty about how to approach the whole situation making his chest tighten.

Truck’s expression softened, the tough exterior giving way just a little as he looked at Hemlock. “Your cinnamon girl is worriedsick about you. Don’t think she’s been sitting around with her hands folded. Trust me, she’s been pacing, texting, calling, asking me what the hell happened.” He leaned back against the porch step, his tone steady, but kind. “But if I were you, kid, I’d start by telling her about your past.Reallytelling her. All the stuff you’ve been carrying around.”

Just the thought of sharing made Hemlock’s stomach twist. He hadn’t wanted to go down that road. He hated the idea of digging up all that old shit—the things he’d tried so hard to leave behind. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Charlie didn’t knoweverything, and without that understanding, how could she? How could she see him for who he was, for all the things he was trying to be if he wasn’t honest with her about the things that shaped him? Maybe he could just buy her something shiny and apologize.

“I see you plotting and don’t,” Truck said, knowing exactly where Hemlock’s thoughts were heading and he cut that thought process off. “After everything that girl’s been through, she deserves more than some trinket and a pitiful I’m sorry.”

Truck knew him better than he thought. “Pitiful. I was sincere when I told you I was sorry,” Hemlock said and smiled at his brother.

“It was pitiful.” Truck made sad puppy dog eyes at Hemlock. “Absolutely, pitiful.”

“Jackass.” Hemlock sighed. “I don’t know how to even start,” Hemlock admitted, his voice dropping lower. “I don’t know how to say any of it without... pushing her away.”

Truck gave him a look that was part concern, part challenge. “The truth’s gonna come out one way or another, Hemlock.You can’t hide from it forever. And you sure as hell can’t keep running from her. If she cares about you—like I think she does—you owe it to her to let her see all of you. Not just the pieces you want her to see.”

There was a weight to Truck’s words. It was the kind of truth that was hard to swallow, but necessary. If Hemlock knew anything, he knew that much.

Chapter Seventeen

Hemlock,

Damn, this is hard. I wasn’t with Truck. I wanted to be with you. I guess we’re both gun shy. Maybe it’s for the best. I don’t know. What I do know is I’ve over stayed my welcome and it’s time to get my life back on track.

I’m going to confront Crispen and Ashley. If I come up missing, or dead, hell, somewhere in a coma, you know who to point the finger at.

Thanks for everything,

Your Cinnamon Girl

Hemlock stared at the note for a long second before looking around the first floor of his condo. Everything was neat as a pin just the way he liked it. Dashing upstairs he took the steps two at a time. Hitting the second floor landing he knew instantly she was gone.

He checked both bedrooms and bathrooms. There wasn’t a sign she’d ever been there. Walking back into his bedroom, he sat down and hung his head. Next to him was the t-shirt she’d confiscated of his that she slept in. It was neatly folded and set on the foot of the bed. Picking it up he buried his face in the shirt. He inhaled deeply, trying to pull something from the fabric—her presence, her warmth, something—anything. But all that lingered was the sterile scent of detergent. His heart sank.

The words in the note rattled around in his head.“I’m going to confront Crispen and Ashley.”His gut twisted. He knew how dangerous they could be—manipulative, cold, and relentless. Was she really serious about facing them alone?

“Fuck this shit.” Tossing the shirt aside, he pulled out his phone and called Sherlock. He needed help tracking her down and the brother was the only one that could save him some time.

Hemlock shot a message over to Sherlock before heading back downstairs. He stood and grabbed his jacket, tossing the t-shirt onto the bed and walked out. The condo felt emptier now, the entire space around him echoing with her absence. He had no idea where to start, no clear path forward. But one thing was certain: he was going to find her.

He was headed for the door when it opened. Hemlock froze in the doorway. His heart skipped a beat at seeing her walking inside. “Charlie.”

Charlie shifted her weight, her eyes darting to the ground for a second before locking with his. “I forgot something,” she said, barely above a whisper.

His chest tightened. “What?” He stepped forward, quickly closing the gap between them.

Her lips parted and she spoke softly, “To leave my key.”

“Oh.” He watched her fumble with the keyring and walked towards her not stopping until his hands were tunneled into her long hair, pulling her to him so he could kiss her. It was probably more aggressive than she expected. Hell it was more than he expected. Tired of dragging his feet when it came to her, this was his moment where she would fall into it or push him away, but either way he’d know.

She stood frozen as Hemlock kissed her roughly. Her hands hung by her side still clutching her purse and keys. Dropping them, she threw her arms around his neck, pulling him tighter to her. She fell into the kiss, wanting to feel every glide of his tongue against hers. She wanted to feel his body pressed against her.

Hemlock held her close, his chest pressing against hers as the kiss broke, leaving them both breathless. His forehead rested against hers for a moment, his hands still tangled in her hair, fingers lightly gripping the soft strands as if he was afraid she might slip away again. The world outside the door didn’t matter anymore. All that existed was the way her body felt against his, the warmth of her breath, the way she responded to him with a quiet desperation that mirrored his own.

“I want you to stay with me.”