Chapter Cara #2
He’s quiet for a long moment. The mile markers flash by, counting down the distance to a destination that suddenly feels very far away.
“It is nice,” he finally says. Quiet. Almost grudging.
But he says it.
And I’ll take it.
A few hours later, my phone buzzes with a text from Theo.
Theo: How’s the drive going?
I roll my eyes and type back.
Cara: I know what you did.
Theo: I have no idea what you’re talking about. My back is VERY injured. I can barely move.
Cara: Lucas sent me the same angel emoji. You two are the worst liars.
Theo:
Another text, this time from Lucas.
Lucas: For the record, the forced proximity trope has a 94% success rate in romance novels. We did the research.
I choke on a laugh.
“What?” Nate asks.
“Nothing. Just—” I hold up my phone. “Your co-conspirators are checking in.”
“They’re not my co-conspirators.”
“They literally orchestrated this entire road trip to force us to spend time together.”
“That doesn’t make them my co-conspirators. That makes them meddling assholes.”
“Meddling assholes who read my books, apparently.” I text back a middle finger emoji to Lucas and turn my phone face-down on my lap. “They quoted my trope success rates at me.”
Nate sighs. “They’ve been reading those books out loud in the living room since you got back. I know more about what you think alphas do in the bedroom than I ever needed to hear narrated by Theo Holt.”
I stare at him. “They read them out loud?”
“Theo does voices.”
“Oh my god.”
“He’s very committed to the dialogue.” Nate’s expression is pained, but there’s a hint of a smile underneath. “Lucas takes notes.”
I bury my face in my hands. “This is so embarrassing.”
“You’re embarrassed?” He glances at me. “I had to sit through a dramatic reading of something called—” He pauses, ears going red. “I’m not saying the title.”
“Which book?”
“I’m not saying it.”
“Nate.”
“The one with the barn.”
I groan. That’s definitely the spiciest one. “I’m going to kill them.”
“Get in line.” But he’s almost smiling now. “So they used your own tropes to set us up.”
“Apparently.”
“That’s...”
“Diabolical? Manipulative? Grounds for murder?”
“I was going to say clever.”
I blink. “What?”
“They know you. They know what works.” His eyes stay fixed on the road, but there’s something almost soft in his voice. “If they thought it would help, I can’t blame them for trying.”
“Help with what?”
He doesn’t answer. But his ears are red again.
We hit Nevada as the sun starts to set.
My back aches from sitting so long, and I’ve eaten my way through most of Maeve’s muffins.
Nate has loosened up incrementally over the past few hours—not all the way, but enough that we’ve managed actual conversations.
About Ben and their high school antics. About his brother Liam and the Sheriff’s department.
About the new hiking trails they’re building outside of town.
Nothing deep. Nothing about us. But it’s something.
“We should stop soon,” Nate says, nodding toward a sign for the next exit. “There’s a motel up ahead. We can get an early start tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
The motel is small and nondescript—the kind of place that caters to truckers and road-trippers, nothing fancy but clean enough. Nate pulls into the parking lot and cuts the engine.
“I’ll get us rooms,” he says, already opening his door.
“I can—”
“I’ve got it.”
He’s gone before I can argue, striding across the parking lot toward the front office. I watch him go, admiring the way his shoulders fill out his jacket, the confident set of his stride.
Get it together, Donovan.
He’s back five minutes later, and his expression is... complicated.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as he climbs back into the truck.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Your face says something’s wrong.”
He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “They only have one room available.”
I stare at him. “One room.”
“One room. One bed.” He’s not looking at me. “I can sleep in the truck if you—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I’m already grabbing my bag from the backseat. “We’re adults. We can share a room.”
“Cara.”
“It’s fine, Nate. Really.” I push open my door and hop down. “Besides, if you sleep in the truck, you’ll be miserable tomorrow, and then the drive will be even more awkward than it already is.”
He looks like he wants to argue. But he also looks exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, tension in his shoulders that’s been building all day.
“Fine,” he mutters, and grabs his own bag.
The room is small.
One queen bed, a tiny bathroom, a window that looks out over the parking lot. There’s a mini fridge and a coffee maker and a TV mounted on the wall, but none of that matters because there is one bed and two of us and Nate looks like he’s considering jumping out the window.
“I can take the floor,” he says immediately.
“There’s barely enough floor to stand on.”
“The chair, then.”
“That chair is the size of a postage stamp.”
“Cara.” His voice is strained. “I can’t—we can’t—”
“It’s just sleeping.” I toss my bag on the bed and turn to face him. “We used to share a lot more than a mattress, Nate.”
His jaw tightens. “That was ten years ago.”
“So?”
“So things are different now.” He sets his bag down carefully, like it might explode. “We’re different now.”
“Different how?”
He looks at me. Really looks at me, for the first time all day, and his eyes are dark with want.
“You know how,” he says quietly.
My heart is pounding. “Nate—”
“I’m going to shower.” He grabs his bag and disappears into the bathroom before I can say anything else.
The door clicks shut, and I sink onto the edge of the bed.
One room. One bed.
If I wrote this scene in one of my books, I’d know exactly what happens next. The tension would build, someone would accidentally touch someone in the middle of the night, and by morning they’d be tangled together confessing their feelings.
But this isn’t a book. This is real life. And Nate Thorn has spent the last ten years building walls so high I’m not sure I can climb them.
My phone buzzes.
Theo: How’s it going? You guys stopped for the night yet?
Cara: One room. One bed.
Theo:
Lucas: The trope success rate just went up to 97%.
Cara: I hate you both.
Theo: No you don’t. You love us.
Lucas: Let us know how it goes.
I turn off my phone and stare at the ceiling.
The shower is still running. I can hear Nate moving around in there, the spray of water against tile. I try very hard not to think about him in there, wet and naked and separated from me by one thin door.
I fail completely.
By the time he emerges—hair damp, wearing a t-shirt and sweats that shouldn’t look as good as they do—I’ve changed into my own sleep clothes and claimed the left side of the bed.
“I’m going to read for a bit,” I say, holding up my phone. “If you want to sleep, I can turn off the light.”
“It’s fine.” He stands there for a moment, like he’s not sure what to do with himself. Then, very carefully, he walks around to the other side of the bed and sits down on the edge.
The mattress dips under his weight. He’s so close I could reach out and touch him.
I don’t.
“Goodnight, Cara,” he says quietly.
“Goodnight, Nate.”
He lies down, keeping as far to his edge as possible without falling off. I turn off the lamp and settle back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
His breathing evens out after a few minutes. Slow and steady, the rhythm of sleep.
But his scent... his scent is everywhere. Pine and woodsmoke, warmer now than it’s been in weeks. Less controlled. Like being in this room, in this bed, has lowered his defenses whether he wants it to or not.
I close my eyes and breathe him in.
Tomorrow, we’ll get to LA. We’ll pack up my apartment, get Mr. Darcy, and drive back to Honeyridge Falls. Back to Theo and Lucas. Back to the life I’m building.
But tonight, I’m lying next to Nate Thorn for the first time in ten years.
And despite everything—despite the awkwardness and the tension and the walls he keeps throwing up between us—I fall asleep smiling.