Chapter 11 Cara
Cara
I’m elbow-deep in Grandma’s kitchen sink, scrubbing a pan that definitely doesn’t need scrubbing, when my phone buzzes on the counter.
I’ve been like this all morning—restless, unable to settle. Yesterday with Lucas keeps replaying in my head. The way he looked at me when I told him about my books. The kiss in the parking lot. I didn’t want it to end, he said. Neither did I.
I don’t know what happens now. With him. With the other two.
My phone buzzes again.
Unknown: Hey. It’s Theo. Lucas gave me your number. Hope that’s okay.
I stare at the message. Then I stare at it some more.
Another message pops up.
Unknown: I know I messed up. Walking out like that. I’m sorry.
Unknown: Lucas said your date went well yesterday. He seemed really happy.
Unknown: I was wondering if maybe I could see you today? If you’re not too busy. No pressure or anything.
I smile despite myself. That’s so Theo—apologizing first, then fumbling through asking for what he wants. Even in high school, he was the one who’d trip over his own words while Lucas calculated and Nate brooded.
Unknown: I have something I want to show you. If you want. Only if you want.
Unknown: Sorry, that’s a lot of texts. I’ll stop now.
“Who’s texting you?” Grandma appears at my elbow, peering at my phone screen with zero shame.
“Theo.”
“Theo?” Her face softens. “Always liked that one. Good manners. Fixed my raised beds last spring without me even asking.”
“Grandma.”
“What? I’m just saying.” She pats my arm. “Go. The dishes will keep.”
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“You’re going to.” She takes the pan from my hands. “You paid good money for those dates, remember? Might as well collect.”
I save his number and type back: I’d like that. What time?
His response is immediate: Really? I mean, great. Now? I can pick you up in ten. If that works. Does that work?
I laugh out loud. Golden retriever energy, even over text.
Cara: See you in ten.
True to his word, Theo pulls into the driveway exactly ten minutes later. Snow from last night still dusts Grandma’s front yard, and his truck tires leave fresh tracks as he parks.
My stomach flips when he climbs out. This is different from running into him at The Honey Crumb or standing across a crowded auction hall. This is intentional. Just the two of us.
Tan work jacket over a forest green henley. Sandy brown hair curling at his temples. Warm hazel eyes that find mine immediately.
“Hey.” His voice is soft. Careful. His breath fogs in the cold air.
“Hey yourself.”
We stand there for a moment, five feet of winter air between us. His scent drifts toward me—pine and fresh earth and something warm underneath, like sun-warmed cedar. My body responds before I can stop it—pulse quickening, skin flushing, something low in my belly going warm and liquid.
Every single one of them does this to me. I’m so screwed.
“You look good,” he says. Then immediately flushes. “Sorry. Is that weird to say? I’m nervous. I don’t know why I’m nervous. I’ve known you since third grade.”
I laugh, mostly to cover how affected I am. “It’s not weird.”
“Okay. Good.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels. “So. I want to take you somewhere. If that’s okay.”
“Theo, you drove all the way here. I’m not going to say no.”
“You could. If you wanted.” His eyes meet mine, earnest and a little worried. “I know I didn’t handle the auction well. Walking out like that without saying anything.”
“None of you handled it well. That’s kind of the theme.”
He winces. “Fair.”
“But Lucas and I talked yesterday. And it helped.” I cross the space between us, closing that five feet to one. His scent intensifies—god, he smells incredible—and I watch his pupils dilate in response to mine. “So. Where are we going?”
His face brightens—literally brightens, like the sun coming out. “You’ll see. Come on.”
He opens the truck door for me, steadying my elbow as I climb in. The cab smells like him—pine and earth and warm cedar. Work gloves on the dashboard. A thermos in the cupholder. A bag of soil in the backseat that’s probably been there for weeks. Seed catalogs stuffed in the door pocket.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, climbing in the driver’s side. “I basically live in this truck half the time.”
“I noticed.” I pick up a seed catalog from the floor. “Planning your spring lineup?”
“Always.” He starts the engine. “I think about plants constantly. It’s probably a problem. Lucas says I need therapy. I say I need more greenhouse space.”
“I think about fictional characters constantly. We all have our issues.”
He laughs—warm and surprised—and pulls out of the driveway. His laugh is different from Lucas’s. Less restrained. More like he can’t help himself.
We head out of town, past the shops and houses, into the hills where the trees grow thick. Theo drives with easy confidence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. The radio plays softly—some country station.
“So,” I say, once we’ve left the main road. “You read my books.”
He nearly swerves off the road.
“Lucas told me,” I add, enjoying his reaction way too much. “He texted this morning. Apparently you both stayed up until two in the morning.”
“I—yeah.” He clears his throat. His cheeks are pink, visible even in profile. “They’re really good, actually. I don’t usually read romance, but...”
“But?”
“But I couldn’t stop.” He glances at me, then back at the road. “The warm alpha. The gardener who brings soup and builds things and never asks for anything in return. That’s supposed to be me, right?”
“What gave it away? The fact that he’s literally a gardener?”
“The part where he brings the omega homemade soup when she’s sick.” His voice is quieter now. “I remember doing that. Junior year, when you had mono. I made my grandmother’s chicken noodle recipe. Lucas drove me to your house so I could leave it on the porch.”
My throat aches. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything, Cara.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious.
Like remembering every detail of someone for a decade is just what you do.
“I remember you in Mrs. Patterson’s English class, arguing about symbolism in The Great Gatsby until she had to physically stop you.
I remember you at prom in that blue dress, dancing with all three of us like we already belonged to you.
I remember the way you laughed when Nate tripped during the three-legged race at the fall festival. ” He swallows hard. “I remember a lot.”
The silence stretches between us, filled with a decade of memories I wasn’t there for.
“Theo...”
“I know. I know it’s a lot.” He turns onto a smaller road, the truck bouncing slightly over unpaved ground. “I’ve had a decade to think about what I’d say if I ever saw you again. Rehearsed whole conversations in my head. And now you’re here and I can’t remember any of it.”
“What do you remember? From the rehearsals?”
“That I missed you.” His hands tighten on the wheel. “Every single day. For ten years. I missed you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I say nothing, and we drive in silence until the trees open up and I see where he’s taking me.
A greenhouse. Glass walls gleaming in the winter sun, surrounded by snow-covered grounds. Several smaller outbuildings cluster nearby—a potting shed, what looks like a workshop. A small sign reads “Holt Nursery - Closed for Season.”
“This is yours?” I ask.
“Built the main greenhouse myself. Bought the property from the Hendersons when they retired six years ago.” Theo parks and kills the engine, but doesn’t move to get out yet.
Snow dusts the glass panels, softening the edges.
“Everyone thought I was crazy—twenty-four, sinking everything I had into a nursery. But this place...” He looks at the greenhouse, and something in his face goes soft.
Tender. “It’s where I learned that things could grow.
That you could put something small in the ground and watch it become something beautiful.
I couldn’t let it go to some developer.”
“That’s why you wanted to show me.”
“I wanted you to see the part of me you missed.” He finally meets my eyes. “A lot’s changed. I’ve changed. But I think... I think you might like who I turned out to be.”
Inside, the greenhouse is a revelation.
Green everywhere—plants climbing the walls, filling tables, hanging from the ceiling in macramé holders. The air is warm and humid, smelling like earth and growth and possibility. Condensation beads on the glass panels, turning the winter world outside into a soft blur.
“Theo.” I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is incredible.”
“It’s my favorite place in the world.” He watches me, hope and vulnerability written all over his face.
“In the middle of winter, when everything outside is dead and frozen, this is where I come to remember that growth is still happening. That endings aren’t always endings. Things just go dormant for a while.”
“That’s very poetic for a landscaper.”
“I’m a man of hidden depths.” He grins, and there’s the golden retriever I remember from high school—warm and eager and utterly without guile. “Come on. Let me show you.”
He grabs my hand without thinking. Just takes it, laces his fingers through mine, and tugs me toward the first row of plants. Then he freezes, looking down at our joined hands like he’s not sure how they got there.
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t let go.”
His eyes snap to mine. I squeeze his fingers.
His scent wraps around me—pine and earth and warm cedar—and something in my chest loosens. I feel settled. Content in a way I haven’t felt in years. This is where I’m supposed to be. With him. With all of them.
“Show me everything,” I say.