Page 42 of Sweetly Yours

BROCK

Willow reaches into her bag, her hand trembling, and pulls out a folded piece of paper. She doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at me with those honey-colored eyes, filled with uncertainty.

“Then I think you need to see this,” she says softly, holding the paper out. Her voice is so quiet, it barely cuts through the tension between us.

My stomach drops. She’s so serious, so unsure, that for a split second, I think she’s about to break up with me.

I take the paper from her, my fingers brushing against hers. The way she’s watching me makes my chest tighten, but I force myself to focus on unfolding the note.

The moment I read the first line, everything in me hardens. I grip the paper tighter, my knuckles whitening as anger builds in my chest. “Where did you get this?” I ask, my voice tight, low.

“The front desk at the inn,” she says, her voice trembling. “The receptionist said someone left it for me yesterday.”

I glance up at her, my jaw clenching. “And you didn’t tell me?”

She hesitates, wringing her hands. “I was still trying to figure out what to do.”

I raise an eyebrow, my tone sharpening. “You mean if you should break up with me?”

She shrugs, looking at the floor. “She’s destroying everything, Brock. My house, my bakery... everything I’ve worked so hard for. I couldn’t let her take what I have left.”

Her voice cracks, and the weight of what she’s been carrying alone makes my anger burn even hotter.

“But then,” she continues, glancing up at me, her voice steadier, “I came in and saw that you were here. You cleaned up, you fixed what you could, and it made me realize... just because things get broken doesn’t mean they have to stay that way.”

Her words hit harder than I expect, and for a moment, I just stand there, staring at her.

I step closer, taking her hand. “You’re damn right they don’t have to stay that way,” I say firmly. “And you don’t have to deal with this alone, Willow. You have me. She can’t take that away unless you let her—and I’m sure as hell not letting her.”

Her lips tremble, and she nods, her grip on my hand tightening.

I exhale slowly, trying to keep the rage boiling inside me from spilling over. “It’s Tessa,” I say, holding up the letter. “It has to be. There’s no one else.”

She frowns, her brow furrowing. “But how do we prove it? What if it’s not her?”

“It’s her,” I say, my voice firm. “No one else would have the motive—or the guts—to pull something like this.”

I stare at the letter again, my jaw tightening as an idea hits me. “If we take this to the cops, maybe she left her prints on it. It’s paper—there’s a chance they can lift something.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Do you think they’d do that?”

“They’d better,” I mutter, folding the letter carefully and slipping it into my pocket. “This isn’t just harassment—it’s criminal.”

Willow exhales shakily, her hand rubbing at her temple. “And what if they can’t prove it’s her?”

I step closer, tipping her chin up so she’s looking right at me. “Then we’ll figure out another way. But I promise you this: she’s not going to win, Willow. Not while I’m here.”

She stares at me for a long moment, her breathing steadying. Finally, she nods. “Okay.”

“Good,” I say, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Let’s get this to the cops. The sooner we start, the sooner we end this.”

Her shoulders ease a little, the tension softening, and she grips my hand like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.

Tessa thinks she’s got the upper hand, but she doesn’t realize she’s already lost.

Back at my place, the house feels calmer than it has in days. Maybe it’s because Willow’s here, curled up against my chest in my bed, Frankie snoring softly at our feet. Or maybe it’s because we’ve finally taken a real step toward putting an end to this whole nightmare by giving the letter to the cops.

Whatever it is, I finally feel like we’ve gained a little ground.

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