7Isabella. I don’t know what was in that tea Sienna gave me, but I slept like I didn’t have emotional baggage strapped to my back.Still, the moment I woke up, my brain did what it always did; file through everything I hadn’t done, everyone I’d disappointed, and every petty insult Nadia ever threw like it was her full-time job. But I shook it off this time. Mostly. Today, I wanted to write.That was the promise I made to myself when I came to Willow Creek. New town, new life, new projects. Even if they were the kind that never saw the light of a publisher’s desk again.I pulled my hair into a loose bun and padded barefoot across my creaky floorboards to the tiny kitchen. The whole place still smelled like wood and lemon oil. I brewed coffee and sat cross-legged on the couch with my laptop warming my thighs.The cursor blinked on the blank document.I stared at it like it for a long while.Come on, Isabella. You survived a public meltdown, national humiliation, and a father who would
6Isabella. I was walking back from the post office, clutching a package that contained a few copies of my old book. The one that technically wasn’t mine anymore. I told myself I was keeping them as evidence. That someday, maybe, I’d prove the truth. But the truth didn’t change the fact that seeing my name printed under Nadia’s glossy, filtered face still made my stomach twist.I paused, noticing the quaint little storefront with ivy crawling up its frame and a hand-painted sign that read Wild Root. An apothecary. I wandered in without thinking.The bell above the door chimed, giving off some kind of fairytale vibe. Inside smelled like Lavender and Citrus with hints of dried flowers and cinnamon. Wooden shelves lined the space, filled with amber jars and labeled tins. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling like upside-down chandeliers. It felt…warm. And not in terms of temperature.Behind the counter stood a woman who looked like she’d just stepped out of a Pinterest board for woodla
5Isabella. The third time I saw Noah was next to the bananas.Which, honestly, ruined the dramatic edge he’d carved into my brain with his whole “mystery-man-in-the-rain” introduction. There’s just something about standing next to a giant yellow fruit display that kills the brooding aesthetic.I was trying to pick the least bruised ones. He stood a few feet away, staring down a bag of oranges like it had personally offended him. I was halfway through reaching for a bunch when he turned and noticed me.“Hey,” he said.It was casual, almost too casual, like we were just neighbors who passed each other at the grocery store on a regular basis and didn’t have any weird baked-goods history between us.“Hey,” I echoed, straightening up and tucking my hair behind my ear like a seventh grader at a school dance. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”He shrugged. “I don’t usually come this early.”I glanced at the clock near the register. It was past eleven. Not exactly dawn.“Guess we’re both bran
4Isabella. I baked cookies.I don’t know what possessed me, maybe boredom, maybe the fact that I’ve only seen three people in the past five days and one of them was a raccoon. Or maybe, just maybe, I wanted an excuse to walk past a certain house in the woods and pretend I wasn’t deliberately delivering baked goods like a lovesick fool.The cookies were chocolate chip. Classic, comfort food, but also, if I’m being honest, my signature move. Not that I have moves. But if I did, cookies would be one of them.I wrapped them up in parchment paper and tucked them into a basket I found at the back of the cottage’s pantry. It still had a tag from some “Autumn Harvest” theme party. I took that off and tried not to think about how much effort I was putting into this. It wasn’t like I was asking him out. It was a thank you for the tire. That’s all.The forest trail to his house was quiet and damp. Birds didn’t even bother chirping. I tried not to overthink the crunch of gravel under my boots o
3Isabella.I knew I should’ve bought thicker curtains.The ones in my bedroom were thin, beige, and flimsy, the kind you hang up when you don’t expect to have neighbors or prying eyes. Which I didn’t. But I also didn’t expect how loud the trees would be when the wind picked up.They scratched the window like they wanted in.I turned over in bed and stared at the ceiling. My phone glowed from the nightstand beside me. 2:14 AM. The cottage creaked like it was complaining about its age. Or maybe it was just settling. That’s what people said, right? Old houses settle.Unfortunately, so do bad thoughts.I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the sound of my breathing, which was harder than it should’ve been considering I’d read every listicle on “calming nighttime rituals” known to man. I’d already done a warm shower, peppermint tea, five minutes of guided meditation (which was really just a woman whispering about moonlight and inner peace), and still. wide awake.That stupid knock from ea
Isabella. There’s something about a man who fixes your tire in the rain without saying more than ten words that sticks in your brain like a catchy song you didn’t ask for. I told myself it was just the timing. The mystery. The whole gothic, “stranger in the storm” vibe.But that was a lie.I couldn’t stop thinking about him.The man. The hands. The eyes. The name.Noah.He had the kind of presence you don’t forget. He was the kind of man who looks like he came with his own thunder soundtrack and tragic backstory.So yeah, I was curious.And okay, maybe just a tiny bit obsessed.By morning, the rain had turned to a thin mist, and the sun was making a weak attempt to push through the clouds. I put on jeans, a warm sweater, and tied my hair into a quick bun before heading into town to stock up on real food. My pantry was currently home to one box of cereal and a questionable bag of rice that expired last year.The drive into Willow Creek’s center took about ten minutes. Just long enough