Chapter 21 New Beginnings
New Beginnings
~REVERIE~
Nash lifts the third box into the bed of his truck with easy strength, settling it beside the other two like he's handling precious cargo instead of my hodgepodge collection of belongings packed into cardboard boxes I scavenged from the liquor store.
The November morning is crisp and cold—the kind of cold that makes your nose go numb and your fingers ache even inside gloves.
My breath comes out in visible puffs that dissipate in the air like little ghosts.
Frost covers every surface—the windows of the apartment building behind us, the cars parked in the lot, even the dead grass poking through patches of snow.
It's barely nine in the morning on a Sunday, and Oakridge Hollow is just waking up.
Somewhere down the street a neighbor is putting up more Christmas lights despite having plenty already—the ladder propped against their house, colorful strands trailing from their hands. A dog barks in the distance. Someone starts their car, the engine coughing in protest against the cold.
Nash turns back to me, brushing his hands off on his jeans—dark denim worn soft with age and use.
His dark hair is slightly tousled from the morning wind, falling across his forehead in a way that probably looks effortless but is unfairly attractive.
His leather jacket makes him look every bit the bad boy Alpha he probably was in his younger days—all sharp edges and contained danger.
The motor oil and leather scent coming off him mixes with the cold morning air, creating this combination that's oddly appealing. Masculine and mechanical with an undercurrent of expensive cologne he must have put on this morning.
"Is that really everything you have?"
I smile, trying to make it seem casual. Like this is normal. Like having my entire life fit into three medium-sized boxes is perfectly fine.
"Yeah, that's it." I shrug. "I don't have a lot."
His frown deepens. Those blue eyes study me like he's trying to solve a complicated puzzle.
"Why?" he asks. Then his expression shifts—understanding dawning. "Did your ex-pack not offer you clothes either?"
The question hangs in the cold air between us.
They did give me clothes. Technically. Things that made me look the part they wanted me to play—demure, presentable, forgettable. Nothing was mine though. Everything belonged to them, on loan as long as I behaved.
I don't answer.
Just stand there in my worn jeans and oversized sweater that's seen better days, holding my purse like it's a shield.
Nash sighs—not frustrated, more resigned. Like he's confirming something he already suspected.
He walks around to the passenger side of the truck and opens the door. The hinges creak slightly in the quiet morning.
"Get in," he says, his voice gentler now. "And don't answer that question. I already know."
I climb into the truck, the interior still warm from the drive over.
The seats are leather, well-worn but clean—the kind that molds to your body after years of use.
There's a faint smell of coffee lingering in the air mixed with something mechanical—probably from whatever project he's been working on in his garage.
The dashboard has a few scratches and the radio looks like it's original to the truck, but everything works and feels solid.
Lived-in. Loved.
Nash leans against the open door frame, not closing it yet.
"We're passing through the next town over anyway. We'll stop and get you some clothes."
"Really?" The word comes out more surprised than I intend.
Higher pitched. Almost squeaky.
He raises an eyebrow, those blue eyes studying me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.
"Why do you sound shocked? Like I just offered to buy you a car instead of some clothes."
"I just—" I fidget with the strap of my purse—a worn crossbody bag I've had for three years that's starting to fray at the seams. "I can wait until the payout comes from Evergreen Media. The twenty-five thousand dollars. We don't need to go shopping now. I have enough to get by for a few weeks."
Enough to get by. That's generous.
Three pairs of jeans—one with a hole in the knee I've been meaning to patch.
Five shirts that have seen better days. Two sweaters that are starting to pill.
Underwear getting threadbare because buying new bras is expensive and I kept putting it off.
One pair of boots with salt stains that won't come out.
One pair of sneakers with worn soles. A winter coat that doesn't quite keep out the Canadian cold because it's three sizes too big—a hand-me-down from someone at my old pack.
That's enough, right? People survive on less.
Nash shakes his head firmly.
"No. You want to go full throttle with this career stuff, yes? Take your social media seriously?"
The question catches me off guard. Makes me pause and really think about what I want instead of just surviving day to day.
I've secretly wished to take social media seriously for years now.
Create a real career out of it instead of just posting sporadically between bar shifts when I have energy and decent lighting.
So many influencers I watch have catapulted to fame and fortune—turned their passion into six-figure incomes, got brand deals with major companies, traveled the world creating content, built entire businesses from their platforms.
I've always wanted that for myself.
The freedom to work when I want, create what I want, be my own boss.
The creativity of styling outfits and setting up aesthetically pleasing shots and editing videos until they're perfect.
The ability to make money doing something I genuinely love instead of serving drinks to drunk people who sometimes grab my ass and think a bigger tip makes it okay.
But I was stuck in an environment that prevented that dream from becoming reality.
Kael and his pack dismissed social media as a waste of time.
Called it childish and frivolous. Said real adults have real jobs, not internet personas.
Refused to let me spend money on equipment like a decent camera or ring light or tripod.
Refused to let me buy props or decent clothes for content creation.
Mocked me relentlessly when I tried to film things at home—making faces in the background of my shots, turning off lights when I was trying to get good footage, laughing at my attempts to be professional.
Eventually I stopped trying around them.
Only filmed in secret when they were gone, feeling guilty and stupid the entire time for pursuing something they deemed worthless.
But now they're not around to taint anything. This could be my chance.
"I do," I say, meeting his eyes. "I want to take it seriously."
He nods once, satisfied.
"Then while we do this fake dating thing, we'll do everything in our power to help you do exactly that. Get you set up properly. Equipment, clothes, whatever you need."
My throat gets tight.
"Nash—"
"Less worrying," he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. "More focusing on your game plan. Deal?"
I smile—can't help it.
This man I barely know is offering to help me chase dreams that people who supposedly cared about me dismissed as worthless.
"Deal."
He closes the truck door with a solid thunk, then walks around to secure the boxes in the truck bed. I watch through the side mirror as he adjusts them, making sure they won't slide around during the drive. Careful. Methodical.
Taking care of my things like they matter.
The driver's door opens and Nash slides in, bringing a wave of cold air with him. He pulls the door shut and starts the engine. It rumbles to life—a deep, powerful sound that vibrates through the seat.
"How are Grayson and Theo today?" I ask as he pulls out of the parking spot, navigating through the apartment complex with practiced ease.
"Grayson's at the ranch," Nash says, maneuvering onto the main street.
The Sunday morning traffic is light—mostly people heading to the grocery store or running weekend errands.
"He's got cattle that need tending and some fencing that needs repair before the serious winter weather hits. Winter prep stuff that has to get done now or it'll be a nightmare later."
"He has a ranch?" I knew he was a rancher from our conversation at The Gingerbread House, but somehow the reality of it hadn't quite sunk in properly.
"Small operation. Two hundred acres outside town—attached to our property, technically.
Keeps him busy when he's not writing those romance novels.
" There's affection in Nash's voice. Pride.
"Got about twenty head of cattle, some chickens, a couple horses.
Nothing huge, but enough to be real work.
He does most of it himself with some help from a part-time hand during busy seasons. "
The image of Grayson—sweet, blushing Grayson who reads romance novels and orders pancakes with extra whipped cream—doing ranch work makes me smile. Hauling fence posts and tending cattle and getting his hands dirty. I bet he looks good in cowboy boots and worn jeans.
The quiet competence he must have, caring for animals and land.
"Does he like it? Ranching, I mean."
"Loves it." Nash navigates through town, passing familiar storefronts decorated for Christmas. "Says it keeps him grounded. Gives him something physical to do when his brain gets too stuck in fictional worlds. Hard to overthink your plot when you're fixing a fence in freezing weather."
"What about Theo?"
"Trains three times a week," Nash explains, turning onto the main road. "Sometimes at the fitness center here in Oakridge Hollow, but the next town has a bigger facility with more equipment. Heavy weights, specialized machines. He makes the trek down there when he needs a serious workout."
Makes sense.