Chapter 2

• 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 to let my anxiety kick in and remind me that human interaction was part of the “new life” package I’d signed up for. When I parked outside the little grocery store nestled between a diner and a hardware shop, I took a deep breath and told myself not to be weird.
• Inside, it smelled like fresh bread, citrus, and, oddly, cinnamon. Cozy, small-town charm practically oozed from the wooden shelves and mismatched baskets of fruit. I grabbed a cart and started in the produce section, picking up apples and oranges like I had any intention of eating healthy this week.
• “New face,” said a voice from behind me.
• I turned to see a woman in her late sixties wearing a cardigan and a skeptical expression. She had a name tag that read Marlene and eyes that looked like they had seen everything Willow Creek had to offer.
• “Isabella,” I offered, smiling. “Just moved into the cottage off Mosswood Lane.”
• Marlene’s brows lifted a notch. “The old Hale place?”
• I nodded.
• She made a soft sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a warning. “That place gets the quiet kind.”
• “I like quiet.”
• “You’ll fit right in then. Just be careful where you wander. Especially at night.”
• I blinked. “Okay…”
• She leaned in like she was about to deliver a classified message. “And be careful around the man in the woods. He’s not exactly a fan of visitors.
• I laughed. “I’m sorry, what?”
• She didn’t laugh back.
• “I’m serious. He keeps to himself for a reason.”
• I opened my mouth, closed it, then tried again. “You mean Noah?”
• Her expression didn’t change. “He’s not what people expect.”
• This town really was a horror movie waiting to happen.
• “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, pushing my cart toward the dairy aisle before she could warn me about werewolves or demon cows or something.
• It wasn’t like I thought Marlene was wrong, exactly. Noah did seem like the kind of man who had secrets stacked on top of secrets. But there was something about the way he looked at me, or didn’t look at me, that made it hard to imagine him being dangerous.
• Okay. No. That’s a lie. He absolutely could be dangerous. He had the eyes for it. But if I was going to stay sane out here, I couldn’t start inventing narratives just because a man happened to be brooding and handsome.
• And then, of course, he walked in.
• Noah.
• Just as I turned the corner into the next aisle, there he was, holding a basket, brows slightly furrowed and a long, dark coat clinging to his frame like a second skin. He stood in front of the coffee section like he couldn’t decide between espresso or tea.
• Our eyes met.
• For a second, everything else blurred out. The hum of the lights, the clink of glass, even the weird romantic jazz music playing overhead. It wasn’t like a movie moment. It was sharper than that. It made me feel oddly uncomfortable.
• I raised a hand slightly in greeting. He gave a tiny nod and then he looked away.
• He grabbed a bag of dark roast and turned down the aisle without another word.
• Ouch.
• I stood there like an idiot holding a container of Greek yogurt and feeling like I’d just been cut from a scene without warning.
• It wasn’t like I expected him to throw his arms around me and confess undying love or whatever. But a “hi” wouldn’t have killed him.
• I rolled my eyes at myself and finished shopping.
• Back at the cottage, I unpacked groceries and made a cup of tea. The fireplace still refused to light properly, but I didn’t care. I curled up on the worn couch with a blanket and my journal. Not the one where I wrote story ideas. The personal one that held thoughts I didn’t know what to do with.
• I flipped to a blank page.
• “Why did I come here?” I wrote.
• Because I had nowhere else to go.
• I chewed the end of my pen, frowning.
• Because I needed to disappear.
• Because I was tired of being seen the wrong way.
• Because no one believed me.
• That one stung. I crossed it out, then rewrote it smaller.
• I sat there, staring at the page for a while. Then, without really meaning to, I flipped the journal over and started writing something else.
• She first saw him in the rain. He had the look of a man who’d lost too much to smile and too much pride to cry. She didn’t know why she trusted him, only that she did. And that was a dangerous thing to feel this early.
• I paused.
• I hadn’t meant to write that. I hadn’t planned to give him a place in my stories. But there he was, already threading himself into the sentences like he belonged.
• I sighed and closed the book.
• Outside, the fog was rolling in again.
• Later that night, I poured a glass of wine and stood on the back porch. The air smelled wet and clean. A few fireflies blinked in the distance, and the trees swayed gently in the wind like they were whispering to each other.
• I told myself I wasn’t hoping to see him. That I wasn’t standing there like some desperate romantic heroine waiting for the vampire to show up and sweep me off my feet.
• But I kept watching the road anyway.
• And part of me hoped he was watching back.