46. Clara
Clar a
The banner hanging across the largest bookstore on the Peninsula is bright and beautiful with my name and face plastered across it. After meeting Finian’s nephew a few days ago, Bram asked me on a courting date for this weekend. And he brought me here.
“Wh–what is this?” I ask.
Bram glances over from the driver’s seat of his Jeep. “It’s a book signing.”
My heart pounds against my ribs.
“Listen, before you get upset—” he adds quickly, because my scent has probably shifted to scorched apple pie in the confined space.
“You don’t have to do this. I’ll call it off and make an excuse.
But I read your books, Ghost. You’re so talented.
So, I made some calls. This store loves local authors and is very supportive.
I put out some local ads for your signing. ”
Local ads. Great. Either no one will show up… or a few friends and family will. Despite my marketing campaigns and moderate success on indie platforms, it always feels like I’m shouting into the void.
Bram catches my doubtful expression and tips two fingers under my chin, coaxing my gaze back to his. “You are brilliant, Clara. The depth of emotion and dimension you put into your characters and stories deserves to be celebrated.”
I’ve dated before, and told short-term boyfriends what I do for a living. Some were polite, at best. Others were dismissive, and a few were downright hostil e. The exact number who ever actually read my book? Zero. A very easy number to remember.
“Okay,” I say, a dizzy swirl of excitement and apprehension in my chest.
We get out of the car and head toward the store, where I see… a line.
It stretches out the door, curling around the side of the building.
Some faces are familiar. Dagan, Jack, even Victor at the front, though he looks predictably surly, hands stuffed in his pockets. Sunny and Cali’s packs. The Sheriff. Even Stella, the grouchy boutique owner, dragging her oxygen tank.
But there are more faces I don’t know at all. People I’ve never seen in town. Many clutching my book.
My heart races, my palm going clammy in Bram’s. He squeezes it gently. My scent probably sours under the stress.
“You’ve got this, Ghost,” he murmurs against my ear, brushing a kiss along the shell.
Passing the line, I’m met with smiles and greetings. It's overwhelming, but in the best way. The owner ushers me inside, and then it’s a flurry of meet-and-greets, signings, and even people asking for photos. I’m suddenly glad I picked my favorite dress for this date instead of my cozy sweater.
After Sunny’s pack finishes getting signed copies of my entire backlist, Sunny brings me a book I know she already owns.
“I need many copies,” she says. “They seem nice. Your pack.” It’s as close to an apology for her and her alpha's overreaction at the barbeque as I’ll get.
I smile. “Thanks for having my back.”
“Always,” she says with a wink, heading off to find Cole.
When the line finally dwindles and the crowd starts milling about, my pack and book club friends head outside to start boxing up leftover merch. That’s when an alpha steps up to the table. I take the book he offers automatically and then look up.
Dep uty Henry.
I smile politely, but he doesn’t return it. “Anything wrong, Deputy?” I ask, pen poised over the title page.
“Why would you do this if you didn’t believe we were fated?” His voice is cold. Nothing like the easy, affable tone I’ve heard from him before.
My stomach drops. “I…” I glance down at the book. Hot Cop Pack. The one that went semi-viral last year. Yes, some of the hero’s traits had been inspired by Henry, but also by other alphas I know. That’s how writing works.
“I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding,” I say carefully. “But we weren’t a couple. I never thought we were scent sensitive. Scent-matched, maybe, but that’s all.”
His scowl deepens. This isn’t the Henry I know from the café—this Henry feels sharp, unfamiliar, almost like a stranger wearing his face.
“You’re wrong,” he says flatly. “What we had was more than a scent match. You have to know that. I’ll prove it.” His voice rises, loud enough that nearby shoppers glance our way.
A low growl vibrates just behind me. “Back off, Officer Fuckface.”
Victor.
“What did you just—?” Henry starts, but Victor cuts him off.
“I said, back off. My omega made her feelings clear. She’s not interested. Boo hoo. Now go bother some other omega. God help that one.”
Henry’s expression turns murderous. Victor’s answering smile says Try me .
“What’s going on here?”
The crowd parts as Sheriff Corbin strides up, gaze flicking between Victor, me, and his deputy.
Henry’s jaw tightens. “I was just getting a signed copy of my book,” he says when the Sheriff arrives, stressing my like it’s a claim. “But I don’t think I want it anymore. Keep it.” He slams it down on the table and stalks off, his back radiating fury. Victor growls low in his throat.
“I apologize for the Deputy,” Sheriff Corbin says. “I’ll speak to him later.”
I nod, and he turns to leave.
“Clara.” Victor is still beside me, the book Henry abandoned in his hand. He holds it out, open to the dedication page, a crease between his brows. A line is scrawled on the page.
I'll always be yours, and you'll always be mine.
***
"I'm sorry that asshole disrupted your event," Bram says on the way back from the bookstore.
My arms are wrapped around his bicep as he drives and my head leans against his shoulder. "It didn't! That was amazing Bram. Thank you so much. I don't think I ever would have had the courage to do that without you but I'm so glad I did it."
He kisses the top of my head and then scent marks me.
"There's one more thing I wanted to discuss with you," he says, and I tense. I don't feel like that's ever the start of a particularly good conversation, but he chuckles and rubs his cheek into my hair, nuzzling me.
"I sent a copy of your books to my agent. He's really impressed. He doesn't usually represent Romance, but he sent it to an agent friend of his that does."
I feel like my lungs can't get enough air. I'd started like many writers, trying to do the traditional publishing route, and found the doors closed to me. I'm grateful for all of the support I've had as an indie author, but it would be fun to experience traditional publishing even once.
"Is that okay, Ghost?” he asks.
I n od, completely unable to speak. I clutch the copies of my books I'd taken from the signing to my chest. A real agent. I look to Bram. A real alpha who believes in me.