Cara
The Honey Crumb is chaos when I walk in.
Not the usual kind—not a morning rush or holiday crowd. This is organized chaos. Deliberate. A woman stands in the middle of it all, clipboard in hand, directing traffic like a general commanding troops.
“No, the banner goes above the window. Above. Higher.” She points with her pen at an alpha on a ladder. “And someone find me the box with the table runners. Red ones, not pink. This is Valentine’s Day, not a baby shower.”
She’s maybe my age, dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, wearing a cream sweater that looks like cashmere. Even from the doorway, I can tell she’s an omega—the way she moves, the way everyone responds to her directions with eager nods instead of eye rolls.
The banner reads “Valentine’s Day Charity Auction - February 14th” in glittery red letters. Heart-shaped balloons crowd one corner. Boxes of decorations cover every surface.
I navigate around a stack of tablecloths and head for the counter. Maeve is there, watching the chaos with amusement, wiping down an already-clean surface.
“Cara, honey.” She smiles. “Coffee?”
“Please. Large. Whatever’s strongest.”
“That kind of morning?”
“That kind of week.”
She’s already reaching for a cup. I glance back at the woman with the clipboard, who’s now scowling at a box of heart garlands.
“What’s all this?”
“Valentine’s Day auction. Charity event—local alphas volunteer to be bid on. Dates, yard work, handyman stuff.” Maeve sets my coffee on the counter. “That’s Tessa Lang running the show. Does all the town events.”
“She looks... intense.”
“She’s a perfectionist. Runs herself ragged every year.” Maeve shakes her head fondly. “Someone ought to take care of that girl, but she won’t slow down long enough to let them.”
Tessa is currently inspecting the wooden arch someone brought in, running her hand along the carved edge like she’s checking for splinters. She nods once—approval, apparently—and immediately pivots to bark at the alpha on the ladder about the banner placement.
“Cara Donovan!”
Mrs. Patterson materializes at my elbow. Purple cardigan, knowing smile, zero concept of personal space.
“Mrs. Patterson. Hi.”
“I thought that was you.” She peers over her glasses. “Settling in alright? Your grandmother must be thrilled.”
“She’s been welcoming.”
“I’m sure.” Her gaze slides to the auction decorations. “You should come to the auction. Good cause—community center needs a new roof.” Her smile sharpens. “Lots of eligible alphas participating.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Nate Thorn signed up this year. Tessa finally wrangled him into it.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Theo Holt. Dr. Price.”
My stomach drops.
All three of them. On stage. Being bid on by every unmated omega in Honeyridge Falls.
“That’s... nice,” I manage. “For the roof.”
“Mm-hmm.” Mrs. Patterson is still watching me. “They’re quite popular, those three. I expect the bidding will be very competitive.”
Of course it will. They’re gorgeous, successful, unmated alphas in a small town. Any omega with eyes and a functioning nose would want them. I wanted them once. I had them once.
And then I left.
“I should get going.” I reach for my coffee. “Thanks—”
“Oh, don’t rush off. Maeve, get this girl a pastry.”
Maeve slides a chocolate croissant across the counter before I can protest. “On the house.”
I take it just to escape. The cold air outside hits my lungs, and I exhale slowly.
It doesn’t matter who bids on them. It doesn’t matter who wins. I’m here to apologize, not to—
It doesn’t matter.
I’m still telling myself that when I step off the curb.
My foot hits ice.
One second I’m walking, coffee in one hand, croissant in the other. The next, my foot hits ice and I’m falling, twisting, my ankle rolling sideways.
Coffee flies. Croissant hits pavement. I land hard on my hip, and my ankle protests.
I lie there staring at the gray sky. Listening to coffee drip somewhere behind me.
The bakery door bangs open.
“Don’t move!” Mrs. Patterson rushes over, purple cardigan flapping. “I saw you go down—are you alright?”
“Fine,” I say automatically.
I sit up, wincing. My ankle is tender, but it’s not that bad. Probably. I’ve had worse.
“You are not fine.” Maeve crouches beside me, hands gentle on my ankle. “That’s already swelling. Can you wiggle your toes?”
I can. It barely hurts.
“Good.” She looks at Mrs. Patterson. “Patricia, bring my car around.”
“I don’t need—”
“You need a doctor.” Maeve’s tone brooks no argument. “That ankle’s already swelling.”
“I can ice it at home—”
“You can let a professional make sure nothing’s broken.”
I want to argue. It’s probably fine. A minor twist at worst. But Maeve and Mrs. Patterson are already in full mother-hen mode, and honestly, the fight has gone out of me.
I don’t have a good response. Mrs. Patterson’s already gone for the car. A crowd is forming—Tessa appears in the doorway looking worried, faces I half-recognize peer down at me with small-town concern.
Between Maeve and Mrs. Patterson, they get me into the backseat with my leg stretched out. I could probably walk, but they’re not giving me a choice.
The clinic. Lucas’s clinic. Because apparently I haven’t suffered enough today.
The waiting room smells like antiseptic and old magazines. Mary, the receptionist, checks me in and produces a wheelchair.
“I can walk—”
“Clinic policy.” She’s already positioning it behind me. “Dr. Price just finished with his last patient. He can see you right away.”
Of course he can.
Maeve squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll wait here.”
“You don’t have to—”
“We’ll wait,” Mrs. Patterson says firmly.
I let Mary wheel me back. The hallway is quiet—fluorescent lights humming, distant sound of equipment. We pass a supply closet, a bathroom, an office with a closed door.
And underneath the antiseptic, I catch it—faint at first, then stronger as we move deeper into the clinic. Bergamot and sandalwood.
My pulse kicks up and my skin flushes. I’m not even in the same room as him yet and my body is already reacting.
No. Absolutely not.
The exam room is small. White walls, padded table, standard equipment. Mary helps me onto the table and the paper crinkles loudly beneath me.
“Doctor will be right in.”
She leaves. The door clicks shut.
His scent is stronger in here. Soaked into the walls, the furniture, the air itself. Bergamot and sandalwood with a darker edge underneath—alpha, unmistakably alpha—and every instinct I have is already humming with recognition.
I press my thighs together. Breathe through my mouth.
This is a medical appointment. He’s a doctor. I have a twisted ankle. Nothing is going to happen.
Logic doesn’t matter. A decade since I’ve been this close to him, and I still react like I’m eighteen and stupid and completely gone for him. My scent is probably already shifting—honey and citrus going warm with want—and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
The door opens.
“Ms. Donovan.”
That voice. Low, measured, precise. I’d know it anywhere.
I open my eyes.
And there he is. Lucas Price. Standing in the doorway of his exam room, white coat over a blue button-down, stethoscope around his neck. Tablet in hand. Expression carefully blank.
Ten years since I’ve seen his face, and for a moment I can’t breathe.
He’s changed. Of course he’s changed—we’ve all changed—but seeing it is different from knowing it.
The boyish softness is gone from his jaw, replaced by sharp angles that make him look more serious.
More guarded. His hair is shorter now, professionally cut instead of the slightly-too-long style he wore in high school, the one that used to fall into his eyes when he was bent over a textbook.
He’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses I don’t recognize—when did he start wearing glasses?
—and he’s broader through the shoulders than I remember. Filled out. Grown into himself.
But his eyes are the same. Deep brown, almost black, taking in everything and giving nothing away. He always could do that—watch and assess and keep his thoughts hidden behind that calm, analytical mask.
Except with me. He used to let me see.
The memory hits without warning.
Junior year. His bedroom. Books spread across his bed—his AP Bio textbook open to a chapter on cellular respiration, my already-finished essay on Pride and Prejudice sitting in my bag.
We’re supposedly studying. But I’ve been watching him instead of rereading my annotations for the past ten minutes, and he knows it.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up.
“You’re interesting.”
“I’m reading about cellular respiration.”
“Interestingly.”
That gets him to look at me. The corner of his mouth twitches—the Lucas version of a grin. “Don’t you have an essay to review?”
“Finished it last night.” I crawl across the bed, textbooks be damned, and settle against his side. “Tell me about cellular respiration instead.”
“You don’t care about cellular respiration.”
“I care about your voice.”
He sighs, but he’s already shifting to make room for me, already pulling me closer so I can rest my head on his shoulder. His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining automatically.
“The mitochondria,” he starts, and I smile against his neck.
“Is the powerhouse of the cell. Even I know that.”
“Show off.”
“You’re the one who’s going to be a doctor. I just have to keep writing essays about books I’ve already read ten times.”
He turns his head. We’re close enough that his nose brushes my temple. “You know you’re going to be a great writer, right? The way you write about those characters—like they’re real people. Like you understand them better than the author does.”
That’s the thing about Lucas—he sees through my deflections. Always has. Nate loves me fiercely, protectively. Theo loves me gently, hopefully. But Lucas loves me like he’s studied me, like he’s memorized every part and understands exactly how they fit together.
“Maybe I just like being here,” I say quietly. “With you.”