Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
beau
Charlie: You better not fuck this up.
Jake: Bring her somewhere she can relax. She’s going to be wound tight.
Beau: Thanks for the vote of confidence, assholes.
Charlie: I’m serious. She’s probably freaking out right now. Go slow.
Jake: And for the love of God, don’t try to kiss her on the first date.
Beau: This isn’t actually our first date. We already kissed. Remember?
Charlie: That doesn’t count, and you know it.
Jake: He’s right. Tonight counts. Make it good.
Beau: You two are worse than my mother.
Buttercup’s sitting shotgun when I pull up to Willa’s place, his squished little Pomeranian face pressed against the window, tail wagging so hard his whole body shakes.
“You’re supposed to be my wingman, not steal the show,” I mutter, but I’m smiling as I climb out of the truck.
Willa’s already on the porch, and the sight of her knocks the air right out of my lungs.
She’s wearing a soft green sweater that makes her skin look sun-kissed, like the last whisper of summer is still clinging to her.
A short denim skirt shows off legs that are all strength and soft curves, ending in the scuffed ankle boots she clearly wears for work, which somehow make the whole look even better.
She’s beautiful—radiantly, maddeningly so. The kind of beautiful that short-circuits logic—round hips, soft curves, the kind of body that makes me want to dive in and forget how to breathe.
But then I catch the stiff set of her shoulders, the way she’s biting her lower lip, keeping that careful distance between us. A reminder that we’re on opposite sides at the moment, and if I want any chance of getting her to want us, she needs to feel safe first.
This is supposed to be a date, fake or not, and she looks like she’s about to face a firing squad.
“You brought backup,” she calls, and there’s a forced lightness in her voice that makes my chest ache. She’s trying so hard to pretend she’s okay.
“Couldn’t detach him from my leg,” I lie, opening the passenger door. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Buttercup launches himself at Willa the second she’s within range, all seven pounds of runty Pomeranian covering her in dog hair and sloppy kisses. And just like that, something in her cracks open, just a little bit. Charlie was right about bringing Buttercup.
She laughs—actually laughs—and the tension melts from her shoulders.
“Oh my god, you’re so sweet,” she coos, letting him lick her face. “Yes, you are. You’re the sweetest boy.”
There it is. That’s what I needed to see.
“I’m feeling a little jealous here,” I say, and she looks up at me with that shy smile that makes my chest ache.
“You brought him for me, didn’t you?”
Busted. “Maybe.”
“Then you’re pretty lucky, too,” she says softly, and the way little smile she fires back at me makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
I help her into the truck, and Buttercup immediately claims her lap, his tail wagging so hard it nearly throws him onto the floorboards. Her hands fidget with Buttercup’s ears, her gaze fixed out the window.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” I say as I pull away from her house. “Green’s a good color on you.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure what to wear for… this.”
“This being our fake date?” I keep my tone light and easy.
“Yeah.” She lets out a breath. “I’ve never been very good at dating. Fake or otherwise.”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m an expert.” That gets a small smile. “Rule number one of Beau McCrae’s Dating Manual: coffee first. Can’t have a good date without caffeine.”
The drive to the Human Bean is filled with Buttercup’s panting and Willa’s soft laughter as he insists on resting his head on her lap. I pull through the drive-through, and she orders something that sounds more like a dessert than coffee.
“Iced white chocolate mocha with extra whipped cream and caramel drizzle,” I repeat back to her, grinning. “That’s not coffee. That’s a milkshake.”
“It’s my weakness,” she admits, flushing again. “Don’t judge me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I order a black coffee for myself and hand her the sugary monstrosity when we pull away. “So, weakness for sweet things. What else should I know about you?”
She takes a sip, getting whipped cream on her nose that she doesn’t notice. “That’s classified information, McCrae. You’ll have to work for it.”
“Fair enough.” I reach over and swipe the cream off her nose with my thumb, bringing it to my mouth. Her breath catches, and I file that reaction away for later. “Tell me about California. What made you want to come back?”
I had to get the Willa crash course from Charlie and Jake before coming.
The question is casual, but I watch her carefully, looking for the walls to go up. They don’t. Instead, she leans back in her seat, one hand absently stroking Buttercup’s head.
“It wasn’t home,” she says simply. “I thought it would be. Thought getting away from Muddy Creek—away from my father and all the memories—would fix something. Even after he died, I stayed gone. I figured the world was bigger than Wyoming, and I should be out there seeing just how big it was. But in the end, I just… felt like coming home.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “Didn’t hurt that the APbrA internship is about as top-tier as it gets in the country.”
“So you came back,” I say.
“So I came back.” Her smile turns wry. “Guess I ended up needing the very place I was running from. Makes sense, right?”
“More than you think.” I turn down a country road, no destination in mind, just wanting to keep her talking. “You grew up here. Your brother’s here. Your friends.”
“What about you?” she asks. “I remember your rookie year. My father talked about you sometimes—said you had raw talent but needed discipline.”
I snort. “That’s a polite way of putting it. I was a cocky asshole who thought I knew everything.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m a slightly less cocky asshole who knows I don’t know everything.” I glance at her, catching her smile.
“What changed? I mean, I have to admit, I’ve heard about your… escapades. It seems like you kind of liked the wild life.”
And I instantly appreciate her directness.
She isn’t wrong. I easily spent a decade riding, drinking, and fucking my way around the circuit.
I was a no-name kid from the back roads of Kentucky, and fuck if the fame didn’t go right to my head.
If I hadn’t royally fucked up a year ago, who knows where I’d be.
“I got in some trouble with the APbrA last year. Nothing illegal, just… stupid decisions and too much ego.”
“I kind of remember the scandal,” she says. “A certain company’s daughter?”
I don’t miss the curiosity.
“Something like that.” I don’t really want to talk about the past, not when the present is so much better. “But they gave me a second chance, and I’ve been trying not to screw it up since.”
“I think you’re doing okay,” she says with a laugh.
“Yeah?” I glance over, half-expecting her to take it back.
“Yeah.” Her lips curve just a little. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. Your last ride was fucking incredible.”
The already charged air between us ramps with her compliment.
“Why a vet?” I ask, and that’s all it takes for her to truly open up.
She starts talking about vet school—the brutal hours, the impossible exams, the night she delivered her first calf and realized, exhausted and covered in hay, that she loved it.
With every word, her guard slips, piece by piece, until I can see the version of her that isn’t trying so hard to stay composed.
I tell her about life on the road—the rush of the arena, the high that fades too fast, and the quiet that follows. I don’t tell her about the loneliness, or the way attention comes in waves—too much one night, gone the next—or how being wanted and being seen are two very different things.
She laughs at something I say, head tipping back, and it hits me how much I like that sound. How her scent’s been slowly taking over the truck, warm and sweet and distracting as hell. It’s all I can taste, all I can think about.
My heart’s beating faster than it should, and I keep catching myself stealing glances at the smooth line of her thigh where her skirt rides up when she shifts in the seat.
I clear my throat, trying to rein myself in before my brain goes somewhere it shouldn’t. “Shit,” I say, checking the clock. “I should feed you.”
“You should,” she agrees, grinning.
“Yeah?” I ask, smiling back. “Any cravings, Doc?”
She laughs. “Something greasy enough to make my arteries regret it.”
“The Salt Lick,” I say, turning the truck around.
The Salt Lick is already packed when we arrive, twenty minutes after dropping Buttercup off at home.
“She’s going to make a scene,” Willa says under her breath.
“Absolutely.” Our eyes meet, and we both bust out laughing. Baby Monroe is a force.
We’re barely through the door when Baby’s voice carries over the jukebox. “Well, well, well! Willa, get your ass over here!”
Every head in the bar turns to look at us. Willa goes stiff beside me, and I slide my arm around her waist, pulling her close.
“My girl tonight, Baby,” I say calmly.
“Like hell, McCrea, I get dibs first.” Baby’s already coming around the bar, her eyes bright with mischief. She grabs Willa’s hand. “Come on, honey. Girl talk. Now.”
“Baby, I—” Willa protests, but Baby’s dragging her toward the back hallway.
“I’ll get us a table,” I call after them.
Baby waves a dismissive hand over her shoulder, and then they disappear around the corner. I can only imagine what Baby’s saying to her—probably some combination of encouragement, teasing, and threats about what she’ll do to me if I hurt her.
I find a booth in the corner, away from the mechanical bull and the main flow of traffic, and settle in to wait. Five minutes turns into ten, and I’m starting to wonder if I should go check on them when Willa finally reappears.
Her cheeks are flushed, and there’s something lighter in her expression, like whatever Baby said actually helped. She slides into the booth across from me and sets down a beer.
“Food’s on the way,” she says. “Baby’s orders, apparently.”
“What did she say to you back there?”
Willa’s lips curve into a small smile. “That’s between Baby and me. Girl code.”
“Fair enough.” I take a sip of my beer, watching her over the rim. “So tell me about growing up in Muddy Creek. What was little Willa James like?”
She relaxes back into the booth, one shoulder brushing the worn vinyl. I can see her foot already tapping to the low country song playing from the jukebox.
“I was a tomboy,” she says with a soft laugh.
“Always climbing trees, catching frogs, trying to keep up with my brother and his friends. My father used to despair over the fact that I never did what I was supposed to—but honestly, that’s probably on him.
I grew up on the circuit. If it wasn’t events, it was training sessions.
” Her smile fades a little. “Things didn’t really get weird until my designation came in. ”
The wistfulness in her voice shifts into sadness, maybe even regret. Without thinking, I reach across the table and give her hand a gentle squeeze.
“It’s not fair,” I say quietly. “The world isn’t always kind to Omegas.”
The words catch her off guard; I see it in the flicker of her eyes before her shoulders ease, just a little. It feels too intimate all of a sudden, the way she’s looking at me, so I break eye contact, pretending to focus on the bar around us.
I take a long pull of my beer. We’re definitely front and center here—no surprise, considering Marshal’s PR team blasted the announcement about Pack McCrae’s new courtship all over social media.
When I glance back, her fingers are drumming against her glass, her foot still moving under the table, her body swaying just slightly to the rhythm. I grin.
“You know, you’ve been tapping your foot since we sat down.”
She looks down, surprised, like she hadn’t realized she was doing it. “Oh. Sorry. I just—the music’s good.”
“Then why are we sitting?” I stand and offer her my hand. “Dance with me. You know, for fake dating credibility.”
She looks at my hand, then at the crowded dance floor, and I can see the war on her face. The part that wants to say no, to stay safe, to keep her walls up. And the part that’s loosened by atmosphere and good conversation, and maybe even starting to trust me.
“Okay,” she says, and puts her hand in mine.