Chapter 7 Lo
Lo
Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
This is not happening.
Hayes Whitlock is not sitting across from me as if nothing has changed. Like it could still be senior year, and we’re splitting fries at the diner after he bailed me out of detention for yelling at Principal Richards.
Like I’m not currently sweating through my damn hoodie and trying not to crawl out of my own skin because I clearly can’t control myself.
And apparently? Hayes smells really fucking good now. Clean cotton and honeycomb, like the emergence of spring after a long, dark winter.
Since when?
His scent reminds me of sun-warmed linen and the kind of quiet that makes you feel safe. And my body? Oh, my body is very into it. My body is screaming: “Hey, bestie, remember this guy? Maybe let’s climb him like a tree.”
God.
I dig my nails into the underside of the table and try not to breathe too deep. Because every time I do, I get another lungful of Hayes, and it’s as powerful as jamming my hand in a live socket. I know it’ll hurt, but I can’t stop touching it.
He hasn’t even touched me. He’s just sitting there, being all Beta and soft-voiced and caring, which is somehow worse.
“Lo,” he says, smiling brightly.
As if my thighs aren’t clenched under the table and my glands aren’t going haywire and my heart isn’t doing that stupid thing where it skips every time he tilts his head.
His voice sounds again, soft and reassuring. “You okay?”
Am I okay?
Let’s see: I drove into a fucking parade float. Desire is flaring as loud as a broken alarm system for apparently every person I run into. And now Hayes Whitlock is back in front of me, making my hindbrain go full feral for reasons I don’t even want to think about.
So, no. No, I am not okay.
But I lie. Obviously.
“Yeah,” I say, too fast. “Just… hot.”
Hayes arches a brow. “It’s fifty degrees out.”
“I know,” I mutter. “Maybe it’s the humidity. You know how this place gets before the first snow.”
Cool lie, Lo. Very convincing.
He leans back a little. Not away, just giving me a breath of space. As if he can feel it. The edge in the air. The scent I’m pushing out, no matter how hard I fight it.
My stupid body. My stupid, traitorous hormones that apparently don’t give a shit that this is Hayes. My best friend. Well, my former best friend. The boy who used to sneak me moon pies and cover for me when I bailed on Sunday service.
The boy I thought I could trust with everything.
Until I tried to tell the truth, and he didn’t stop me. Didn’t fight for me. Just… let me go.
Maybe it was all for the best.
He shifts, reaching for his coffee, and his arm flexes, and I hate how fast my brain short-circuits. What I wouldn’t give to have those arms wrapped around me, trapping me against—
Nope. Not happening. I am not doing this. I am not scent-drunk for Hayes, of all people. That’s not my story. That’s not this story. That can’t be this story.
I chew the inside of my cheek until it hurts.
“So,” Hayes starts, clearly trying to keep the conversation flowing as smoothly as we can manage, “tell me more about it. The investigative… whistleblowing thing you do.”
I laugh. Out loud. Like a normal person.
Because yeah, let’s just dive right into that. No big deal. Just the reason I got exiled from my hometown at twenty and turned into public enemy number one by my own family.
“You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve done a lot of blowing and a lot of whistling since then.”
Hayes chokes on his coffee, and I grin. Good. Let him be off balance for a second.
But he rallies fast. “I heard about that pack in Knoxville, the Alpha that got arrested. That was you, right?”
I smile proudly. Honeysuckle Grove didn’t believe me, but others have.
“Yep. Him and two enablers on the board of regional ethics. Also, a very smug legal team I will never stop suing.”
He exhales, something between impressed and stunned. “You really did it.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, lifting my mug with a perfectly steady hand that is definitely not shaking, “figured if I was going to get blacklisted by the council here, might as well go big.”
Hayes grins. “Still loud as ever.”
“I prefer principled,” I say with a smirk, even though I can’t actually focus on the words coming out of his mouth because, holy god, his scent is everywhere. It’s in my nose, on my skin, clinging to the fucking air in static.
Clean, honeyed, magnetic. Exactly as I remember, but sharper now. Older. Stronger, with the subtlest hint of citrus.
Wrong timing. Very wrong timing.
I cross my legs under the table. Uncross them. Try to ignore the desire curling low in my belly, tight and insistent.
My glands are banging on the inside of my skin, yelling, “Mate him!” like I’m some kind of deranged feral soap opera character. And don’t get me started on the slick dribbling out of my body, threatening to soak through my underwear.
“I read about the petition you started in Camden,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “That made some changes too, right?”
I nod. Smile again. Blink, trying to disguise the fact that I’m sweating through my bra. “Yeah, it’s still moving in the right direction.”
Hayes whistles. “Damn.”
God, stop looking at me in that way. With respect. With that warm pride that used to make my stomach flutter even back then, before I knew what fluttering really meant.
“Lo,” he says, quieter now, “that’s serious work.”
“Mmhmm,” I say, willing myself to keep it together.
I press my thighs together under the table, trying to relieve some of the pressure, but it’s no use. I’m flushed, I’m dizzy, and my scent is slipping past my control fast as steam through a cracked pipe.
Excellent. Great. Love that for me.
“And all that time,” Hayes continues, tapping the side of his mug, “you didn’t reach out. Not once.”
Oof. There it is. That one digs in. I keep my face perfectly blank, but inside I flinch like I’ve been slapped.
“Well,” I say lightly, “I figured this town didn’t need me anymore.”
“I missed you,” he says.
I can’t do this.
I reach for my mug again and knock it over instead, spilling coffee across the table. Hayes is already reaching for napkins, calm as ever, while I pretend I’m not internally screaming.
“Sorry,” I say too loudly. “My reflexes are a little shot today.”
“It’s okay,” he says, pressing napkins into the mess. “You’re okay.”
I am not okay.
I am melting into a puddle of scent-drunk shame and unprocessed emotions. I am seconds away from snapping and climbing across the table, showing how much of a deranged Omega cliché I am, with slicked-up panties and heat wrapping around my spine as if my body is full-tilt forcing me into a heat.
I am seconds from asking him to take me home, and not in the chaste, walk me to my door kind of way. More like carry me over the threshold and fuck me against the nearest surface kind of way.
Before I can embarrass myself further, Hayes’ phone buzzes against the table. He glances at the screen and winces.
“Shit. Sorry, just a sec.”
He picks it up, stepping a few feet away toward the corner of the café. I try not to look at the line of his back or the way his shirt pulls tight over his broad shoulders.
When did his thighs get so muscular? And that pert little ass of his—shit, I’m staring. I try not to look.
I try not to breathe, either, because even from here his scent is still hanging in the air, hot as laundry on a summer afternoon.
He hangs up a moment later, sighing as he slides the phone into his back pocket.
“That was the mayor,” he says. “There’s an issue with the digital signage for the Winter Gala tonight. Apparently, it’s glitching and showing last year’s sponsor, which would be fine if that sponsor wasn’t currently suing the town.”
I blink, forcing my brain to keep up. “Wow. Big drama for small graphics.”
“You have no idea,” he says with a sheepish grin. “I have to get back to it.”
“Oh.”
My stomach sinks a little. Stupid. I should be relieved. Less exposure to Hayes means fewer chances to combust in public. But I hate how the booth feels colder the moment he says it.
He hesitates for a second, then adds, “I’ll walk you home first, if that’s okay?”
No. Absolutely not.
I should wave him off and disappear down Main Street alone, sticking to the shadows. Be the fierce, independent whistleblower I supposedly am.
But my brain’s gone syrupy, and the idea of him walking me home sends a little thrill through my chest I don’t want to examine too closely.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Sure.”
He smiles, standing before he tosses a few bills onto the table. Before I know it, he’s holding the door open for me like he’s still the same polite, considerate boy who used to wait outside the girls’ locker room with my forgotten textbooks.
But he did let me walk away when I needed him the most…
We walk in silence at first. Honeysuckle Grove is buzzing with the excitement that comes with winter and Christmas, and the scent of pine and apple cider cresting over the constant horizon.
My scent’s probably trailing behind me in a goddamn smoke signal, but Hayes doesn’t say a word. Just keeps pace beside me, not too close, not too far.
“You know,” he says eventually, “I kept your number.”
I glance at him. “Did you use it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “I almost did. A bunch of times. But I figured… if you wanted to talk to me, you would’ve.”
That hits harder than I expect.
“I didn’t think I could,” I admit. “After everything.”
He nods. Doesn’t push. Just quietly walks with me another block.
“Place hasn’t changed much,” I say, mostly to fill the space. “Still smells like popcorn and wet mulch.”
Hayes laughs softly. “And over-chlorinated pool water?”
“Exactly.”
We turn the corner, and there it is.
The townhouse.
It feels different with Hayes beside me. I notice things I wasn’t looking at before.
Still prim and proper and smug as ever, with its iron gate and symmetrical hedges trimmed to within an inch of their lives. The porch swing still squeaks on windy days. The brass “M” on the door still shines. Somehow, my mother’s legacy hasn’t yet rotted underneath it.
My stomach twists.
Hayes slows beside me, and suddenly the air between us is thick again. Not with warmth, not just that. But with everything unspoken between the two of us—which is a lot, judging by the way my heart leaps into my throat and cuts off my ability to speak.
He doesn’t look at the house. He looks at me.
And I know that look. It’s the same one he wore the night before I ran. The night I told him what I was going to do. The night that, for once, he didn’t have an opinion.
So odd for Hayes, not having an opinion about something.
His hand twitches at his side. As if he wants to reach for me. Like he doesn’t know if he still has the right.
I do the only thing I can do to shut my brain up.
To get this shit out of my system so that I can focus.
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him.
Hard.
It’s not soft or gentle or anything remotely rational. It’s wild. It’s desperate. Opening a floodgate and letting every ache and craving and longing I’ve been trying to cage just rip through me.
Hayes stiffens for half a second, and then he’s kissing me back, anchoring me with both hands against my body, one palm splayed low over my back like he remembers exactly how to hold me.
His other hand buries into the tangles of my hair, like he’s attempting to thread our bodies together with our tongues as the foundation chain.
I make a noise, half frustration, half need, and press closer. My fingers find the collar of his shirt, fisting the fabric, pulling him deeper into me. His tongue licks into my mouth, carrying with it the sweet taste of honey that seems to follow him wherever he steps.
I feel his hardened groin pressed to my pelvis. Feel his shivering body encasing mine as he bends me backward. He keeps me locked against him while I breathe the air he affords me, teeth clattering and lips swelling with the impact of our desire.
I need this. Need him. The only thing that seems to be keeping me from flying apart is the feel of his mouth on mine.
Hayes groans softly against my lips, and the sound punches through my chest like a lightning bolt.
Everything is on fire now. My skin. My scent. My fucking heart. His scent wraps around me, attempting to hold me hostage, and I don’t fight it. I just stand on the tippiest of tiptoes just so I can smash myself closer.
Just so I can forget everything for a moment.
I don’t know how long we stand there, kissing as if we’re trying to undo years of silence and guilt and what-ifs with our mouths. But when I finally pull back for air, my breath is ragged, my hands are shaking, and his eyes…
His eyes are wrecked.
Dark. Wide. Stunned.
“Lo,” he says, hoarse.
He inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring.
I blink. Realizing. Too late.
Oh, shit.
I just kissed my best friend on my front porch like I’m the star of some melodramatic telenovela and this is my mid-season breakdown.
“Sorry,” I blurt, stepping back so fast I nearly trip over the first brick step. “That was… I didn’t mean…”
His gaze clears a bit. “You didn’t mean to?”
“No, I… I mean, yes, I did, but…”
My hands flail uselessly. My face is burning. I’m a mess.
He takes a breath, and I think he’s going to ask something, maybe everything, and I panic.
“I should go in,” I say before he can speak. “I need to… sleep. Or shower. Or maybe jump out a window.”
Hayes reaches out to stop me. Like he’s got a hundred questions lined up behind his teeth. But he doesn’t say a word.
He just nods. Once.
And I bolt up the steps before I can do something even dumber.
Like kiss him again.
Or tell him I never stopped missing him.
That I thought about him every day. That I wanted to call so many times…
The door clicks shut behind me, and I press my back to it, heart hammering, skin buzzing, breath shallow.
What. The. Fuck.
What am I doing?
What was that?
And more importantly…
Why did it feel like coming home?