Chapter 24 Jessica
JESSICA
The Largo Waters General Store smells like produce and floor wax and the particular staleness of fluorescent lighting.
The store is quiet for a Wednesday afternoon.
A few elderly shoppers drift through the aisles, their carts rattling over the uneven flooring.
Muzak plays from speakers mounted in the ceiling tiles, some instrumental version of a song I almost recognize but can't quite place.
The produce section stretches to my left, pyramids of apples and oranges stacked under lights designed to make everything look fresher than it is.
I pull out my phone and check the list I made this morning.
Eggs. Butter. Flour. Chocolate chips. Brown sugar.
Cookies. I'm making more cookies for the hockey team.
Connor texted me three times yesterday to confirm I'd be at Friday's game, and each text included a cookie emoji.
Danny's been practicing his shots for six hours a day, according to his mother, who stopped me outside the post office to thank me for believing in him.
I believed in him. Someone thanked me for believing in their kid.
Two weeks ago, I was a runaway bride with no job, no plan, and no idea who I was without Callum telling me.
Now I'm the unofficial team mom of the Largo Waters Timber Wolves, I'm building a nest out of stolen hoodies, and I told a man I loved him while wearing nothing but my underwear.
Progress. Weird, terrifying, exhilarating progress.
I wheel my cart into the baking aisle and scan the shelves for chocolate chips. The store brand is on sale, two bags for five dollars, but I grab the name brand because Sergio mentioned offhandedly that he prefers them and my brain apparently filed that information away for future reference.
My brain has been filing a lot of things away lately.
Sergio's chocolate chip preferences. The way Pedro takes his coffee, black with exactly one sugar cube.
How Nacho always checks the locks twice before bed.
The sound Carlos makes when he's falling asleep, a soft exhale that turns into something almost like a purr.
I know things about them now. Intimate things. The kind of things you only learn when you're paying attention.
When you're falling in love.
I toss the chocolate chips into my cart and move on to the dairy section.
The refrigerated cases hum steadily, cold air spilling out every time someone opens a door. I grab eggs, checking for cracks the way my grandmother taught me, then butter, then a carton of heavy cream because Nacho mentioned wanting to make pasta this weekend.
My cart is half full when I sense someone watching me.
It's not a specific feeling. Not a sound or a movement. Just a prickling at the back of my neck, a primitive awareness that makes my shoulders tense and my omega go on high alert.
I turn around.
Callum’s at the end of the aisle.
My heart stops, for at least two full seconds, before kick-starting again at triple speed.
He looks good with his tailored clothes and his perfect hair and his smile that could sell ice to polar bears.
Today he's wearing dark jeans and a grey cashmere sweater.
His brown hair is styled just so, that artfully tousled look that takes forty-five minutes and three different products to achieve.
I know because I watched him do it every morning for two years.
His blue eyes lock onto mine, and his face transforms. Surprise melting into relief melting into something soft and hopeful that makes my stomach turn.
"Jessica."
My name in his mouth sounds wrong now. Like a word I used to know but have since forgotten the meaning of.
"Callum." I grip the handle of my cart hard enough to turn my knuckles white. The metal bites into my palm. "What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here until Friday.”
"I couldn’t wait that long.” He moves toward me, slow and careful, like I'm a wild animal he's trying not to spook. Every step is measured. Controlled. The same way he used to approach me after we fought, when he needed to "calm me down."
"You weren't answering my calls."
"I blocked your number."
"I noticed." He stops a few feet away. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something expensive and woodsy that used to make me weak in the knees. Now it sits in my throat like poison. "I've been worried about you, baby. After you ran away from our wedding like that..."
"Don't call me baby."
His eyebrows lift slightly. The only crack in his carefully composed expression. Around us, I hear a cart wheel squeak to a stop. Mrs. Johnson from the post office is frozen three aisles over, pretending to study a can of soup. Her eyes keep darting toward us.
"Okay." He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. The gesture of a reasonable man dealing with an unreasonable woman. "I'm sorry. You're right. That was presumptuous."
Presumptuous. Such a Callum word. Polished and precise and designed to make him sound rational while making me sound difficult.
"How did you find me?"
"I drove to Largo Waters." He shrugs, like driving hundreds of miles to track down your ex-fiancée is perfectly normal. Like it's romantic instead of terrifying. "Asked around. Someone at the diner mentioned you'd been spending time at the Negrorio place."
My blood goes ice cold. My omega flares, hackles raising, sensing danger.
"You've been asking about me?"
"I was worried." Another step closer. The fluorescent lights catch the planes of his face, highlighting cheekbones that could cut glass. Perfect. He's always so goddamn perfect. "You disappeared, Jessica. No note. No explanation. One minute we were about to get married, and the next you were gone."
"I left a note."
"'I'm sorry, I can't.'" His voice hardens just slightly. Just enough that I catch it even if no one else would. "That's not an explanation. That's a fortune cookie."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Old Mr. Garrett shuffling closer, leaning heavily on his cane. He's not even pretending to shop. Just watching. The produce clerk has stopped stacking apples. A woman with a toddler in her cart has gone still near the bread aisle.
They're all watching.
I want to laugh. Want to scream. Want to throw the carton of eggs at his face and watch the yolk drip down his cashmere sweater.
Instead I take a breath. Force my voice steady even though my hands are shaking. "It was all the explanation you deserved."
Something flickers in his eyes. Anger. Real anger. It's gone in a blink, smoothed over by that practiced charm like a mask sliding back into place.
"You're right." His voice drops, soft and contrite. The voice he uses when he's about to gaslight me. "I know I messed up, Jess. I know I wasn't always the partner you needed. But I've been doing a lot of thinking since you left, and I want to make things right."
"There's nothing to make right. We're done."
"We're not done." He moves closer. I take a step back. My spine hits the cold glass of the dairy case. The chill seeps through my shirt. "Two years, Jessica. You don't just throw that away."
"I already did." My knuckles are white on the cart handle. "The moment I ran from our wedding.”
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps beneath his skin. "You're being dramatic."
There it is. The dismissal I know so well. The subtle implication that my feelings are too big, too much, too unreasonable.
Heat floods my face. My pulse pounds in my ears. Around us, the store has gone quiet. Even the muzak seems to have stopped. Everyone watching this scene play out like it's a soap opera.
"I'm being honest." I straighten my spine, even though every instinct screams to make myself smaller. "For the first time in two years. I should have left you a long time ago."
"Because of them?" His voice goes sharp. Cuts through the air like a whip. "The Negrorio Pack? Is that what this is about?"
My heart stutters. Stops. Restarts at double speed.
"This is about me." My voice is rising. I can't stop it.
Can't control it. Two years of swallowed words clawing their way out.
"About you making me feel like I was too much.
Too loud. Too obsessive. About you controlling everything from what I wore to who I talked to to how I organized my goddamn grocery lists. "
"I was helping you." He steps into my space.
His scent crashes over me like a wave. My omega recoils so hard I feel it physically, like something twisting in my gut.
"And now you're living with four men? Making a fool of yourself?
They're using you, baby. Can't you see that? Taking advantage of a confused omega."
"Don't call me baby." The words come out flat. Dead. "And don't pretend you care about what's good for me. You only care that you lost control."
His hands clench into fists at his sides. The charm is slipping. I can see it cracking like ice over a frozen lake. "You're making a mistake."
"The only mistake I made was staying as long as I did." I push my cart forward, forcing him to step aside or be hit. "We're done, Callum. Accept it."
I make it three steps.
His hand closes around my arm.
"We're not done here."
The grip is immediate. Tight. His fingers dig into my bicep hard enough that I gasp. Around us, I hear someone inhale sharply. Mrs. Johnson’s can of soup hits the floor with a clatter.
"Let go of me." My voice is too high. Too panicked.
"Not until you listen."
"I said let go."
His fingers tighten. Pain shoots up my arm, bright and sharp. I can feel each individual fingertip pressing into muscle. "You're hysterical. You need to calm down and think about what you're throwing away. I'm offering you a future, Jessica. Everything you ever wanted."
"You don't know what I want." I try to pull away. His grip is iron. "You never did."
"I know you're scared." He leans closer. His breath is hot on my face. The scent of him is choking me. "Confused. Those men have filled your head with ideas. But you can't do better than me, baby. We both know you can't."
Something inside me snaps.
The fear transforms. Alchemizes into pure, white-hot rage.
I bring my knee up hard between his legs.
His hand releases me instantly. He doubles over with a howl that echoes through the store. The sound is animal. Undignified. Deeply, viscerally satisfying.
"Touch me again," I tell him, my voice steady now, "and I'll aim higher."
Somewhere behind me, someone starts to clap. Slow. Deliberate. Then another person joins in. Then another.
I grab my cart. My hands are shaking so hard the metal rattles. I walk toward the checkout. One foot in front of the other. Don't look back. Don't engage.
Behind me, his footsteps.
"You bitch." His voice is a snarl. All pretense of charm stripped away. "You think those Negrorio bastards will want you when they find out what you really are? A desperate little omega whore who'll spread her legs for—"
He doesn't finish.
One moment he's behind me, spitting venom. The next there's a crash. A grunt. The sound of a body hitting something hard.
I spin around.
Nacho has Callum pinned against the refrigerated meat case, one forearm pressed across his throat. The sheriff is still wearing his uniform, badge glinting under the fluorescent lights. His face could be carved from granite. Cold. Deadly. Nothing like the warm, gentle man who holds me at night.
This is the sheriff. The alpha. The predator.
"Hi, baby." His voice is eerily calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes before violence. "You okay?"