Colton (Pecan Pines #5)

1. Colton

Chapter 1

Colton

Saturday nights at Briggs BBQ were always the busiest, and tonight was no exception.

Every table was full, the air thick with the scent of hickory smoke and sizzling meat.

The hum of conversation blended with the clatter of dishes and the occasional burst of laughter.

I wiped my hands on my apron, surveying the scene from behind the counter, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension that had settled there hours ago.

This place had been in my family for two generations.

My parents built it from the ground up, turning it from a tiny roadside shack into a full-fledged restaurant that was famous across Pecan Pines.

And now, it was mine. Not because I wanted it, but because there was no one else to take it.

Mom and Dad had declared the place was in safe hands—under my paws, as they put it—before running off on a cruise around the world, leaving me behind with a kitchen full of staff and a ledger full of responsibilities.

My younger brother, Ethan, had escaped the family business by apprenticing with the pack healer.

And me? I’d been here since I was twelve, busing tables, learning the art of slow-smoking ribs, and perfecting our family’s secret sauce.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care. In some ways, the restaurant was in my blood, but damn, did I feel trapped sometimes. Because what if I wanted something else?

What if I didn’t want to wake up every day knowing exactly where I’d be, what I’d be doing, and how the rest of my life would play out?

I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck. At least the annual pack summit was over. That had been a nightmare.

Catering for the summit had been a relentless cycle of late nights and early mornings, caught up in a never-ending flow of demands from visiting pack alphas who acted like the world owed them something.

Now, things were settling back to normal, and I could finally?—

A heated voice cut through the noise of the restaurant. “That’s not what I ordered, man.”

I turned toward the front of the restaurant, where my cousin Jesse was standing by one of the tables near the window. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was glowering at a customer.

The guy—tall, broad-shouldered, with the rough look of an out-of-towner—was scowling right back. I sighed. Here we go again.

Cherry, one of my servers, sent me a wide-eyed, panicked look from across the room.

I shot her a reassuring nod before making my way over, slipping between tables with practiced ease.

As I got closer, I picked up the scent of whiskey on the air, mixed with the acrid tang of irritation rolling off Jesse in waves.

“I said I wanted my steak medium,” the customer snapped, jabbing a finger at his plate. “This is damn near well-done.”

Jesse snorted. “It’s medium. You want raw, go find a butcher.”

I cleared my throat as I reached them. “What’s the problem here?”

Jesse huffed. “This guy’s complaining about a perfectly good steak.”

The man glared at me, his dark eyes flashing. “It’s overcooked.”

I glanced down at the plate. The cut was thick, the outside charred just enough to lock in the juices, a pink center visible where the guy had sliced into it.

“It’s cooked to medium,” I said evenly, keeping my voice calm. “But if it’s not to your liking, I can have the kitchen fire up another one.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “You saying I don’t know how I like my steak?”

I felt Jesse tense beside me. He was always quick to escalate, had been since we were kids, and I wasn’t about to let a stupid argument turn into something worse.

I put a hand on Jesse’s arm in silent warning before addressing the customer again.

“No,” I said. “I’m saying that mistakes happen, and I’d rather fix the problem than argue about it.”

The guy looked like he wanted to push back, but after a moment, he exhaled sharply and leaned back in his seat. “Fine. Get me another.”

I nodded, motioning for Cherry. “Take this one back. Tell the kitchen to put on a new steak, medium-rare this time.”

Cherry scurried off, relieved to be out of the line of fire. The man grunted and turned his attention back to his drink. Crisis averted—mostly.

I turned to Jesse. “You need to cool it.”

Jesse scowled. “You heard him. He was being a dick.”

“Yeah, and you almost made it worse.” I dropped my voice lower, so only he could hear. “Look, I get it. I do. But we can’t afford to get into it with customers. Not here.”

Jesse’s jaw worked, but after a beat, he let out a sharp exhale and stepped back. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Good.” I clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture firm but not unkind, before stepping away and sweeping my gaze over the rest of the restaurant. Situation under control. For now.

Jesse had always been hot-headed, quick to react, quicker to throw himself into an argument even when it wasn’t necessary.

Since we were kids, he’d had a habit of picking fights, most of the time because he thought he was standing up for something—or someone.

He hated backing down, and I could already tell he wasn’t completely letting this one go. But at least for tonight, he’d given in.

Seeing that there wasn’t a problem on the floor, I exhaled and made my way to the back, slipping past the bustling kitchen.

The clatter of dishes, the sizzle of oil, and the occasional barked order from the cooks created a familiar backdrop—one I’d grown up with, one that felt like second nature.

I reached my so-called office, a glorified broom closet that had been “converted” into a workspace long before I took over.

It was barely big enough for the battered desk, an old filing cabinet, and a rickety chair that squeaked every time I sat in it.

The single overhead light buzzed faintly, flickering just enough to be annoying.

The air was thick with the smell of old paper, wood polish, and a faint trace of smoke that had probably seeped in from the kitchen over the years.

Sinking into my chair, I powered up the ancient desktop computer, waiting as it groaned to life.

The accounting software was even older than the machine itself, slow and outdated, but replacing it was just one of the many things on my never-ending to-do list.

I drummed my fingers on the desk as I stared at rows of numbers, invoices, and payroll calculations, already feeling the familiar irritation creeping in.

I hated crunching numbers. Always had.

I wasn’t bad at it—hell, I’d learned young because my parents had drilled the importance of “keeping the books balanced” into me—but that didn’t mean I enjoyed it.

I’d rather be on the floor, working the grill, even running deliveries. Anything but this.

I was deep into it, brow furrowed, rubbing at a tension headache forming behind my temple, when a knock came at the door.

“Come in,” I said, already annoyed.

Jesse sauntered in, dropping into the chair opposite my desk. “Sorry, I lost my cool earlier, Colton.”

“Yeah, no problem. It’s settled.” I didn’t look up, hoping he’d take the hint and leave.

He didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward, grinning. “You’re always so tense, cousin. You know what you need? A date.”

I groaned, rubbing my temples. “Not this again.”

“Just hear me out! I met this guy at the summit—John. Great guy, easygoing, always down for a good time?—”

"I'm too busy to date, and you know this," I pointed out, not even looking up from my screen.

Jesse let out a dramatic sigh, slumping back in his chair like I’d just personally offended him.

"You're always too busy," he complained. "You should learn to live a little. And who knows? You might even find your fated mate out there—someone who’ll help you, you know, relax."

I barked out a laugh, shaking my head.

"Yeah, right," I scoffed. "Sounds like a fairytale."

I'd been on a few dates in my thirty years of life. Had some hookups, a handful of one-night stands—nothing that ever stuck. No one who ever made me think, this is it.

My dad once told me that the moment he spotted my mom across the gym at a high school dance, he knew.

Said it was like a switch flipped inside him, an instinct that locked onto her like gravity. He never doubted it, never questioned it. She was his mate. His other half. And that was that.

I wanted to believe in that kind of certainty. In something that strong, that unshakable. But I didn’t. Not really. Or at least, I told myself I didn’t.

Because if mates were real—if that connection was truly written in stone, woven into our very bones—then why hadn’t it happened for me?

Lately, though, it seemed like fate was proving me wrong. Pack mates were finding their soulmates left and right. First, it had been Miles and our current alpha, Cooper.

Then Sawyer and Casey. Griffin and Michael. And most recently, Noah had found Jackson, a wolf from another pack during the summit.

It was getting harder and harder to brush it off as coincidence.

Jesse watched me for a beat, like he could see the wheels turning in my head, then smirked. "See? You’re thinking about it."

"I'm thinking about how to get you to shut up," I muttered, turning back to my screen.

Jesse’s grin didn’t falter. “Come on, what’s the harm in meeting him? John’s really great in the sack.”

He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and just like that, I had an ah-ha moment. We’d had this conversation before.

Jesse, the self-declared king of one-night stands, had a habit of befriending his hookups after the fact.

He never got attached, never stuck around for more than a night or two—but somehow, he always managed to stay on good terms with them afterward. Which meant…

I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t want your leftovers,” I pointed out dryly.

Jesse gave me an exaggerated look of offense. “Now, that’s just rude.”

I sighed, shaking my head as he scribbled John’s number on my notepad.

“Just in case you change your mind,” he said with a wink before finally leaving.

I rolled my eyes, finished up the books, and stretched. It was nearly closing time.

I spotted Jesse’s note, crumpled it, and tossed it in the trash. Dating was the last thing I needed to worry about.

Grabbing the night’s trash, I pushed out the kitchen door into the alley. The air was crisp, a welcome relief from the heat of the restaurant.

Jesse was right about one thing—I could use a break. Maybe at the next full moon run, I could shake off some of this tension.

I hefted the bags into the bin when a sharp yelp made me freeze.

I frowned, peering closer. A furry brown tail twitched from beneath the bags.

“Shit.”

Heart lurching, I reached into the bin, already bracing for a fight. A dog? No—a wolf. A small one, lean and ragged, like he hadn’t eaten in days.

His scent hit me then—earthy, familiar in the way all shifters were, but tinged with something foreign, something that made my hackles rise.

I barely had time to process before the dang thing came alive, snarling and snapping, his claws raking against my skin as he thrashed.

I winced as sharp teeth grazed my forearm, a shallow sting blooming across my skin, but I tightened my grip, refusing to let go.

“Easy, boy,” I murmured, voice low, soothing, the way I might calm a panicked pup. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He let out a weak whine, the sound cutting through me in a way that made my chest tighten. He’s hurt.

The moment his paws hit the ground, his body began to shudder, shifting before my eyes.

Fur melted into smooth, bare skin. Bones twisted, reshaped, and suddenly, I wasn’t holding a wolf anymore—I was holding a man.

A very naked, very dazed man.

I nearly dropped him, but before I could, he clung to me, fingers digging into my arms with surprising strength.

His body wavered against mine, trembling from exhaustion or pain, or maybe both.

My breath caught. “What the?—”

His head tilted back slightly, and I got my first clear look at his face.

Pale skin. Sharp cheekbones. Lips parted like he was struggling to catch his breath.

And his eyes—heavy-lidded, unfocused, but a striking shade of amber that flickered in the dim alley light before fluttering shut.

Then I saw the dark bruise blooming along his temple.

My stomach clenched. I’d seen injured wolves before—hell, I’d patched up my fair share of them. But this… this was different.

This rattled me. My wolf stirred inside me, uneasy, prowling beneath my skin like he wanted out. That was rare.

My wolf only reacted when I was pissed off or on edge, but now he was pushing forward, restless in a way that sent a jolt of something sharp and unfamiliar through me.

I didn’t know this man. He wasn’t pack. I had no reason to feel anything for him other than basic concern.

So why the hell did the thought of letting him go make my chest tighten?

Panic kicked in, my instincts warring against logic. I needed to get him help. Ethan. My brother. A healer. The only person I trusted to take care of something like this.

But even as the thought crossed my mind, I hesitated.

Because for some reason, letting go of him didn’t feel like an option.