Chapter 9
Cara
Iwake up feeling like roadkill.
They left me. All three of them, walking away from that table while I sat there with mascara running down my face and cold filet mignon congealing on my plate.
I stayed at that table for twenty minutes after they disappeared.
Couldn’t make myself move. Just sat there while servers cleared plates around me and other auction winners laughed with their dates.
Mrs. Patterson walked by at one point, her expression a mix of pity and curiosity, and I wanted to sink through the floor.
Eventually Maeve appeared with a to-go cup of tea and a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Come on, honey. Let’s get you home.”
She didn’t ask questions. Just drove me to Grandma’s in silence.
Grandma took one look at my face, handed me a box of tissues, and said, “I’ll put the kettle on.”
We sat in the kitchen until midnight. I told her everything—what I said, how they reacted, the way they walked out one by one. She listened without interrupting.
“Well,” she said finally. “At least now they know.”
“They hate me.”
“They’re hurt. That’s not the same thing.” She squeezed my hand. “Give them time.”
I wanted to believe her. But the look on Nate’s face. The sound of the door closing behind them. I cried myself to sleep.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it and curl into my pillow. Buzzes again. Again.
I grab it to make it stop.
Three texts from an unknown number.
Unknown: This is Lucas.
Unknown: I’d like to take you somewhere today. For our date.
Unknown: 2pm. I’ll pick you up at Eileen’s.
Lucas. The one who followed Nate out without looking back.
I should play it cool. Make him wait. Protect what’s left of my dignity.
I type: I’ll be ready.
Then I lie there staring at the ceiling, wondering what you wear to a maybe-date with an ex who has every reason to hate you.
“You’re going to wear a hole in my floor.”
Grandma sets down her crossword. I’ve been walking the same path between the kitchen and living room for twenty minutes, checking the window every thirty seconds.
“I’m not pacing. I’m thinking while walking.”
“That’s called pacing.” She points at the plate in front of her. “Sit. Eat. You’re making the cat nervous.”
“You don’t have a cat.”
“I’m the cat in this scenario.”
I take a bite of toast. It tastes like cardboard and anxiety.
“So.” She picks up her pen, filling in a word without looking up. “Lucas Price.”
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said his name in that tone.”
“What tone?”
“The tone that means you’re about to give me advice I didn’t ask for.”
“I was simply going to mention he’s a good man. Became a doctor to help people. Comes by to check on the elderly folks in town, even the ones who can’t pay.” She pauses. “Also very handsome. Those glasses suit him.”
“Grandma.”
“What? I have eyes.” She peers at me over her own glasses. “Now go change. You’re not wearing that ratty sweater on a date with Dr. Price.”
“It’s not a date. It’s probably an interrogation.”
“Wear the green one anyway. Brings out your eyes.”
I head upstairs.
“And fix your hair! You look like you stuck your finger in a socket!”
“Love you too, Grandma!”
I change three times. Green sweater because Grandma said so. Different sweater because I’m contrary. Green again because she’s right.
I stare at my reflection. Same face I’ve had for twenty-eight years. The face that three alphas used to look at like it held all the answers.
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “It’s just Lucas. You’ve known him since you were ten.”
My reflection does not look convinced.
“He just pulled up. Stop talking to yourself in the mirror and get down here.” Grandma calls out
How does she always know?
Lucas is waiting by the passenger door when I step outside, and he looks.
.. tired. Shadows under his eyes, tension in his shoulders.
He’s wearing a charcoal coat over a blue sweater that matches the winter sky, his dark hair neatly combed in a way that makes me want to mess it up.
His expression is careful, polite—the face of someone who hasn’t decided how this is going to go.
“Hi,” I manage.
“Hi.” His eyes sweep over me—sweater, hair, face—but his expression doesn’t change. “Ready?”
Not you look nice. Not warm. Just ready.
My stomach sinks.
“Ready.”
He opens my door. I climb in, and his scent hits me—bergamot and sandalwood, soaked into every surface of this car. It’s stronger than I remembered. Richer. The scent of a fully grown alpha, not the eighteen-year-old boy I left behind.
My pulse kicks up. Heat prickles across my skin. That low hum in my belly that says alpha.
I press my thighs together and try to breathe through my mouth. It doesn’t help. The scent is everywhere.
Lucas gets in the driver’s side. For a moment, we just sit there—engine running, heat blasting, ten years of history sitting between us like an uninvited guest.
“I want to say something before we go anywhere,” he says.
Here it comes. The talk. The anger. The—
“I’m not ready to talk about everything.” His voice is measured. Careful. “What you said last night—I heard you. I’m still processing.” He glances at me, expression unreadable. “But I’m willing to spend time with you. See if we can find something that isn’t just pain.”
Not forgiveness. Not anger. A door cracked open instead of slammed shut.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I can work with that.”
He nods and pulls out of the driveway.
The silence is heavy. I keep glancing at him, trying to read his face, but he’s focused on the road.
“So,” I try. “How have you been?”
“Fine.”
One word.
“The clinic seems busy.”
“Flu season.”
Two words. Progress.
“Grandma says you check on her sometimes. That’s nice.”
“She’s my patient.”
I’m interviewing a hostile witness. Every answer technically polite but giving me nothing.
“I live in California now,” I offer. “LA. Tiny apartment. View of a parking lot.”
“I know. Eileen mentioned it.”
Okay. He’s not making this easy.
Fair enough. I probably don’t deserve easy.
We drive in silence until he turns onto a smaller road, and the trees open up to reveal a frozen creek, snow-covered banks, ice glinting in the sun.
My breath catches.
“The creek.”
“Yeah.” He parks. Doesn’t look at me. “Neutral territory.”
It’s not neutral. This is where ten-year-old Lucas sat down next to a crying girl trying to save a dying bird. This is where everything started.
But I don’t say that. I just nod and get out.
We walk along the frozen creek, his careful distance saying everything his words won’t. Close enough to be polite. Far enough to be clear.
“I brought hot chocolate,” he says, pulling a battered thermos from his pocket. “If you want.”
“You still have this thermos?”
“It works.”
“It has a dent the size of my fist.”
“Character.” Almost a smile. He unscrews the cap and pours some into it, steam curling in the cold air. “The dent adds character.”
I take a sip. Rich, not too sweet, hint of cinnamon.
“You remembered.”
He watches me drink, his expression unreadable. “Some things are hard to forget.”
We keep walking. The silence feels different now. Less wall, more... waiting.
“I write for a living,” I say. “Romance novels.”
His eyebrows lift. “Romance novels.”
“Don’t make that face.”
“I’m not making a face.”
“You’re making a skeptical face.”
“This is my regular face.”
“Your regular face is skeptical?”
“Apparently.” He takes the thermos back. “Published?”
“Under a pen name. Scarlett Monroe.”
He processes this. “I’ll look you up.”
My stomach flips. The books. The very detailed books about three alphas who look suspiciously like—
“They’re pretty niche,” I say quickly. “You probably wouldn’t—”
“Is there a recommended reading order?”
I can’t tell if he’s messing with me. His face gives nothing away.
“Standalone. Start anywhere.”
“Good to know.”
He doesn’t push. We keep walking.
I’m starting to think this whole thing was a mistake when I spot the frozen creek spreading wide before us.
“Think it’s solid?” I ask.
“Probably. Below freezing for weeks.”
“We should test it.”
Lucas stops. “Test it how?”
“Walk on it.” I’m already moving toward the edge. “We used to do this all the time.”
“Cara.” His voice sharpens. “Don’t.”
I step onto the ice. It holds.
“Perfectly safe.”
“Get back here.”
“Make me.” Another step. The ice creaks but doesn’t crack. “Come on, Lucas. Live a little.”
“I live plenty. Responsibly.”
“Boring.”
“That’s not an insult.”
“It is when you’re twenty-eight.” I spin around, arms out. “Remember racing across this? You and me and Theo—”
I stop. We said no heavy stuff.
But Lucas just sighs and steps onto the ice.
“If I die, I’m haunting you.”
“Deal.”
He walks toward me, surprisingly steady. When he reaches me, we’re standing in the middle of the frozen creek, trees rising around us like a cathedral.
“This is stupid,” he says.
“This is fun.”
“Not mutually exclusive.” But he’s smiling now. Really smiling—warm and crooked, directed entirely at me.
My heart stumbles.
“Race you to that rock.” I point to a boulder near the far bank.
“Absolutely not.”
“Scared you’ll lose?”
“Scared you’ll break an ankle and I’ll have to set it out here.”
“Excuses.”
His eyes narrow. “Fine. When I win, you admit reckless behavior isn’t fun.”
“When I win, you admit you’re the same dork who climbed trees because I dared him.”
“I was never a dork.”
“You wore taped glasses for a semester.”
“They were broken!”
“You could’ve bought new ones!”
“New glasses were expensive and—” He stops, realizing he’s been baited. “You’re impossible.”
“Ready?” I crouch like a sprinter. “Set?”
“Cara—”
“GO!”
I take off across the ice. Behind me, Lucas curses, then footsteps scrambling to follow. I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe, arms pinwheeling, cold air burning my lungs.
I hit a rough patch and stumble. He catches up, grabs my arm, and we both go down—sliding until we crash into the snowbank.