Chapter 1 #3
"Don't you dare."
That's all it takes.
His mouth crashes onto mine, hungry and demanding, the kind of kiss that erases thoughts of mugs and ranches and the shadows of my past. I melt into it, into him, my hands roaming the broad planes of his back as he lifts me onto the counter like I weigh nothing.
Flour dusts the air between us, mixing with the spice of our combined scents, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
"God, you drive me insane," he mutters between kisses, his voice rough as gravel.
I laugh softly, the sound breaking into a moan when his hands find the hem of my skirt, pushing it up just enough to make my pulse race.
But he doesn't go further—never does without that unspoken permission—and instead trails his fingers along my thighs, teasing the sensitive skin there until I'm trembling.
"Calder..." His name slips out like a plea, and he stills, forehead pressing against mine as we both catch our breath.
"Not today," he says finally, though his body screams otherwise, that hard length pressing insistently against me. "You deserve better than a kitchen counter quickie."
I pout, even as relief floods through me—relief I hate admitting.
"Since when are you the voice of reason?"
"Since you showed up here looking like sin in that apron." He grins, that lopsided smile that always disarms me, and carefully sets me back on my feet, adjusting my skirt with reverent hands. "Now, about those pies. Need a hand?"
I swat at his chest, trying to ignore the way my skin still tingles from his touch. We’re always playing these up and down games, which is surely frustrating for both of us, yet we continue to do this dance.
Like it’s truly a rodeo…at least until one of us finds what we’re looking for…
Him a pack of Alphas who blend with him, and me a pack that’s in need of an Omega…even if I’m a broken mess with a strong front.
"Only if you promise to behave."
"No promises, darlin'." He winks, grabbing a mixing bowl from the shelf like nothing happened, but the heat in his eyes tells a different story.
And as I turn back to my half-unpacked mugs, I can't help the small smile tugging at my lips—this mess of ours might be complicated, but in moments like these, it feels an awful lot we belong with one another.
"The investigation," he says suddenly, the change in topic jarring. "Rodriguez called me this morning. Says the county's dragging their feet, but he's pushing. Won't let them sweep this under the rug."
Reality crashes back—the fire, Gregory, the fact that I'm technically a victim in an ongoing investigation where the perpetrators are still free. Still out there, waiting for the next opportunity to strike.
"They'll get away with it." The words taste bitter, truth usually does.
"Not if I have anything to say about it." The protective fury in his voice makes something in my chest tighten. "Gregory Mason better hope the law gets to him before I do."
"Calder—"
"I know, I know. Let the system work. Follow proper channels." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "The system that's failed you at every turn. The system that says attempted murder is just property damage if the victim is an Omega."
The old anger rises, familiar as breathing. But underneath it, something else—gratitude that someone else sees the injustice, that I'm not alone in my rage even if I'm alone in everything else.
"I should really start those pies," I say, needing to move, to do something with my hands before I do something stupid like cry or throw myself at him.
"Right." He nods, already backing toward the door. I know the change of topic may have dampened the mood a bit, but the conversation needed to happen. "I'll just...I've got fence repairs at my place. Should probably..."
"Yeah."
We're terrible at goodbyes, have been since the first time we fell into bed together months ago, both of us raw, lonely and desperate for something that didn't hurt.
Now we're tangled in each other in ways that go beyond physical, and neither of us knows how to untangle without tearing something vital.
He pauses at the door, looking back with eyes that hold too much.
"Wendy?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful at the ranch. I know you can handle yourself, but..." He trails off, jaw working like he's fighting words that want to escape.
"I know," I echo his earlier sentiment, and somehow it's enough.
He leaves, and I'm alone with my mugs, preheated oven, and the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin.
I grab my grandmother's recipe card from the drawer, the edges soft from decades of use, and try to focus on measurements and techniques instead of the fact that I can still smell him in my kitchen.
Pine and bourbon and possibility I can't afford to want.
But as I start measuring flour, I can't shake the feeling that something's shifting. The investigation, Calder's barely controlled need to protect, my own defenses crumbling despite my best efforts—it's all building toward something I can't quite see yet.
Change is coming whether I'm ready or not.
I just hope this time, when everything burns down, there's something left in the ashes worth saving.
The mixing bowl clatters against the counter as I set it down too hard, my hands still shaky from his touch, from want, from the effort of always pulling back just before we fall completely.
"Get it together, Murphy," I mutter to myself, tying my hair back with practiced efficiency. "You've got pies to bake and a ranch to run and absolutely no time for complications named Calder Hayes."
But even as I start cutting butter into flour, creating the perfect crumble for pie crust, I know I'm lying to myself. He's already a complication—has been from the first night he found me crying in my car outside Wildflower & Wren, overwhelmed by nightmares and the weight of starting over.
He'd held me then, no questions, no demands, just solid warmth and the promise that I wasn't alone.
That should have been warning enough.
Calder Hayes doesn't do halfway, doesn't do casual, doesn't do careful.
And neither, if I'm honest, do I.
Which is why this is going to end badly, why I should shut it down now before we both get burned. But as I roll out pie dough on the floured counter, I catch myself humming and realize I'm already too far gone.
Damn him.
Damn this town.
Damn everything that's led me here, to this moment, to this terrifying edge of almost-happiness.
I shape the dough with more force than necessary, channeling frustration into productivity. Six pies to make before I head to the ranch. Six pies to keep my hands busy and my mind off the Alpha who just left my kitchen smelling like unfulfilled promises.
The front door opens again—he never did lock it behind him—and I don't even turn around.
"Forget something?" I ask, already knowing the answer, already feeling him moving closer like gravity I can't escape.
"Yeah," he says, and then his hands are on my waist, spinning me around, flour flying everywhere as he crashes his mouth to mine. "This. Forgot this."
And I let myself fall, just for a moment, into the kiss that tastes like inevitability.
His tongue traces mine, one hand tangling in my hair while the other pulls me impossibly closer, and I forget every reason this is a bad idea.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard, flour in his hair and probably mine too.
"Now I can go," he says, pressing one more quick kiss to my forehead before stepping back. "Needed to taste you."
"Get out," I manage, though I'm smiling despite myself. "Out, before I throw pie filling at your ridiculous face."
He's laughing as he leaves—for real this time—and I'm left standing in my flour-covered kitchen, lips swollen, body thrumming, wondering how someone who's already survived being burned can be so eager to play with fire again.
But as I turn back to my pies, I catch sight of my reflection in the window—flushed, alive, looking like someone who might actually have a future worth fighting for.
Maybe that's worth the risk…that some things are worth burning for.
I start humming again as I work, and this time, I don't try to stop myself. The pies can wait another minute while I savor this feeling, this dangerous hope blooming in my chest like flame.
Shaking my head, flour falling like snow around me, and get back to work. But my smile stays, stubborn as everything else about me, as I start cutting apples for filling.
Calder Hayes might be my downfall, but at least I'll go down swinging.
Or in his case, probably moaning his name.
God help me, I'm already gone.