Chapter 3
Cara
Iwake up smelling like stress.
Not the subtle, suppressant-masked stress of yesterday. Full-blown, my-body-has-betrayed-me anxiety seeping through my pores like I’m a broken humidifier of emotional dysfunction.
The honey-citrus base of my scent has gone sharp and sour. Broadcasting “woman having a crisis” to anyone with a functioning nose within a fifty-foot radius.
Which, in this town, is basically everyone.
I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom, mentally listing all the ways this trip has already gone wrong.
The bakery ambush.
Grandma’s book club knowing about my books. Which means Mrs. Patterson knows. Which means the whole town will know by Thursday.
Grandma’s knowing smiles.
And, oh yes, Theo Holt standing in the driveway last night, looking at me through the window like I was a stranger.
That nod. That single, polite, devastating nod.
I press my palms against my eyes and groan.
I came back for Grandma. That’s what I told my editor when I pushed back my deadline. Grandma needs help. Family obligation. And yes, I knew I’d probably run into the three alphas I haven’t spoken to in a decade, but I figured I could avoid them. Keep my head down. Help Grandma. Leave.
That was the plan, anyway.
Except Grandma seems completely fine. Sharp as ever. Poker on Tuesdays, book club, baking enough cookies to feed the whole town. Not exactly a woman who desperately needed her granddaughter to drop everything and drive across the country.
So why did she ask me to come?
I don’t have an answer for that. But then I saw Theo through that window, and everything changed.
I can’t keep pretending. Can’t keep writing books about them while refusing to face what I did. They deserve answers. They deserve an apology. They deserve to hear why I disappeared, even if the truth is ugly and complicated and doesn’t make anything better.
And if Mrs. Patterson knows about the books, it’s only a matter of time before someone tells the guys that their ex-omega has been writing very detailed romance novels featuring three alphas who bear a suspicious resemblance to them.
I need to explain. Apologize. Something.
Before they find out from the Honeyridge Falls gossip network instead of from me.
The thought makes me want to throw up.
But seeing Theo last night... seeing that polite, distant nod where there used to be warmth...
This is the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do. But I owe them the truth. Even if they hate me for it. Even if they slam the door in my face.
Step one: shower. Step two: figure out how to approach three alphas who probably hate me.
Easy. Totally easy. I’ve got this.
I do not have this.
I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom with the hideous floral wallpaper. The hot water helps. Steam loosening the tension in my shoulders, washing away some of the anxiety-stink.
By the time I’m dressed in jeans and an oversized sweater, I smell almost normal. Still nervous, but not “flee on sight” levels.
Small victories.
I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear it.
The scrape of a shovel against concrete.
My stomach drops. It snowed last night. And Grandma told me yesterday that Nate shovels her driveway after every storm.
Which means...
I reach the kitchen window and look outside.
Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Deputy’s jacket visible under a heavy coat. Moving with efficient, economical motions, clearing the snow from Grandma’s walkway like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Nate Thorn.
I knew he’d grown up. Of course he’d grown up. It’s been ten years. But knowing it and seeing it are two very different things.
He was always good-looking, even at eighteen.
Strong jaw, serious eyes, that quiet intensity that made me feel like the center of his universe.
But now? Now he’s filled out in ways that make my mouth go dry.
Broader. Harder. The kind of alpha who looks like he could throw you over his shoulder without breaking a sweat.
Not that I’m thinking about that.
My stomach does a slow flip. Then another.
Five minutes ago, I was ready. I was going to be brave. I was going to talk to them, explain, apologize.
And now Nate Thorn is fifteen feet away, and I want to hide under the kitchen table.
“Oh good, you’re up.” Grandma appears behind me, coffee mug in hand. “Enjoying the view?”
“I’m not—” I step back from the window. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I did warn you. Yesterday. I said he comes by after every storm.”
“You didn’t say he’d be here at dawn!”
“It’s seven-fifteen, not dawn. And I didn’t realize I needed to provide an itinerary.” She peers over my shoulder at the window, tilting her head like she’s appraising livestock. “He’s filled out nicely, don’t you think? Very broad. Your grandfather had shoulders like that.”
“GRANDMA.”
“What? I’m old, not blind.” She sips her coffee. “That uniform doesn’t hurt either. Very authoritative.”
I’m going to die. I’m going to die right here in my grandmother’s kitchen.
“He’s a good one.” A pause. “Well. They all are. All three of those alphas grew up while you were gone.”
There’s no accusation in her voice.
I feel the words land anyway.
Nate finishes the walkway and moves to the porch steps. His breath fogs in the cold air. Even from here, even through glass, I can see the focus on his face. The way he approaches a simple task like it’s a mission.
That’s always been Nate. Everything matters. Everything gets his full attention.
Everything except me, apparently, because he hasn’t looked at the house once. Not a single glance. Like he’s deliberately keeping his eyes anywhere else.
“You should go thank him,” Grandma says.
I whip around to stare at her. “What?”
“It’s polite. He’s been out there for twenty minutes in the cold.” She raises an eyebrow. “Unless you’d rather hide in my kitchen and watch him through the window like a stalker. Which, I should mention, you’ve been doing for the past five minutes.”
“I’m not—I wasn’t—” I sputter. “I was just surprised to see him.”
“Mm-hmm. Very surprised. Couldn’t look away, you were so surprised.” She sets down her mug. “There’s fresh coffee. Bring him a cup. He takes it black.”
“Grandma, I can’t just walk out there and—”
“Two sugars if he’s had a rough morning, but he won’t admit to that, so you’ll have to guess.” She’s already pushing me toward the counter. “The mugs are where they’ve always been.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Most good things start as terrible ideas.” She pats my cheek. “Don’t forget a coat. And maybe run a brush through your hair. You look like you fought a pillow and lost.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” She smiles sweetly. “Now go. Chop chop.”
And then she shuffles toward the living room, leaving me standing in the kitchen with my heart pounding and my palms sweating and absolutely no exit strategy.
I could just... not go out there. Stay inside. Pretend I didn’t see him.
So much for being brave.
But I can already hear Grandma’s voice in my head. It’s polite, Cara. He’s doing you a favor.
And my own voice from five minutes ago. They deserve an apology.
Damn it.
I grab my coat from the hook by the door, pour a cup of coffee with shaking hands, and step outside before I can talk myself out of it.
The air bites into me the second I step outside. Sharp and clean, the kind of February morning that makes your lungs ache.
My boots crunch on the freshly cleared path as I make my way toward him. Coffee cup clutched like a shield.
He doesn’t turn around.
He has to know I’m here. Has to have heard the door open, has to smell me approaching even through the winter air. But he keeps shoveling. Methodical and unhurried.
Like I’m not worth interrupting his rhythm for.
“Nate.”
Now he stops.
For a long moment, he doesn’t turn. Just stands there with his back to me, shovel planted in the snow, shoulders rigid under his jacket.
I watch him take a breath. See his ribcage expand and contract. And then he turns around.
Gray eyes meet mine.
Ten years, and his eyes are exactly the same. That pale, piercing gray that always made me feel like he could see right through me. But the face around them has changed. Harder now. Sharper. The boyish softness carved away into something severe and unfairly attractive.
His scent reaches me a second later.
Pine and woodsmoke. Clean and sharp, with something darker underneath.
It wraps around me like a memory I didn’t know I was missing, and my whole body responds.
Pulse quickening, skin prickling, some deep part of me recognizing pack even after all this time.
My omega instincts flare, wanting to step closer, wanting to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in.
I fight it down. Now is not the time.
His nostrils flare. Just once. His jaw tightens, and I see his hands grip the shovel harder, knuckles going white. He’s scenting me too, and whatever he’s picking up, he doesn’t like it.
Or maybe he likes it too much.
“Ms. Donovan.”
The formality lands like a slap.
“I brought you coffee.” I hold out the mug, hating how unsteady my voice sounds. “Grandma said you take it black. I didn’t add anything, but I can go back and get sugar if you want, or cream, or—I don’t actually know if we have cream, but there’s probably milk, and I could—”
I clamp my mouth shut.
I’m rambling. Of course I’m rambling.
“Sorry. Coffee. Here.”
He looks at the mug. Looks at me.
For a second, I think I see something flicker in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or memory.
Then his expression flattens, and he doesn’t take the coffee.
“I’m almost done.”
“Right. Okay.” I’m still holding the mug out like an idiot. “I just wanted to say thank you. For shoveling. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I do it every storm.” His voice is flat. Polite. Absolutely devoid of warmth. “It’s not personal.”
It’s not personal.
Three words, and they cut deeper than they should.