Chapter Cara
Cara
Two days.
It’s been two days since Nate Thorn looked me in the eye and told me he didn’t need me, and I still can’t stop replaying it.
They need you. I don’t.
I punch the pillow and flip onto my back.
Afternoon sun streams through Grandma Eileen’s lace curtains, painting patterns on the walls.
I should be writing. My editor has sent three increasingly passive-aggressive emails about the next Scarlett Monroe book, and I haven’t written a word since I got back to Honeyridge Falls.
Because every time I sit down at my laptop, I see his face. That carefully blank expression. His scent locked down so tight I could barely smell him. The way he wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t give me anything to hold onto.
They need you. I don’t.
The worst part is that I know he’s lying. I know it. I felt his scent crack when our hands touched. Saw his knuckles go white on the steering wheel. Heard the way his voice broke, just for a second, before he locked it all down again.
Nate Thorn feels something for me. He feels everything for me—I’d bet my next royalty check on it. He’s just too scared to admit it. Too convinced that wanting me makes him vulnerable. Too determined to keep those walls up no matter how badly it hurts both of us.
And I understand. I do. I’m the one who left. I’m the one who ran away and didn’t come back for a decade. I’m the reason he built those walls in the first place.
But I’m here now. I’m trying. And he won’t meet me halfway.
My phone buzzes, dragging me out of my spiral.
Theo: Hey sunshine. I’m at the nursery repotting spring seedlings. Come keep me company?
And just like that, the heaviness lifts.
Because I have news. Big news. News I’ve been sitting on all morning, waiting for the right moment to share.
I called my landlord in LA this morning. Told him I’m not renewing my lease. Emailed my neighbor to ask if she can keep Mr. Darcy a little longer while I figure out logistics.
I’m staying. I’m staying. And I can’t wait to tell him.
Cara: On my way.
I’m out the door before I finish hitting send.
The greenhouse door is unlocked. I slip inside, and his scent hits me like a wave.
Sun-warmed earth and honeysuckle, rich and golden even in the dead of winter. Like summer captured in a bottle. It rolls over me, through me, and I have to grab the edge of a plant table to steady myself.
God.
Theo’s always smelled good to me, but this is... more. Deeper. I breathe him in and my whole body goes warm, heat prickling across my skin. Must be the humidity in here. The greenhouse is tropical compared to the February cold outside.
That’s all it is.
“Back here!”
I follow his voice through tables of tiny pots, trying to shake off the strange intensity of my reaction. The air is humid and warm, thick with the smell of growing things and him. Every breath makes me want to get closer.
I find him at a potting bench, hands deep in soil, a smudge of dirt on his cheek. Faded t-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Jeans that have seen better days. Dark hair pushed back from his forehead.
When he sees me, his whole face transforms.
“Hey, you.” He wipes his hands. “You look—”
I don’t let him finish. I launch myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“I’m staying.”
He freezes. “What?”
“I called my landlord this morning. I’m not renewing my lease.
I’m moving back to Honeyridge Falls.” I pull back just enough to see his face, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.
“Permanently. I just need to go back to LA, pack up my stuff, get Mr. Darcy, and then I’m coming home. I’m coming home, Theo.”
His hands find my waist, grip tightening. “You’re staying.” He says it like he’s afraid to believe it. “For real this time?”
“For real. Forever.”
The careful restraint he’s been wearing like armor cracks wide open.
“Thank fuck.” And then he’s kissing me.
Not gentle. Not careful. Ten years of wanting compressed into a single moment, his mouth hot and demanding. I gasp and he swallows the sound, one hand fisting in my hair, the other hauling me closer until there’s no space between us.
I grab his shirt and hold on for dear life.
His scent floods my senses—earth and honeysuckle and want—and I’m drowning in it. I want to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in forever. I want to lick his skin and see if he tastes as good as he smells. I want—
Heat pools low in my belly. Slick gathers between my thighs, soaking through my underwear, and the speed of it catches me off guard. I’m slick. Already. Dripping already, just from kissing him.
“Theo.” I pant his name when we break for air.
“Ten years.” His voice is raw, shattered.
His forehead presses against mine, both of us breathing hard.
“Ten years of dreaming about this. About having you back. About—” He cuts himself off with a groan, his hands sliding down to grip my hips.
“And the other night at the cottage, getting to touch you, taste you—god, Cara. I’ve been losing my mind thinking about it. ”
“Then stop thinking.” I grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to me. “And show me.”
His eyes go dark. The warm, open Theo I know sharpens into something hungrier. Something that makes my thighs press together.
“Show you,” he repeats, low and rough. His hands tighten on my hips. “You sure about that, sunshine? Because if we start this here, I’m not stopping. Not until I’ve had all of you.”
My breath catches. “All of me?”
“Everything.” His thumb traces circles on my hip bone, dipping under the hem of my sweater to find bare skin.
“Everything we didn’t get to finish at the cottage.
Everything I’ve been dreaming about for a decade.
” His voice drops. “Want to be inside you, Cara. Want to feel you come apart around my knot. Want to fill you up until you’re dripping with me. ”
My knees nearly buckle.
“Yes.” The word comes out breathy, desperate. “Yes to all of it. Please.”
He groans, low and rough, and then his mouth is on mine again.
This kiss is hungrier. Dirtier. His tongue slides against mine and I melt into him, my fingers clawing at his shoulders. He walks me backward until my ass hits the potting bench, and then he’s lifting me, setting me on the wooden surface like I weigh nothing.
“Been thinking about this,” he says against my throat, his lips trailing hot kisses down my neck. “About having you here. In my greenhouse. Surrounded by all my plants.” He nips at my shoulder, just hard enough to sting, and I gasp, arching into him. “Like you belong here.”
“I do belong here.” I tilt my head back, giving him more. “With you.”
“With me.” He pulls back just long enough to yank his t-shirt over his head, and I lose the ability to think.
God, his chest. Broad and golden, muscles defined from years of hauling soil and plants and building things with his hands. I reach out and trace my fingers across his pecs, down his abs, following the trail of dark hair that disappears into his jeans.
“Your turn,” he says, voice rough.
He strips my sweater over my head. My bra follows seconds later, his fingers surprisingly deft with the clasp. And then I’m bare from the waist up, sitting on his potting bench in the middle of the afternoon, and I should feel exposed but I don’t.
Not with him looking at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.
“Beautiful.” His voice is reverent. His hands come up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I arch into his touch with a moan. “So fucking beautiful. Been dreaming about this, Cara. About getting my hands on you. My mouth.”
He leans down and takes one nipple into his mouth.
I cry out, my hands flying to his hair to hold him there. His tongue swirls, his teeth graze, and he sucks hard enough to make my back arch off the bench. He’s not gentle about it—he’s greedy, hungry, like he’s been starving for this.
Heat pulses between my thighs. I can feel the slick dripping out of me now, pooling beneath me on the wooden surface.
“Theo—”
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention. Licking. Sucking. Biting just hard enough to make me gasp. His hands are at my jeans now, working the button, sliding down the zipper.
“Lift up,” he murmurs against my skin.
I do, and he strips my jeans and underwear in one smooth motion. Kicks off my boots. And then I’m completely naked on his potting bench, winter light streaming through the glass walls, and he’s staring at me like I’m a feast he’s about to devour.
His nostrils flare as my scent hits him. Honey and citrus, but sweeter now, richer—the unmistakable smell of a slick, needy omega.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You smell incredible. Even better than the other night.” His hands slide up my thighs, spreading them wider, and his groan is filthy. “Look at you. So slick for me. Making a mess of my bench.”
I should be embarrassed. I’m not. I’m too desperate for his hands, his mouth, his cock—anything.
“Your fault,” I manage.
“Yeah?” He drops to his knees between my spread thighs, and my heart slams against my ribs. “Then let me clean you up.”
“Theo—”
“Wanted to do this again since the second you left the cottage.” He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, right where the slick is glistening. “Couldn’t stop thinking about how sweet you taste. How pretty you sound when you come.”
“Please—”
“Been jerking off to the memory every night.” Another kiss, higher this time. His breath is hot against my pussy. “Thinking about burying my face between your thighs. Licking you until you scream. Making you come on my tongue over and over until you’re begging me to stop.”
I whimper, actually whimper, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.
“Please, Theo. I need—”
He licks a long, slow stripe through my folds.
I scream.
My hips buck off the bench but he’s ready for it, hands clamping down on my thighs to hold me open. He licks me again, slower this time, savoring, gathering the slick on his tongue.