Chapter 3 #2
Out my windshield, I catch a glimpse of the lighthouse in the distance, its frame rising pale and slender against the steel-colored sky.
Below it, a cluster of boats bob in the water—some docked, some anchored.
The beach stretches wide and quiet. Wind-blown dunes, sea grass swaying. Peaceful. Too peaceful.
This town is so damn small. But it’s beautiful.
I can’t help smiling as I put the car in drive and start toward Main.
When I glance down at my screen, I see a new email.
FROM: Mayor Jake Marshall
Subject line: MURAL SITE brEAKDOWN + SUPPLIES
Hi Sadie,
Hope you’re settling in okay. Let me know if you need anything.
Here’s the list of your mural locations:
Outer wall of the Driftwood Cove Fire Station
Side of the community health clinic
South-facing wall of Baxter’s Feed & Seed
East side of the elementary school
Blank back wall of Cora’s Sugar Haven
City Hall’s north wall (final project)
Your materials are available at McAllister Hardware. It’s the only hardware store in town. Ask for Fiona or her husbands—someone will help you.
—Jake
My eyes freeze on one line.
Fire Station.
A shiver moves down my spine like cold water.
I shake it off.
New town. New rules. Just breathe.
McAllister Hardware is marked on the map Jake gave me.
I plug it into the GPS and let the voice guide me through a couple turns and a sleepy crosswalk before I find myself pulling into a gravel lot behind a long, barn-red building.
There’s a hand-painted sign out front: McAllister Hardware & General.
I park, kill the engine, and step out into the scent of sawdust and rain-damp concrete.
The front door’s propped open, a soft wind rustling the flyers taped to the glass.
I step inside—and immediately freeze.
A woman is sandwiched between two massive men. One has her pinned against the counter, hand on her waist, mouth on her throat. The other’s got her chin tilted up, kissing her slow and deep like it’s been a week since he last tasted her.
The sound of moaning sends a thrill down my spine.
I clear my throat loudly.
All three heads snap toward me.
The woman straightens, cheeks flushed but utterly unapologetic. She brushes her skirt down, pulls her dark curls over her shoulder, and shoves the two men gently off her like they’re golden retrievers with muddy paws.
“Company,” she says with a grin.
The two Alphas turn to face me fully.
Holy shit.
They’re both tall. Like, football-player-crossed-with-a-forest-god tall. One is dark-haired and broad, with arms that strain against his flannel. The other has auburn stubble and deep-set blue eyes that scan me with curious calm.
“Hello,” they say, almost in unison.
“Hey,” the woman adds, stepping forward. “Sorry you had to walk in on... that.” Her voice is bright, musical. She offers a hand. “I’m Fiona. These are my husbands, Declan and Rhys.”
I blink. “Husbands. As in... plural?”
She laughs. “Welcome to Driftwood Cove.”
Oh.
I get it now. Pack dynamics.
“I’m Sadie. I think... Jake mentioned I might be stopping by?”
Fiona’s face lights up. “You’re Sadie. The muralist! Oh my god, Jake said you were talented, but I didn’t expect you to be this”—she makes a vague gesture—“cool-looking.”
I blink again. “Thanks?”
She waves off the awkwardness. “Sorry, I talk fast when I’m excited. And you’ve got that whole, like, edge thing going. The hair. The boots. The flannel. Love it.”
I snort softly. “Yeah, well. The rain and I aren’t friends.”
Declan chuckles. It’s a low, rumbly sound. “You get used to it.”
Rhys nods. “Eventually.”
Fiona beams and says, “Do you know what you’ll need yet? For the murals?”
“Not really,” I admit. “I just wanted to come introduce myself. Get a lay of the land. Maybe figure out where to start.”
“Well, anything you need—paint, ladders, drop cloths, moral support—we’ve got you.
” She leans over the counter and scribbles something on a notepad.
“Here’s my number. I’m usually around. Unless I’m home with the baby.
Then you’ll get Declan or Rhys. Or Jonah.
He’s mostly home with me and the baby so maybe just Declan or Rhys. Or both.”
“You have a baby?”
Fiona’s whole face softens. “Yeah. Little Hazel. She’s seven months. She’s already trying to climb furniture. Like me.”
Rhys grins and kisses her temple.
God. The way they look at her.
Like she’s the sun. Like she’s a star that burns just for them.
I try to smile back, but it comes out crooked. Because once—long ago—I was being kissed like that. Touched like that. Worshipped like that. Max and his pack made me feel like the only woman in the world.
Until they didn’t.
Until Max was gone, and the rest stopped seeing me as anything more than a body to scratch an itch.
I swallow hard.
Don’t cry. Not here. Not now.
Fiona touches my arm. “Sorry if we were... a lot.”
“No,” I manage. “You’re fine. Just... happy.”
She grins. “We really are.” Then she glances toward the back room. “Okay, I’ve gotta go check on Hazel. I’ll leave you with the muscleheads.”
She blows a kiss toward Rhys and disappears with a bounce in her step.
Declan turns to me. “Anything in particular you want to look at?”
I shake my head. “I’m good for now. I’ll come back once I’ve got my sketches sorted.”
“Sounds good.” Rhys leans on the counter. “Take your time. This town doesn’t rush anything.”
Clearly.
I nod my thanks, manage a smile, and head back toward the door. As I step outside, the wind lifts my ponytail and the scent of ocean hits me again.
But so does something else.
A memory I can’t shake.
The way Max used to lift me up against walls and call me his storm. The sound of four voices calling my name. The way they once looked at me like Fiona’s husbands look at her.
God, I miss being wanted like that.
But those days? They’re gone.
And I’m not her anymore.
Not the soft-hearted Omega. Not the pack’s sweetheart.
I’m just Sadie Devereaux. Wandering artist. Widow. Survivor.
And maybe—just maybe—ready to remember who the hell I was before I lost everything.
Idrive past the fire station without even slowing down.
It’s the first location on the mural list—the one Mayor Marshall highlighted with a star and bolded in red like it’s supposed to be my magnum opus.
But no. Not today.
The sight of the red truck parked outside is enough to send a bolt of panic through my spine. It’s not even the same model Max drove. This one’s newer, shinier. But the decals are the same. The smell of smoke hangs in the damp air.
Nope. Fuck that.
I grip the wheel tighter. My foot presses heavier on the gas.
You are not ready. You thought you were. You’re not.
I blow past the station like my demons are riding shotgun. They probably are. I don’t care.
Instead, I follow the little blue dot on my GPS to the next spot.
Cora’s Sugar Haven.
The bakery is warm from the outside in—string lights in the window, a chalkboard sign out front with a crooked little heart drawn in pink. Open—come in for something sweet! The words are written like an invitation.
I park out front and tug on my tank top, trying to smooth the wrinkles. Then I pull the sleeves on my flannel down over my hands and walk in.
Immediately, I’m hit with the scent of cinnamon, vanilla, butter, and something citrusy. It’s warm. Cozy. The kind of place I would’ve loved to bring Max on a rainy morning if we were still... if he was still...
Don’t go there. Please don’t go there.
And of course—because this town seems to be running a goddamn romance simulation—there’s a couple kissing behind the counter.
Cora, I assume, and a tall, broad-shouldered man who’s dipped her backward like it’s prom night in a movie from the ’90s. He’s got tawny hair pulled into a short bun, a crooked nose like he’s broken it once or twice, and a hand on her ass like he knows what he’s doing with it.
They both freeze when they hear the door chime. Cora straightens, flushed and breathless. The guy looks vaguely smug, wiping sugar from her bottom lip with his thumb.
“Hi there,” Cora says brightly. “Welcome to Sugar Haven. Sorry about the, uh…”
She waves a hand between herself and Thor with a man bun.
I raise an eyebrow. “Seriously, is the entire town in love?”
She laughs. “Pretty much.”
Of course it is.
“Can I get you something warm? Something sweet?”
I glance at the pastry case. “Hot chocolate. And… that apple tart. And the cinnamon bun.”
“Great choices. You new in town?”
I nod. “Muralist. Sadie.”
“Oh! You’re the one doing the city walls. Jake told me you’d be around.”
Of course he did.
I pay in cash and take my little brown bag of pastries and to-go cup like it’s armor. I offer a small wave and bolt before I can be caught in another impromptu makeout session.
I sit in my car for a long minute, sipping the cocoa. It’s rich, dark, homemade. Like someone melted actual bars of chocolate and poured them into this cup.
For a second, it makes me feel something close to joy. Then I glance at the mural map again.
The fire station’s still circled in red.
Max was a firefighter in Memphis.
He wore the uniform. Carried the weight. Took the risks. Came home with his skin smelling like smoke and sweat.
And then he didn’t come home at all.
I wipe my palm against my thigh and throw the car into drive.
New town. New people. You can do this.
I follow the directions to the second location on the list. A big beige brick wall behind the community health clinic. It’s got potential—nice exposure, lots of foot traffic.
I park, kill the engine, and step out.
It’s cold, but not awful. There’s a breeze coming in from the harbor. I zip up my sweater and walk around to inspect the wall. It’s clean, mostly. A few scuff marks. Some old staples from flyers.
I close my eyes.
I can already see it in my head—something soft, something hopeful. Blues and greens, a gradient that stretches from earth to sky. Maybe hands. Maybe wings.
I smile for the first time in what feels like days.
Then I hear it—laughter.
Two voices, low and warm, teasing and familiar. I turn, expecting to see locals walking past.
Instead, I see Shepard.
He’s standing at the corner of the building, head thrown back mid-laugh, holding two paper cups in one hand. He looks good in daylight. Cleaner somehow. Like he belongs to the air here. His curls are half-tied back, and his glasses are fogging from his breath.
And next to him?
A man in uniform.
A firefighter’s uniform.
Tall—taller than Shepard, even. Jet-black hair, cut short but messy like it refuses to be tamed. His jacket is half-unzipped, revealing a plain black shirt beneath, the collar stretched just enough for me to see the faintest edge of a tattoo on his chest.
He says something that makes Shepard laugh harder. Shepard claps him on the shoulder, and the man grins.
And just like that—
My stomach drops.
I feel it in my throat, a sharp pulse of panic. The pressure behind my eyes. The sudden cold sweat slicking my back.
No. No no no. Please, not now.
My legs lock in place. My breath comes short. I try to ground myself—five things I see, four I can touch, three I can hear—
But all I can see is that jet-black hair.
He’s not Max. He’s not Max. He’s not Max.
But for a second, he could be.
For a second, I see Max standing beside Shepard, alive again, laughing like he used to. That cocky grin. That casual stance that screamed confidence. That messy hair I used to tug when we were—
Stop it.
I have Shepard’s charger. His shirt. His key.
I should walk up. Say hey. Smile. Maybe even be normal for once.
But instead?
I turn on my heel and run. Straight back to my car.
My boots slip on the curb, my hand trembles on the door handle, and by the time I slam the door shut behind me, my pulse is a thunderclap in my ears.
You’re not ready. You thought you were. You’re not.
I grip the wheel with both hands and count to ten.
Then twenty.
Then forty.
But the image doesn’t leave me. The laugh. The uniform. The messy black hair.
God. I was doing fine. I was fine. I had cocoa and pastries and a town full of smiley people and... Shepard.
And you still ran. Just like always.
I drive. Not fast, but not slow. I don’t have a destination. Just away.
Away from the wall. Away from the fire station. Away from a man who reminds me too much of what I lost and a town that seems to be drowning in love.
Because here’s the thing I haven’t said out loud yet.
I think I want to heal.
I do.
I want to start over. I want to breathe again. I want to paint and laugh and maybe even be touched again in a way that makes me feel desired and not just owned.
But every time I get close, grief grabs me by the throat.
You’re not ready, it whispers. You’re not safe.
So I listen.
And I drive.