Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Artemis
Ichanged my dress three times before I settled on the green one.
It was ridiculous. This wasn't prom. It wasn't even a real date—not in the traditional sense.
It was... whatever this was. An Omega getting ready to spend the evening with one of her three Alphas.
The first of three dates that would either prove this whole arrangement could work or blow up spectacularly in my face.
Gumbo watched me from the shallows, his amber eyes tracking my movement through the windows every time I passed. Judgmental as always.
"Don't start with me." I pointed at him as I checked my reflection one more time, smoothing the green sundress over my hips, the fabric soft against my nervous skin. "I'm allowed to be nervous." I muttered, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind my ear.
He blinked slowly. Unimpressed.
The sound of a truck engine made my heart stutter.
I glanced at the clock—5:58. Early. Of course he was early.
I walked out onto the porch and watched him sit in his truck for a full minute, his massive silhouette visible through the windshield, not moving.
Just sitting there. I could practically feel his nerves radiating across the distance between us.
When he finally climbed out, the sight of him made something warm curl in my belly.
Dark blue shirt that stretched across those impossibly broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle.
Dark hair combed back. Jaw freshly shaved.
He looked like he'd put effort into this, like it mattered to him.
He climbed the porch steps slowly, each one creaking under his weight, and stopped in front of me with his hands hanging awkward at his sides. His scent reached me—moonshine and cedar smoke—sharpened with something that smelled like anxiety.
"You're early." I kept my voice warm, teasing, tilting my head as I looked him over, letting my green-gold eyes travel from his boots to his face with obvious appreciation.
"Didn't want to be late." The words came out rough, his Cajun accent thicker than usual, a sure sign he was nervous, his dark eyes flicking to me and then away like he couldn't decide if he was allowed to look.
"You said that last time." I pushed off the railing and crossed to him, my bare feet silent on the worn wood, close enough that his scent wrapped around me like a blanket, close enough to see the way his throat worked when he swallowed.
"Probably say it every time. I'm not good at new words." He shrugged one massive shoulder, the gesture somehow endearing on a man his size, self-deprecating in a way that made my chest ache.
I laughed, and watched something in his expression ease at the sound.
"I like your words just fine, even if you use the same ones twice.
" I reached out and touched his arm, feeling the muscle tense beneath my fingers, feeling the barely-there tremor that ran through him at the contact.
"I like the shirt. Blue's a good color on you.
" I let my hand linger for just a moment before pulling back, watching the way his breath caught.
"You look beautiful." The words tumbled out of him rough and unpolished, blunt in a way that felt more honest than any smooth compliment, his dark eyes finally meeting mine and holding with an intensity that made heat bloom across my cheeks.
"Thank you." I stepped back, giving us both room to breathe, and grabbed my sweater from the railing, draping it over my arm. "So. Where are we going?" I tilted my head, letting my curiosity show.
"It's a surprise. It's not far. About thirty minutes. I thought we could..." He gestured vaguely toward his truck, trailing off with a frustrated expression, like the words had abandoned him halfway through the thought, his jaw tight with the effort of speaking.
"I like surprises." I slipped on my sandals and started down the steps, pausing at the bottom to look back at him with raised eyebrows, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. "Coming?" I asked, letting a hint of teasing warm my voice.
He followed me to the truck like a man walking toward salvation.
He opened the passenger door for me—old-fashioned, gentlemanly, something his grandmother probably taught him—and I climbed up into the cab, hyper-aware of the way his dark eyes tracked my movements.
We drove in silence for a few minutes, but it wasn't comfortable silence.
I could feel the tension radiating off him, could see the white-knuckle grip he had on the steering wheel, could smell the sharp edge of anxiety cutting through his cedar-smoke scent.
"You're nervous." I said it gently, not an accusation, just an observation, angling my body toward him so he could see I wasn't judging, my voice soft in the dimness of the cab.
"Yes." He kept his eyes fixed on the road, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking beneath the stubbled skin, his knuckles pale against the dark leather of the steering wheel. "I'm not good at this. Talking. Being... normal." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"I'm not looking for normal, Harper." I reached across and laid my hand on his arm, feeling the tension coiled there, the warmth of him even through his sleeve, my thumb tracing a gentle circle against the fabric.
"I'm looking for real. There's a difference.
" I let the words settle between us, a gift without strings attached.
Something in his posture eased, just slightly. Just enough.
"The place I'm taking you," he said slowly, his voice steadier now, the words coming easier, "it belonged to my grandparents.
My grandmother used to take me there when I was a boy.
After my parents..." He stopped, the words catching in his throat, grief flickering across his features before he locked it away behind that stoic mask.
"You don't have to explain." I kept my voice soft, understanding, my thumb still tracing circles on his arm. "Not if you're not ready." I waited, giving him space, letting him decide how much to share.
"They died when I was seven." He said it flat, worn smooth by years of repetition, his jaw tight and his eyes fixed on the road, his massive hands gripping the wheel like an anchor.
"Car accident. My grandparents raised me after that.
My grandfather taught me how to make moonshine.
My grandmother taught me everything else.
" His hands relaxed slightly, the familiar story grounding him even as old grief weighted his words.
"She sounds like she was special." I let warmth color my voice, inviting more without demanding it, my hand still resting on his arm where I could feel the steady thrum of his pulse beneath my fingertips.
"She was." A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth, softening those hard features for just a moment, something warm flickering in his dark eyes.
"Fierce. Sharp tongue. Didn't take nonsense from anyone, least of all me.
" He glanced at me briefly, something vulnerable in his gaze.
"You remind me of her sometimes. The way you look at me like you can see everything I'm trying to hide.
" He admitted quietly, his accent thickening with emotion.
"Is that a good thing?" I asked, a hint of amusement warming my voice, my thumb still tracing slow circles on his arm, watching the way his jaw worked as he considered the question.
"Yeah." He said, the word rough with meaning, his hands relaxing on the wheel.
"Yeah, it is." He glanced at me, letting me see the truth in his dark eyes—gratitude and wonder and something deeper—before he turned back to the road.
The road turned from asphalt to gravel to dirt, winding deeper into what I assumed was Fontenot land.
Moss hung heavy from the trees, the bayou glinting through gaps in the foliage.
The golden light of sunset painted everything in shades of amber, and something about the wild beauty of it made my heart ache.
He pulled off onto a barely-visible track and killed the engine.
"We walk from here." His voice was low, rough with nerves as he climbed out and grabbed a cooler from the truck bed, then came around to help me down, his massive hand swallowing mine as he steadied me.
I took his offered hand—calloused, warm, impossibly gentle—and let him guide me onto the soft ground.
The path wound through the trees for about five minutes, cypress and oak closing around us.
The air smelled like water and green growing things and something sweet I couldn't identify.
Then the trees opened up, and my breath caught in my throat.
A wooden dock stretched over the bayou, weathered silver by decades of sun and rain.
At the end of the dock sat a small gazebo, its lattice walls covered in flowering jasmine, white blooms glowing in the fading light.
The sunset painted everything gold and rose, and the jasmine perfumed the air with sweetness so thick I could taste it.
"Harper." I breathed his name, my hand tightening on his, something cracking open in my chest at the beauty of it, at what it meant that he'd brought me here. "This is beautiful." I turned to look at him, and the vulnerability in his expression made my heart stutter.
"My grandfather built it for my grandmother.
Their courting spot, she called it." He set down the cooler and shoved his free hand in his pocket, his massive frame somehow making itself smaller, uncertain under my gaze.
"After he died, she used to come here to talk to him.
She said she could feel him here, in the wood he'd shaped with his own hands.
" His voice went rough, thick with years of grief and love, his dark eyes bright with memories.
"I haven't brought anyone here before. Ever.
" He met my eyes, and I saw what it cost him to say that, what it meant that he was saying it to me.