“Better get home before someone spots you!” she calls back with a half-smile, her tone light but her words leaving no room for further discussion.
Then she spins on her heel and keeps walking, not sparing me another glance.
All I can do is shake my head and smile.
Molly Patrick...back in my life like a ghost.
Chapter 5 – Molly
Colt Marshall…
The first time my heart fell for Colt Marshall, I was eleven years old, half-frozen, and standing on his back porch in the middle of a snowstorm.
Not that I’m special in that regard—half the town has fallen for Colt Marshall at one point or another. And really, who could blame them?
Hazel eyes that shift like autumn leaves. Light brown hair that used to fall just a little too long over his forehead. A bad-boy edge wrapped around something softer—something deeper—that he only let a rare few see. A cinnamon swirl of trouble and charm, capped off with a wicked, heart-stealing smile.
That night, during the brutal snowstorm of 2007, our little North Carolina town was paralyzed. Roads were closed, businesses shuttered, and school was out indefinitely. My dad, with his raging gambling problem and infamous stinginess when it came to anything worthwhile, was nowhere to be found—probably placing bets on how many inches we’d get. Meanwhile,Maverick and I were left to fend for ourselves in our drafty trailer atWhitewood Creek Mobile Park.
The wind had howled against the thin, single-paned windows, the chill seeping into every corner of our bedroom. Maverick did his best to shield me from the cold so I could sleep, dressing me in two layers of winter coats, but by the fourth time he checked our tiny, sputtering space heater, he knew we couldn’t stay. Hypothermia wasn’t worth waiting for Dad to come home. And even if he did, he wouldn't do anything about it.
Bundled up as best as we could, we trudged across town in the blinding snow, my toes going numb faster than we could get to our destination. Maverick held my hand, leading me through the whiteout until we reached the Marshall family’s farmhouse—more specifically, his new best friend Colt Marshall’s home.
That night changed everything for us. Colt had opened the back door, and from then on, the Marshall home became a haven for us. For the next seven years, whenever Dad’s unsavory friends came around or the trailer got too cold to bear, we’d sneak across town to Whitewood Creek Farm. Colt would let us crash on his bedroom floor and by morning time, we’d slip out before his dad or siblings woke up, pretending like nothing had happened. Though I don’t think they’d have minded.
Even after I became close friends with Colt’s twin sister Regan, I could never bring myself to explain everything Maverick and I were going through—or how much her brother had protected us. She knew about my rough home life and that I spent time with Colt, but she didn’t know the depth of it. Colt had been more than a friend to us. He was our protector, never making us feel bad for needing a safe place to sleep.
I shake my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips as memories of those days resurface—days I haven’t allowed myself to think about in nearly a decade.
At eighteen, I ran. Straight out of Whitewood Creek, chasing a dream of California and the Los Angeles Police Department—chasing the idea of a whole new me. But dreams take detours and with limited bus fare, mine led to the Louisiana State Police.
Now, ten years later, with a failed marriage and a successful divorce behind me, I’m back in Whitewood Creek. I can’t quite figure out why I returned, how I ended up here, or what I plan to do next. Something about this town still feels like a tether, pulling me back to unfinished business, unresolved questions, and maybe even a chance to start over. When I'd married Jordan, I thought it'd be for life. But life has always had a way of surprising me.
“Just the shears today?” the cashier asks, glancing at the long trimmers I’ve placed on the counter.
Though I’m finally old enough and earning plenty to afford renting a duplex in town, lawn care isn’t included in those payments. That means I’m stuck dealing with the unruly hedges in the front yard—thick, overgrown bushes that block the only natural light into my half of my new home.
“Yes,” I reply, offering a quick smile.
The cashier smiles back, rings up the shears, and places them in a bag. Then, with a little wink, she adds, “It’s good to see you back in town, Molly.”
Is it good to be back?
I’m not so sure yet.
I return her smile politely with a nod then reach for the bag, pausing as a bright rack full of gummy worms catches my eye.
“Oh, do you mind adding a bag of those?”
She glances next to her and then shrugs, ringing up the candy and handing them to me. “Strange, the last guy who was in here said the same thing. No one’s bought those worms in weeks.”
A sharp pang cuts through my chest, realizing Colt must have had the same thought I did when he saw them.
Those candies weren’t just a snack—they wereoursnack. The ones we’d take down to the creek that winds through his family’s land, where he and Maverick would wade into the water, trying to catch crayfish with their bare hands. I’d stretch out on the bank, pretending to focus on my homework while secretly stealing glances at Colt—at the way his broad, farm-strong back flexed under the sun, at the golden flecks in his hazel eyes when the light hit just right.
The candy tastes like simpler times. Like summer afternoons and bare feet in the grass. Like feeling safe. Likebelonging.
I take the bag from her with a smile. “Wow. What a coincidence.”
