Chapter 11
Bella
Isat in the lecture hall, twisting the cap of my water bottle on and off, trying not to think about Bennett King kissing the ever-loving crap out of me for the umpteenth time today.
I’d kind of figured the guy might be a good kisser, but damn. It was the kind of kissing that made you forget your own name and reevaluate every lukewarm make-out session you’d ever tolerated before.
Top-tier, belonged behind a paywall kind of stuff—kiss premium, if you will—and I was more than ready to renew my subscription.
Which, frankly, only made the whole him pulling away afterward situation that much harder to stop thinking about.
It had been my own fault, though. As usual, I’d had to go and ruin everything by opening my stupid mouth.
I certainly hadn’t planned on telling him I was a virgin. It had just fallen out of me, clumsy and unfiltered, right after I’d literally begged him to kiss me.
Talk about going from desperate to emotionally unhinged in under thirty seconds.
I squeezed my eyes shut and groaned softly, earning a curious glance from the girl two rows down.
It had been three days of radio silence. No talking, no casual wave from the driveway. Nothing.
I kept replaying the entire evening, dissecting every second. Had I freaked him out? Did the whole virgin thing make him see me as some fragile project instead of a woman who wanted to defile every inch of him? Or worse, did he regret the kiss altogether?
I had a whole new semester ahead of me, which meant new classes, new syllabus, and new group projects that would inevitably involve at least one person who never did their share of the work.
And then there was my honey business to push forward—label designs to finalize, market vendor applications to submit, and a batch of lavender-infused honey that needed jarring before it crystallized.
I’d just started feeling like I had my shit together, like I’d found the sustainable rhythm I’d been craving for years.
One earth-shattering kiss and I was back to second-guessing everything.
I hated how much I let this rattle me, how easily this one man had slipped under my skin. But mostly, I hated the quiet voice in the back of my head whispering that maybe he’d finally realized I wasn’t worth the complication after all.
Too scattered. Too difficult. And of course, the cherry on top of my anxiety sundae, too much.
“Not now, Dad,” I grumbled under my breath, slumping lower in my seat.
Movement in my peripheral vision snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts. My stomach dropped. The universe really had it out for me today.
Jasper, aka the funeral fucker, was making his way down the aisle toward my row, eyes locked on the empty seat next to me.
That was the last thing I needed right now.
I grabbed my bag and bolted, sliding down two rows and dropping into the empty seat next to a girl I recognized from a couple of classes but had never spoken to.
That didn’t matter, nor did the fact that I was practically close enough to the front for Professor Patel to see the dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep and overthinking.
I dropped my bag with a quiet thud and sank into the seat, exhaling like I’d just escaped a sinking ship.
“On the run?”
I looked over at the girl beside me. She had short blonde hair, shaved close on one side, the long top falling in a messy wave over the other.
Her ear was a constellation of piercings—hoops, studs, a tiny crescent moon dangling from one lobe—and her chunky glasses looked like something out of a Pixar movie.
She capped her pen and turned toward me with an easy, amused smile. “Let me guess, finance bro in the fleece vest?”
I huffed a quiet laugh, relieved she didn’t seem annoyed by my sudden invasion. “He asked me out a few weeks ago and then took me to his ex’s grandmother’s funeral.”
“Yikes. I’m Parker, by the way.” She stuck out her hand, nails painted matte purple with tiny white stars. “Part-time esthetician and full-time crystal hoarder.”
“Bella,” I whispered back. “I keep beehives. I’m trying to turn it into a business. Flavored honeys, candles, that kind of thing.”
Her eyes lit up. “That’s right. Honey girl. Your pitch last semester in Professor Young’s class was badass.”
I blinked, surprised she remembered. “Thank you.”
“Bees are cool. Like nature’s tiny alchemists.”
“More like chemists with anger-management issues and a bad reputation.”
Parker laughed, quiet but genuine, and leaned back in her seat as Professor Patel started fumbling with the projector. “Are you local to Portland, or are you a cool kid who commutes like me?”
“Local-ish,” I said. “I have a townhouse up in Rose City, about fifteen minutes from the Roasters’ stadium.”
“Nice.”
“And you?”
She grimaced. “Awful.”
“Your commute is awful?”
“No, that’s where I’m from. Awful, Oregon.” She went back to doodling in the margins of her notebook. “I commute two days a week for in-person classes.”
I blinked. “And Awful is the name of your town?”
“Unfortunately.” She rolled her emerald eyes. “Tiny dot on the map, three hours in each direction if the traffic is on my side. Population four hundred and twelve, with a dairy farm on every corner, including ours.”
“Wow, that’s dedication,” I said, impressed. “Three hours?”
She shrugged. “It’s cheaper than renting in the city, plus I get to help on the farm and keep my side hustles going. The rest of the week, you can find me doing aura readings and Reiki in my mom’s old pottery studio and leading sound baths in the barn on weekends.”
“How do the cows feel about that?”
“Most of them have gotten used to it,” she replied, completely serious. “Sometimes they even moo in harmony.”
I shook my head, grinning. I liked Parker already. She had this easy confidence, like she’d decided long ago to lean into exactly who she was and didn’t care if the world caught up.
“One of these days, I’m going to ditch the commuter life and open my own spa—facials, energy work, CBD-infused everything. Just good skin and good vibes.”
“Well, you know who to go for honey scrubs,” I offered, meaning it. “I’ve got a lavender batch that would pair perfectly with whatever witchy, crystal magic you’re brewing.”
“I like you, honey girl.” She pulled out her phone. “Give me your number.”
I rattled it off, still smiling as she saved me under “Honey Girl.”
Professor Patel finally got the slides working, but Parker leaned in one last time.
“Also, if you ever want an aura reading, it’s on the house.
You’ve got this golden glow going on, but there’s a little gray cloud hanging out near your heart chakra.
And I doubt it has anything to do with the Patagonia douche canoe. ”
I froze, then let out a soft laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to people who read energy for fun,” she said around a wink. “We’ll talk after class.”
And just like that, the knot in my chest loosened a little more. Maybe the universe wasn’t entirely against me today after all.
By the time I slid into the backroom at Thorn Tavern, my shoulders had finally unclenched.
The place always felt like a library that served beer—worn, woodsy, and unapologetically itself. The walls were all dark oak and old brick, the kind that had absorbed decades of laughter and spilled drinks.
The air smelled like aged whiskey and the faint, salty warmth of Totchos. They were the tavern’s claim to fame, a mountain of crispy tater tots smothered in queso, green onions, sour cream, and whatever else the cooks felt like throwing on that day.
Nachos, but better.
Family photos lined one wall—black-and-white shots of Nero behind the bar, a younger version of him and Nessa grinning with missing teeth, handwritten signs announcing specials from decades ago that no one had bothered to take down.
The place had been in their family forever, passed down like a sacred duty or secret cookie recipe.
The backroom was my favorite part. Dice bags and character sheets littered the top of the oversized table, along with the first round of drinks.
I was the last to arrive, thanks to my forty-minute drive back from Portland. The rest of our “Bitchcraft” gang had already arranged themselves around the table.
Nessa, our campaign’s acting Dungeon Master, was busy flipping through her binder with the intensity of someone preparing for a bar exam. Clarke sat beside her, meticulously arranging her dice in color-coded rows.
Dani had claimed the corner seat, nursing a cider while checking her phone like she was expecting some disaster at any second. And June was listening intently to whatever story Jo was already in the middle of.
“. . . and that was before my titi grilled Dean and I about how many kids we plan on adopting,” Jo said, rolling his eyes. “Right there at the dinner table, in between bites of mofongo.”
June blew out a breath. “Oh, Titi.”
“I told her we were starting with a houseplant,” Jo continued. “If it survives, then we can talk kids.”
I dropped into the empty chair between them, setting my bag down beside me. “Sorry I’m late,” I said, shrugging off my jacket. “Traffic on the bridge was murder.”
Nessa looked up from her binder long enough to grin. “We saved you the good seat. And by that, I mean the one closest to the pretzel basket.”
Clarke didn’t even glance away from her dice rainbow. “You better not horde the pretzels like last time, Belles.”
“I’m offended. I only hog the salted ones.”
Dani pocketed her phone, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath. “Okay, let’s do this. The baby is finally down, which means I have exactly three hours to take down the zombie elflings, drive home, and fuck Brooks’s dick off before she wakes up screaming.”
June raised her cocktail in mock toast. “To Brooks surviving solo dad duty.”
Nessa laughed. “To Brooks surviving Dani’s vagina.”
The door swung open right then, and Nero backed in carrying a tray loaded with drink refills and basket of pretzels still steaming from the oven.