Page 36 of Sweetly Yours

She finally meets my eyes, her honey-colored gaze filled with exhaustion and worry. “Okay,” she whispers.

I’m up before my alarm the next morning, pacing the kitchen with a cup of coffee in hand. I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. Her house wasn’t random, and there’s no way in hell her bakery wasn’t touched.

At 3:30, I nudge Willow awake. She stirs, Frankie lifting his head from where he’s curled against her side.

“Time to go to the bakery,” I say softly.

She blinks at me, groggy. “Already?”

I nod. “I’ll drive.”

We pull into the bakery parking lot a little after four, the streetlights still glowing dimly. At first glance, everything looks fine.

But as I step out of the truck, my stomach knots. Something’s not right.

“Stay here,” I say, glancing at Willow as she opens her door.

“What?” she asks, already climbing out.

“Just stay by the truck for a second,” I say firmly.

She frowns but doesn’t argue, staying put with Frankie in her arms as I walk toward the side of the building.

The second I round the corner, I see it—the shattered glass glittering under the light of the streetlamp.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, my hands clenching into fists.

I walk back to Willow, who’s watching me with wide eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“The window,” I say grimly. “It’s smashed.”

Her face goes pale. “No.”

I pull my phone from my pocket, turning the flashlight on as I unlock the door and step inside. The smell of paint hits me instantly—sharp, acrid, and wrong.

When I flip on the lights, the damage stops me in my tracks.

Spray paint covers the walls, hateful words smeared in black and red. The counters are tipped over, baking trays and utensils scattered across the floor. Glass crunches under my boots as I move deeper into the space, taking it all in.

“Brock?” Willow’s voice wavers behind me.

I turn just as she steps inside, her eyes scanning the destruction. Her expression crumples, and she sinks to her knees, clutching Frankie tightly.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, her voice breaking.

I’m at her side in seconds, wrapping my arms around her. “It’s okay,” I murmur, my voice steady even though rage is boiling inside me. “I’ve got you.”

“No, it’s not okay,” she chokes out. “They... they destroyed everything.”

I hold her tighter, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’ll fix it. I promise. But first, I’m calling the cops.”

The officers—Harris and Denton—arrive half an hour later. They’ve seen us enough in the past 24 hours that they don’t even need introductions. Harris takes one look inside the bakery and lets out a low whistle.

“This isn’t random,” he says, shaking his head.

“Gee, you think?” I snap, pacing near the door.

Denton scribbles in his notepad. “Any idea who might be targeting you?”

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