Page 34 of Sweetly Yours

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice breaking. “I just... everything happened so fast.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BROCK

My phone vibrates on the workbench, but it’s not the text I’ve been waiting for. Another client email, another distraction. Willow should have been here an hour ago. I’ve called and texted her a few times but she isn’t answering.

I pull out my phone again, typing a quick message.

Me: You home yet, baby?

I wait. Five minutes. Ten. Nothing.

I dial her number, pacing the length of my workshop as it rings. Straight to voicemail.

“Damn it,” I mutter, ending the call and trying again. Same result.

“Willow, call me when you get this,” I say into her voicemail, my tone sharp with frustration and worry. “I don’t care what time it is.”

Something’s off. I know her. She’d never just go silent like this.

I grab my keys, shrugging on my jacket as I head out to the truck. The knot in my chest tightens with every mile as I drive toward her place, my mind racing with possibilities.

When I turn onto her street, the flashing red and blue lights of police cars hit me like a punch to the gut.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, pulling up to the curb and throwing the truck into park.

I climb out, scanning the scene as I walk toward her house. The door is wide open, officers milling around the porch. My eyes dart around, searching for her.

But I don’t see her.

The knot in my chest tightens. My stomach churns as I quicken my pace, the worst-case scenarios flashing through my mind.

“Sir,” a cop calls out, stepping forward to stop me. “This is an active investigation. Are you—”

“Where is she?” I cut him off, my voice rough.

“Excuse me?”

“Willow,” I say, my tone sharper. “The woman who lives here. Where is she? Is she okay?”

“Are you family?” the cop asks, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m her boyfriend,” I snap, my hands balling into fists. “Now tell me—where is she?”

Before he can answer, I spot her.

She’s standing near the corner of the porch, talking to another officer. Her arms are wrapped around herself, her head slightly bowed. Relief crashes into me so hard I have to take a breath to steady myself.

“Willow,” I call, my voice softer now.

Her head snaps up at the sound of my voice, and the moment her eyes meet mine, I see the tension in her body ease.

“Brock,” she says, her voice trembling.

I don’t stop until I’m standing in front of her, my hands finding her shoulders as I look her over. “Jesus, baby,” I murmur. “What happened?”

“I came home, and the door was open,” she says, her voice cracking. “The house is trashed.”

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