Chapter 9 #2
For a moment, we just lie there. Me on my back. Lucas half on top of me. Both breathing hard.
Then I start laughing.
I can’t help it. It bubbles up, hysterical and ridiculous. We’re lying in a snowbank and Lucas Price just chased me across a frozen creek like we’re seventeen.
He doesn’t laugh. Not at first. He stares at me with an expression I can’t read.
Then his mouth twitches.
Then he’s laughing too—warm and surprised, shaking his whole body. The careful mask cracks down the middle, and underneath is the boy I remember.
“You’re insane,” he gasps.
“You fell too!”
“You pulled me down.”
“You slipped.”
“I was trying to save you from yourself!”
“And yet. Here we are. Alive.” I grin up at him. “I win.”
“You do not.”
“I touched the snowbank first.”
“Because you fell.”
“Still counts.”
He shakes his head, still smiling. Snow in his hair. Glasses askew. Looking ten years younger.
My scent shifts before I can stop it—going warm, wanting. I feel the slick start, that telltale wetness that makes my face burn.
His nostrils flare. His pupils blow wide.
For a breathless moment, neither of us moves.
Then he clears his throat and pushes up, offering his hand.
“We should get back. You’re covered in snow.”
“So are you.”
“Yes, well.” He pulls me up but doesn’t let go right away. “Someone staged a death race across a frozen creek.”
“Someone followed.”
His mouth twitches. “Someone is an idiot.”
“Someone had fun. Admit it.”
His grip tightens on my hand. His eyes hold mine.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I did.”
After that, walls start crumbling.
We walk back closer than before. When I stumble on a root, his hand catches my elbow automatically.
“Careful.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re clumsy.”
“I’m adventurous.”
“Same thing.”
We sit in his car with the heat blasting, passing the thermos.
“Romance novels,” Lucas says.
“We’re back to that?”
“I’m curious.” He takes a sip. “Why romance?”
It’s the first real question he’s asked. Not polite small talk—genuine interest.
“I needed an outlet,” I say carefully. “After I left. Writing was safer than dealing with feelings directly.”
“Makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“Everyone needs coping mechanisms. Some drink. Some overwork. You wrote books.” He hands me the thermos. “Mine was overwork.”
“Did it help?”
“Not really.” He looks at me. “Did writing?”
“Sometimes. Other times it made me miss everyone more.”
The words slip out. I freeze, waiting for him to shut down.
Instead, he nods slowly. “Yeah. Work was like that too.”
Not forgiveness. But understanding. Right now, that’s enough.
“Hungry?” he asks when the hot chocolate’s gone.
“Starving.”
“There’s a diner in Huckleberry Hollow. Best pie in three counties, don’t tell Millie.”
“You’re taking me on a pie expedition?”
“I’m taking you to dinner. Pie is essential.”
“My cousin lives there. She did mention the pie was good.”
“See, that’s two votes for best pie.”
We drive with the radio on—country station Lucas claims to hate but knows every word to. I catch him mouthing along to Garth Brooks.
“You’re singing,” I say.
“I am not.”
“You just mouthed ‘Friends in Low Places.’“
“Muscle memory. Doesn’t count.”
“That’s absolutely singing.”
“No sound came out.”
“Silent singing is still singing.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It’s definitely a thing. I’m telling everyone. ‘Dr. Lucas Price, serious medical professional, secretly sings country music in his car.’“
“You have no proof.”
“I have eyewitness testimony.”
“You’re biased.”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re a menace.”
“You like it.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just shakes his head and turns up the radio.
The diner is perfect—checkered floors, red vinyl booths, a waitress named Dolly who clearly adores Lucas. She’s maybe sixty, with silver hair and rhinestone glasses, and she beams when we walk in.
“Dr. Price! Haven’t seen you in ages.” She looks at me with obvious curiosity. “And who’s this?”
“Friend from high school,” Lucas says.
“High school friend, huh?” Her eyes sparkle with speculation. “Well, any friend of the doc’s is a friend of mine. He fixed my hip, you know. Couldn’t barely walk before. Now I do yoga.”
“She does not do yoga,” Lucas mutters as she leads us to a corner booth.
“I do chair yoga! It counts!”
She seats us with a view of the mountains and leaves menus we don’t need.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Turkey sandwich, hold the mayo, extra pickles.”
Lucas blinks. “How—”
“You’ve ordered the same thing since you were fourteen.”
“It’s a good sandwich.”
“It’s a boring sandwich.”
“I like consistency.” He straightens the menu he’s not going to read, lining it up with the edge of the table.
“You like being predictable.”
“Predictable is underrated. Predictable means people can count on you.”
“Predictable means you’ve never lived.”
“I’ve lived plenty.”
“Have you?” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “When’s the last time you did something spontaneous?”
He’s quiet for a moment, thumb running along the edge of his water glass. “I chased you across a frozen creek three hours ago.”
“That’s a start. What about before that?”
“I...” He trails off. “I went to that new Thai place last month.”
“Lucas. Going to a new restaurant is not spontaneous.”
“I didn’t make a reservation.”
“Oh my god.”
“What? It was a risk. They could have been full.”
I’m laughing so hard I have to cover my mouth. “You’re hopeless.”
“I prefer ‘cautious.’“
“Tomato, tomahto.”
Dolly returns, and we order—boring turkey for him, adventurous chicken fried steak for me, and pie because apparently that’s non-negotiable.
“Tell me something,” I say once she’s gone. “Something that’s changed in ten years. Something I wouldn’t guess.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Surprise me.”
He considers, turning his fork over in his fingers. “I learned to cook. I can make risotto now.”
“Risotto? That’s very fancy.”
“Theo taught me. He stress-cooks, so there’s always someone willing to give lessons. I’m also decent at pasta and I make a mean grilled cheese.”
“A mean grilled cheese. The culinary heights.”
“Don’t mock the grilled cheese. It’s an art form.”
“What about you?” he asks, setting down the fork. “Something I wouldn’t guess.”
“I adopted a cat. Mr. Darcy.”
“Of course you named your cat Mr. Darcy.”
“I’m a romance author. It was legally required.”
“What’s he like?”
“Fat. Judgmental. Screams at three in the morning for no reason. Knocks things off tables just to watch them fall.” I shrug, stealing a pickle from his plate. “We’re very similar, actually.”
Lucas chokes on his water. “You knock things off tables?”
“When the writing’s going badly? I’ve been known to throw a pillow or two.”
“That’s concerning.”
“That’s artistic temperament.”
“That’s what people with anger issues say.”
“I don’t have anger issues. I have passion.”
The food arrives—his boring sandwich, my delicious chicken fried steak—and we trade stories while we eat. His worst patient, a man convinced he had a tropical disease. Actual diagnosis, a tanning bed burn after falling asleep for six hours.
“He left his alarm in the car,” Lucas says. “Looked like a lobster. A very panicked lobster who was convinced he was dying of dengue fever.”
“Where did he even get dengue fever as a diagnosis?”
“WebMD.”
“Of course.”
“He’d gone down a rabbit hole. By the time he came in, he was convinced it was either dengue, malaria, or a rare flesh-eating bacteria.”
“And it was a tanning bed.”
“It was a tanning bed.” Lucas shakes his head. “I had to explain that tropical diseases require, generally, tropics.”
“Your job sounds exhausting.”
“It has its moments. Your turn. Worst writing disaster.”
“Oh god, there are so many.” I think for a moment. “Okay. I wrote eighty thousand words and accidentally gave my main character two names. Half the book she’s Emma, half she’s Claire.”
“How is that possible?”
“Changed it halfway through. Forgot find-and-replace. Editor sent back four hundred comments that just said WHO IS THIS PERSON.”
“Four hundred comments.”
“She was very thorough. Very annoyed. I had to buy her a very expensive bottle of wine.”
“That’s...”
“A disaster. I know.”
“I was going to say impressive. Eighty thousand words without noticing your protagonist’s identity.”
“I was focused on the plot!”
“Clearly not on the details.”
“That’s what editors are for.”
“That’s what proofreading is for.”
“Proofreading is for people with patience. I have deadlines and a caffeine addiction.”
Dolly brings pie—apple for him, cherry for me—and we argue about which is superior.
“Apple is classic,” Lucas insists, pointing at my plate with his fork.
“Apple is boring. Like your sandwich.”
“Cherry is too sweet.”
“Cherry is perfect.” I take a pointed bite, letting my eyes close in exaggerated bliss. “The tartness balances the sugar.”
“You just want to argue.”
“I want to be right. There’s a difference.”
By the time we’re scraping crumbs off our plates, it’s dark outside and my cheeks hurt from laughing. I can’t remember the last time I felt this light. This easy.
I want him. The realization hits me somewhere between the pie and the check.
Not just want him back in my life—I want him.
The way his hands move when he talks. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs.
The way his scent keeps wrapping around me, making me think about things I shouldn’t be thinking in a family diner.
I want to climb across this table and kiss him until neither of us can breathe.
“We should head back,” Lucas says. “Before your grandmother sends a search party.”
“She would. She has connections. I’m pretty sure she has the sheriff on speed dial.”
He pays despite my protests—”I asked you out, I’m paying, that’s how it works”—and we walk to his car. Cold night air, stars sharp overhead, breath fogging between us.
He opens my door. I pause before getting in.
“Lucas.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For today.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I look up at him. “You could’ve stayed angry. Made this miserable. But you didn’t.”
“I told you.” His voice drops. “I don’t want to spend more time being angry.”
His scent wraps around me—warm, close. His eyes drop to my mouth.
“You hurt me,” he says. “Really hurt me. I’m not going to pretend that’s fixed.”
“I know.”
“But being with you today...” He exhales. “I didn’t want it to end.”
“Neither did I.”
The distance between us shrinks. His hand comes up to cup my face—warm palm, careful fingers.
“Cara.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to kiss you. Unless you tell me not to.”
My pulse pounds in my throat. I feel myself go wet, slick soaking through my underwear. No hiding it. He’ll smell exactly what I want.
“Don’t you dare stop.”