Chapter 4
I must have dozed off somewhere between applying for a barista job in Seattle and bookmarking yet another overpriced LA studio, because suddenly I was…
…running. The moon huge and white above the trees. Cold air burning my lungs. Shadows moving in impossible ways. A child’s legs too short to escape, heart hammering like trapped prey.
Growls in the darkness. Eyes gleaming between trees—watching, waiting, hungry. The crack of branches like gunshots. Someone screaming—Mom? Me?
Pain blooming across my hip like winter frost. The taste of copper and moonlight. Shadows pressing closer, closer…
I jerked awake, my laptop screen dark, my sleeping bag twisted around me like a straitjacket. My hip burned where the scar was, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw shadows move across the wall—but no, just tree branches in the moonlight through the window.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I tried to shake off the nightmare. Mom had taken me away from Cedar Grove when I was thirteen, that much I knew. But the rest… the shadows, the moon, the burning cold…
“Just a dream,” I muttered, but my fingers found their way to my hip, to the strange triangular scar I’d never been able to explain. Mom always changed the subject when I asked about it. Called it a childhood accident.
It felt warm under my touch, almost alive.
Somewhere in the woods, a wolf howled.
I pulled the sleeping bag over my head like a child hiding from monsters, pretending I didn’t feel the answering chill down my spine, pretending I couldn’t still taste moonlight on my tongue.
The room felt… different. Warmer than it should be, carrying a scent I couldn’t quite place—something rich and masculine that made my stomach do weird flips. Great. Now I was having olfactory hallucinations to go with my PTSD greatest hits collection.
Had something brushed my face while I slept? The ghost sensation lingered on my cheek like an almost-touch, making me want to lean into… nothing. Fantastic. Sleep paralysis demons were getting handsy now.
Another howl split the night, closer this time, and I did not whimper. I just made a very dignified noise of tactical retreat while army-crawling deeper into my sleeping bag fortress.
“Okay, emergency protocol time,” I muttered, fumbling for my phone. “YouTube, don’t fail me now.”
Three minutes into “World’s Cutest Puppies Compilation #7,” I realized my strategic error. Probably not the best choice when trying to convince myself the local wildlife wasn’t plotting my doom. I switched to “Satisfying Cake Decorating Videos” instead because frosting roses had never tried to eat anyone.
“See? Totally normal night. Just me, my anxiety, and fifty tutorials on how to make French macarons that I’ll never actually attempt.”
The scar tingled again, warm and insistent, like it was trying to tell me something. But that would be crazy, right? Scars don’t talk. They definitely don’t feel like they’re responding to… whatever was out there in those woods.
I must have dozed off somewhere between “Perfect Croissant Lamination” and “Japanese Jiggly Cheesecake,” because the next thing I knew, morning sunlight was streaming through the windows, turning everything soft and golden and decidedly less murderous.
The scar was quiet now. The strange warm scent had faded. Even the shadows looked properly behaved, sticking to their assigned corners like law-abiding citizens.
I emerged from my sleeping bag like a caffeinated butterfly having an existential crisis. The morning chill in the cottage had me shuffling zombie-style toward the kitchenette, my sole mission: locate coffee before my brain cells staged a complete mutiny.
“Coffee first, questioning life choices later,” I mumbled, dumping three heaping spoonfuls of instant coffee into my chipped mug. Because nothing says “adulting” quite like mainlining caffeine in the morning.
The kettle had barely finished its screech when the rumble of an engine caught my attention, and my stomach did an uncomfortable flip. Through the window, that sleek black truck pulled up—the one belonging to the man who’d apparently been watching over this property for years without my knowledge. Caleb Stone. Who just happened to show up when my car broke down. Who just happened to be impossibly gorgeous and suspiciously helpful.
And speaking of impossibly gorgeous… he stepped out of the truck like Cedar Grove’s answer to a lumberjack calendar model, sleeves rolled to his elbows, displaying forearms that made manual labor look like Renaissance art. His Henley stretched across his chest in ways that should be illegal before noon, the top buttons undone to reveal a tantalizing V of sun-kissed skin. It really wasn’t fair that someone who set off so many warning bells in my head could look this good.
I choked on my first sip of coffee. Smooth, Kai. Real smooth.
The knock came as I was still trying to remember how breathing worked. I glanced down at my sci-fi pajama pants—complete with little green aliens and laser swords—and ratty college sweatshirt combo, ran a hand through what felt like a collaborative art piece between a tornado and a bird’s nest, and briefly considered faking my own death.
Another knock. Right. Time to face the devastatingly handsome music.
I yanked open the door, and Caleb’s eyes widened slightly. Great. I must look even worse than I imagined.
“Rough night?” The genuine concern in his voice made something twist in my chest. Why did he have to sound so sincere when everything about this situation screamed suspicious?
“Rough night is putting it mildly,” I retorted. “Ever feel like your subconscious is auditioning for a horror movie director position?”
His gaze drifted past me to the sleeping bag sprawled on the floor like a crime scene outline. I lifted my chin defiantly. “Judge all you want, but some of us prefer our survival horror from ground level. Better escape routes.”
“You’re not actually scared of sleeping upstairs, are you?” The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Scared? Please. I’m tactically cautious. There’s a difference.” I clutched my coffee mug closer. “Besides, who needs a proper bed when you’ve got premium hardwood flooring and a sleeping bag that’s probably older than both of us combined?”
Caleb’s laugh was unfairly attractive. “Want some company with that tactical caution? I mean, coffee. Want to share some coffee?”
“This?” I lifted my mug. “This isn’t coffee. This is what coffee has nightmares about. But you’re welcome to risk it.”
“Think I’ll pass.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “How about we work on that car instead?”
“Oh, thank God, yes.” I practically bounced toward the door, then remembered my current state of dishevelment. “Um, maybe I should—”
“Take a minute to change?” Caleb suggested, lips twitching. “Unless you’re planning to revolutionize car repair fashion with those pajamas.”
“Hey, don’t judge my life choices,” I retorted but still hesitated at the door. “Though maybe I should—”
“Go ahead,” he said, that warmth still in his voice. “I’ll get started on the initial inspection.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” I declared, already trailing after him like a caffeinated duckling, sleep clothes and all. “My car, my trauma. Someone needs to be here to give the eulogy when you discover just how dead this car really is. I’m not missing the diagnosis, even if I look like I just escaped from a clearance rack.”
Caleb glanced over his shoulder, doing a double take at my shuffling pursuit. “You’re really coming out here in your…” He gestured vaguely at my ensemble.
“What, this?” I looked down at my worn space-themed pajama pants and oversized t-shirt that proclaimed I’m Not Always Sarcastic. Sometimes I’m Asleep. “I’ll have you know this is haute couture sleepwear. Very now. Very brave.”
“Brave is one word for it.” He chuckled, popping the hood. “Though maybe not the one I’d choose for those little green alien slippers.”
I gasped in mock offense, clutching my coffee mug to my chest. “How dare you insult the Wise One? He’s keeping my toes warm and judging you so hard right now.”
“My sincerest apologies to your footwear.” Caleb leaned over the engine, and seriously, no one should look that good while examining car parts. “Though I have to ask—is that a laser sword on your pajama pants, or are you just happy to see me?”
I nearly spat out my coffee. “Did you just—did you just make a sci-fi innuendo? At this ungodly hour? While fondling my engine?”
“Fondling?” His eyebrows shot up, grin widening. “I’m conducting a very professional inspection, thank you very much.”
“Uh-huh.” I took another sip of coffee, trying to hide my own smile. “And I’m a space princess.”
“Well, you’ve got the bedroom hair for it,” he quipped, then immediately looked like he wished he could take it back.
I ran a self-conscious hand through my disaster of a bedhead. “Wow. Just wow. And here I thought we were having a moment. I’m wounded, Mr. Stone. Wounded.”
Something flickered in his eyes at the formal name, a brief shadow across his easy smile. “If it helps, it’s very… artistic bedhead?”
“Oh, dig that hole deeper, please.” But I was grinning now, unable to help myself. “Next, you’ll tell me my morning breath is avant-garde.”
He straightened up from the engine, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Would it help if I said you make sleep-deprived look adorable?”
The coffee mug nearly slipped from my fingers. “I—you—that’s not playing fair,” I spluttered.
“Who said I was playing fair?” His eyes met mine, and there was something there that made my heart stutter in my chest.
“Right. Well.” I cleared my throat, desperately searching for my usual wit. “How about we focus on the other disaster in my life?” I gestured to the car. “At least that one I understand.”
“You sure about that?” Caleb smirked. “Because I’ve seen your maintenance history…”
“Hey! Some of us consider duct tape a valid repair option!”
His laughter echoed across the yard, rich and warm as morning sunlight. And if I stood there in my ridiculous pajamas, grinning like an idiot and feeling weirdly proud about making him laugh… well, I was going to blame it on the coffee.
Definitely the coffee.
Not at all because of how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled or how the morning light caught his profile just right or—
Oh, I was in so much trouble.
I tried to focus on the car—really, I did—but watching Caleb work was like witnessing performance art. The way his lean muscles flexed under his shirt as he leaned over the engine, those capable hands moving with practiced confidence. And when he reached up to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead, leaving a smudge of grease that somehow made him look even more unfairly attractive… It wasn’t fair that someone who set off so many warning bells in my head could look this good doing it.
Don’t even get me started on what happened when he bent over to check something underneath. Those jeans should come with a warning label. And that boyish smile he’d flash my way whenever he explained something technical? Pure torture. His eyes would light up, all warm and twinkling, making me forget I was supposed to be listening to words and not just drowning in blue.
“Let’s try it now,” he said, closing the hood with a satisfied pat.
The engine turned over on the first try, purring like it had never given me a day of trouble in its life. The traitor.
“Oh my God!” I bounced on my toes, coffee forgotten. “You’re a miracle worker! A car whisperer! A mechanical messiah!”
Caleb laughed, wiping his hands on a rag. “Just needed a little TLC.”
“Seriously, how can I ever repay you?”
“How about dinner?”
My pulse raced while my brain screamed ‘trap!’ I should say no. This man and his brothers had been involved in my mother’s life—in my life—without my knowledge. Everything about this screamed ‘bad idea.’
But…
“On me,” he added quickly, those blue eyes holding mine. “Unless you have other plans tonight?”
I shook my head before my self-preservation instincts could kick in. “No—I mean, no plans.” What was wrong with me? Mom had practically fled this town, and here I was agreeing to dinner with one of the mysterious figures from our past. My pulse was racing like I’d mainlined espresso. Was this a date? I’d never really dated before—anxiety and romance weren’t exactly besties. And something about dating had always felt… off. Like I was betraying someone, which made zero sense because hello, perpetually single here.
But something about refusing felt… wrong. Like I was fighting against gravity itself.
And this? This felt… right?
How could something feel so suspicious and so natural at the same time?
“Great.” His smile could have powered the whole town. “I’ll pick you up at six?”
I opened my mouth to insist I could drive myself—my car was working now, after all, thanks to him—but he was already heading to his truck with that confident stride that did dangerous things to my ability to form coherent thoughts.
By the time my brain came back online, he was gone, leaving me standing there, clutching an empty coffee mug and wondering what the hell just happened.
“Right,” I muttered to myself. “No big deal. Just dinner. With a stupidly attractive man who fixes cars like some kind of mechanical god, smiles like sunshine, and oh yeah, has been secretly connected to my family for years.” I looked down at my space-themed sleepwear. “What could possibly go wrong?”
A rmed with the power of processed noodles and caffeine, I ventured into town like a man on a mission. Operation: Get Out of Dodge was officially underway.
The drive should have been peaceful—all tall pines and mountain views that probably made hikers weep with joy. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every shadow between the trees seemed to move. Every rustle in the undergrowth made my hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“You’re being paranoid,” I muttered to myself, checking the rearview mirror for the tenth time. “This isn’t a horror movie. There are no wolves in these woods.” But even as I said it, something dark and massive seemed to flow between the trees, keeping pace with my car.
I’d never been so relieved to see civilization. Cedar Grove’s main street looked like something out of a vintage postcard, all quaint storefronts and excessive amounts of cedar trim.
Cedar Grove Realty’s office sat wedged between Karen’s General Store and what looked like the world’s most artisanal coffee shop. The sign was weathered but well maintained, proudly declaring itself the town’s only real estate office since 1952. Below that, someone had helpfully added, Yes, We’re Still Open in slightly desperate-looking letters.
A bell chimed as I pushed open the door, announcing my presence to a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a Small-Town Professional catalog. Blond bob, sensible blazer, smile that probably practiced in the mirror.
“Welcome to Cedar Grove Realty! I’m Linda Matthews. How can I help you today?”
“Hi, I’m Kai Chen. I have a property I’d like to list.” I tried to sound confident, like I sold houses every day and wasn’t currently living on instant ramen.
Her perfectly manicured fingers flew across her keyboard. “Of course! Which property would that be?”
“The cottage on Cedar Grove Road.” Her fingers paused ever so slightly on the keyboard, a professional smile still in place, but something flickered in her eyes. “My mother’s old place.”
“Sarah Chen’s cottage?” The name came out carefully neutral, but I caught how her gaze sharpened with recognition. “I’ll need to verify ownership rights before we proceed, of course. May I see your ID and the inheritance paperwork?”
I handed over my license and the stack of documents from the estate lawyer, trying not to fidget as she made copies with trembling fingers. Was it my imagination, or did her eyes keep darting to her phone?
“How long does the verification usually take? And, um, what kind of price range might we be looking at?”
Linda’s smile never wavered, but her eyes kept drifting to her phone on the desk. “Well, given the location and current market… properties in that area typically list around half a million.”
I choked on air. Half a million dollars? For a cottage that probably had more cobwebs than square footage?
“Of course,” she continued, voice pitched slightly higher than before, “we’d need to do an official appraisal…” Her hand was inching toward her phone again.
I nodded along, but my brain was too busy doing cartwheels through fields of dollar signs. Goodbye student loans! Hello actual furniture that didn’t come from a dumpster!
“I’ll contact you once we’ve verified everything,” Linda said, her movements precise as she handed back my documents. Almost too precise. “Though I should mention, historically, properties in that area can be… particular about their sales.”
“Particular?” I raised an eyebrow. “It’s a house, not a picky eater.”
She laughed, but it sounded borderline hysterical. “Just meaning there’s often additional paperwork. Local ordinances, you understand. I’ll need to make some calls to verify… certain aspects.”
I didn’t understand, actually, but I was too busy mentally furnishing my future apartment to care. “Right, well, thanks for your help!”
As I left the office, I caught a glimpse through the window of Linda reaching for her phone with just a bit too much urgency for a routine property listing. But hey, maybe real estate agents were just really excited about paperwork.
I wandered to the town square—because of course Cedar Grove had a town square, complete with wrought-iron benches and meticulously maintained flower beds. The morning sun felt good on my face as I claimed a bench, tilting my head back to soak in the warmth.
That’s when I saw it. A massive black wolf statue dominated the center of the square, its stone eyes eerily lifelike as they gazed over the town. The craftsmanship was incredible, but seriously, what was with this town and wolves?
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. That familiar sensation of being watched crept over me, and my scar tingled in that weird way it sometimes did. I rubbed at it absently, scanning the storefronts across the street. Nothing but the usual small-town parade of shops, though I could have sworn I caught movement in one of the second-story windows.
A burst of childish laughter broke through my paranoia. A group of kids were playing tag around the statue’s base, their shrieks of joy echoing across the square. One little girl with untied shoelaces caught my eye.
“Hey there,” I called out before I could stop myself. “Want me to fix those for you? Wouldn’t want you to trip.”
She bounded over, pigtails bouncing, and thrust her foot onto the bench beside me. As I tied her laces into neat bows, two more kids materialized, all wanting the same treatment. Somehow, this turned into an impromptu shoe-tying lesson, complete with the “bunny ears” rhyme I didn’t even know I remembered.
“You’re good with them,” a passing mom commented, smiling.
I shrugged, oddly flustered. “Just don’t want anyone face-planting into that very expensive-looking wolf.”
By the time the kids dispersed, my stomach was reminding me it was lunchtime. I retrieved my sad little lunch bag from the car—just an apple and a pack of spicy ramen that I planned to eat dry and crushed up, because sometimes you just need to embrace your Asian snack heritage.
No way was I heading back to that cottage yet. Not until I absolutely had to get ready for dinner with Caleb. Which was not a date. Definitely not a date. Just a thank-you dinner with an unfairly attractive man who probably moonlighted as a model when he wasn’t mysteriously maintaining other people’s property.
I crunched into my apple, trying to ignore how the stone wolf’s eyes seemed to follow my movements. The square was nice, I had to admit. Peaceful. Well, aside from the prickling sensation between my shoulder blades that refused to go away.
Maybe I’d take a walk around town after lunch. Window shop. Practice looking like a normal person who wasn’t being stalked by inanimate wolf statues or jumping at shadows or agreeing to non-date dinners with gorgeous strangers.
The town wasn’t half-bad, I had to admit as I strolled down Main Street. Quaint without being kitschy, historic without feeling decrepit. Hanging baskets overflowed with late summer flowers, and the sidewalks were that perfect small-town width where you could window shop without getting jostled. If you ignored all the wolf imagery—seriously, even the trash cans had paw prints—it was almost charming.
And then I saw it—a Help Wanted sign in a bookstore window that made me do an actual cartoon double take. The storefront was gorgeous, all exposed brick and gleaming windows, with Stone & Page written in elegant gold lettering. Inside, I could see floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves and cozy reading nooks that made my inner bookworm purr.
The sign itself might as well have been written by my fairy job-mother:
I MMEDIATE OPENING
Part-Time Bookseller
· Flexible Hours
· Competitive Pay ($25/hr)
· Full Benefits (Including Health/Dental)
· No Experience Required
· Peaceful Work Environment
· Employee Book Discount (50% off!)
· Paid Vacation
· 401k Match
· Coffee Bar Privileges
I pressed my face against the glass like a kid at a candy store. What kind of small-town bookstore offered full benefits? And twenty-five dollars an hour? In this economy? It had to be a typo. Or a scam. Or maybe I’d wandered into an alternate dimension where retail jobs actually paid living wages.
“Too bad,” I muttered, but I still took a picture of the contact number. Just in case the whole half-million-dollar cottage deal fell through. Which it wouldn’t. Probably. Maybe I should apply anyway, just to—
I was still staring at my phone when I rounded the corner and slammed straight into what felt like a very expensive wall. Hot coffee splashed everywhere—all over what I realized was an absolutely pristine suit. A suit that was currently being worn by the most devastatingly handsome man I’d ever seen.
Oh God.
He was tall—everyone was tall compared to me, but he was tall—with sharp, aristocratic features that belonged in a Renaissance painting. Dark hair styled to perfection, not a strand out of place despite our collision. Ice-blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through me, gleaming with an intelligence that made me feel like prey in the best possible way. His jawline could cut glass, and the five o’clock shadow only emphasized its perfection. The suit fit him like it had been poured on, highlighting broad shoulders that tapered to a trim waist, the whole effect screaming ‘power’ in a way that made my knees weak.
My scar exploded with sensation, a tingling heat that spread through my whole body like wildfire. My heart wasn’t just racing —it was thundering against my ribs, threatening to burst right out of my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I could do was stare up at him like an idiot while my body had what felt like a spiritual awakening.
“I am so sorry,” I managed to squeak out, watching coffee drip down his obviously custom-made tie. “I wasn’t looking where—your suit—I’ll pay for the cleaning—” I did some quick mental math and winced. “Over the course of several years with a very reasonable payment plan?”
His lips curved into a smile that did dangerous things to my internal organs. “No harm done.” His voice was deep, rich, commanding in a way that made me want to do whatever he said. It resonated through my chest like distant thunder. “Though I seem to have ruined your shirt as well.”
I glanced down at my now coffee-stained t-shirt, which read I’m Not Short, I’m Fun-Sized. Great. Meeting the most gorgeous man in existence while wearing novelty clothing. Just perfect.
“Oh, this old thing?” I waved dismissively, trying for casual and probably hitting somewhere around manic. “I was planning to tie-dye it anyway. Very avant-garde. Coffee is the new black.”
One perfect eyebrow arched. “Is it now?”
“Absolutely. I’m practically a trendsetter.” I gestured to the growing stain. “Though I do feel terrible about your suit. It probably costs more than my student loans.”
“The suit is replaceable.” He studied me with those intense eyes, and I swore the temperature rose ten degrees. “Your afternoon plans, however, might not be. Let me make it up to you.”
Warning bells went off in my head. He had that same dangerous grace as Caleb, that same too-perfect presence. Another Stone brother? But no—the Stones were supposed to be mountain men, all flannel and rugged charm. This man looked like he’d stepped out of a Forbes cover shoot.
“Oh, no, really, I couldn’t—”
“I insist.” There was steel beneath the velvet of his voice. Not threatening, but… commanding. Like he wasn’t used to being refused. “There’s an excellent café around the corner. Unless you have somewhere else to be?”
My stomach chose that moment to growl. Traitor.
His smile widened, showing perfect white teeth that seemed just a touch too sharp. “I’ll take that as a no. I’m Marcus, by the way.”
“Kai,” I replied before I could stop myself. “And… okay. But just coffee. And maybe a sandwich. If they have sandwiches. Not that I’m assuming you’re buying me lunch or anything—”
“They have excellent sandwiches.” He placed a hand on my lower back to guide me, and my brain short-circuited. The touch sent electricity through my whole body, making my scar burn in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “I recommend the prosciutto and fig.”
“Fancy,” I managed, trying to ignore how my body was leaning into his touch like a flower toward the sun. “Do they have anything that costs less than my monthly rent?”
He actually chuckled at that, the sound doing complicated things to my insides. “My treat. Consider it compensation for startling you into ruining your… avant-garde shirt design.”
I should say no. I should definitely say no. But his hand was still on my back, warm and steady and somehow both gentling and possessive at once. And my scar was singing, and my heart was dancing, and my brain was throwing up warning signs that my body was completely ignoring.
What was happening to me?