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Nate

I ’d just poured my coffee when I heard the knock.

Not the “I need something” kind. The tap-tap-tap, I brought you food and probably chaos kind.

Sure enough, when I opened the door, Willa Mae stood there with a wide grin and a basket full of pancakes wrapped in a gingham towel. And a thermos. And a goat.

The goat.

“Please tell me that’s not Pancake.”

“It’s Pancake,” she said, like I’d just won a prize. “He gets separation anxiety.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “You brought him to my porch.”

“I also brought cinnamon pecan pancakes and homemade blackberry syrup, so stop judging.”

Fair enough.

She breezed past me, stopped, and glanced at the table on my porch. Pancake trotted behind her, head high, as if to say This is my porch now.

I was about to comment on territory marking when Willa suddenly stopped..

She went still.

I followed her gaze and froze.

There was an envelope on the little table. A plain white envelope I hadn’t seen when I walked outside earlier.

No address. No stamp. Just my name on the front.

Handwritten.

In thick black marker.

“Was that here earlier?” she asked.

“No,” I said slowly, crossing the porch. “You know how far off the road I live. No one should’ve been able to get inside, my screen door is always locked.”

“Then how’d they get on your porch with that screen door locked?”

I didn’t answer. My gut was already twisting.

I opened the envelope.

Inside was a single photo.

Willa.

At the market.

From behind a nearby stall. She was laughing, tossing her braid over her shoulder, holding a bar of soap like she was telling some ridiculous story.

“Max said this town was quiet,” I muttered.

Willa took a step back, her hand gripping the counter's edge. “Why would someone take that?”

“I don’t know yet.” I grabbed my phone. “But I’m calling Frasier. And I’m locking this place down.”

“You think someone’s watching me?”

I looked at her—really looked. Her face had gone pale, her freckles standing out more starkly.

“I think,” I said carefully, “you’ve got someone in your life who doesn’t want you to be happy.” We walked inside.

She blinked at me.

And then, very quietly, said, “I think I know who it might be.”

She stood frozen in my kitchen, the sunlight catching the edges of her hair—long, wild, honey-blonde waves tumbling down her back like a damn shampoo commercial that had no business being this distracting in the middle of a crisis.

Her gray eyes—stormy and impossible to read—locked on the photo in my hand.

“I know who took that,” she said quietly.

I set the picture down carefully. “Tell me.”

Willa swallowed hard. “His name’s Derek. He’s my ex-boyfriend. We dated for a few months before I moved here. He didn’t take the breakup well.”

I leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “Define not well. ”

“He followed me around for a while. Left weird notes on my windshield. He showed up at the farmers' market a few times after I asked him not to. Always made it seem like it was a coincidence.” She looked down. “He’d never been violent… just watchful . Creepy.”

“Did you report any of it?”

“I tried. But it was always just shy of actual harassment. No threats. No texts. He’s smart—knows how to push the line without stepping over it. The police said they had nothing to bring him in for questioning.”

I ran a hand down my face, adrenaline still buzzing under my skin.

And then I looked at her— really looked at her.

Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted just slightly, like she hadn’t quite caught her breath. That soft curve of her jaw. The way those gray eyes flashed silver when she was afraid but trying to be brave anyway—the subtle tremble in her hands.

God, she was beautiful.

Not just beautiful— breathtaking , in a down-to-earth way.

Strong and stubborn, with that fierce independence and a heart bigger than her damn herd of goats. And in that moment, all I could think about was how much I wanted to protect her.

And maybe how badly I wanted to kiss her.

Those lips… yeah. They looked like trouble.

The kind I’d walk into on purpose.

Focus, Hayes.

I blinked, forced my brain to reboot.

Now wasn’t the time for fantasies and heat and whatever the hell she was doing to me without even trying.

Now was the time to get serious.

“I need a picture of this Derek guy,” I said, grabbing a pen and notepad. “Any chance he’d know your routines? Where you deliver your products to? Where you park your car?”

She nodded. “He followed my social media. He’d know I come to Frasier Mountain every Saturday.”

My jaw tightened.

This wasn’t random.

This was planned.

I turned back to her. “You’re not staying at your place tonight. You’ll stay here.”

Her eyes widened. “With Pancake?”

“With me. And if Pancake behaves, he can stay too, on the porch.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He sleeps in the shed.”

She tried to smile, but it faltered. “Nate… are you sure? I don’t want him to think he is scaring me.”

I stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell that lavender and wildflower scent she always seemed to carry, like it followed her around on purpose. I’m surprised the bees didn’t follow her around.

“Willa Mae Jensen,” I said, voice low and steady, “someone leaves a photo like that in my cabin, they’re not just messing with you. They’re messing with the wrong damn SEAL.”