Chapter 13
The brownies sat on Ben’s kitchen counter like a declaration of war.
He’d been staring at them for twenty minutes—the perfectly cut squares, the slight shine of the chocolate surface, the faint crack patterns that indicated exactly the right ratio of fudgy to cakey.
Sara had perfected the recipe over the past weeks, though she probably didn’t realize he’d noticed the subtle improvements each time.
He noticed everything about her. That was the problem.
He leaned against the counter, his claws tapping an agitated rhythm against the granite.
Outside, the night had gone fully dark, and he could see the warm glow of Sara’s kitchen window across the yard.
She was probably making dinner. Probably humming to herself while she cooked, the way she always did when she thought no one was watching.
I haven’t changed my mind.
Her words echoed through his skull, refusing to quiet no matter how hard he tried to drown them out. She’d stood on his porch, eyes bright with that stubborn certainty she wore like armor, and made it clear she wanted to be with him.
During the Spring Festival.
During mating season.
When every instinct he possessed would be screaming at him to claim her, mark her, bury himself so deep inside her that neither of them would remember where one ended and the other began.
His hands clenched. His body was already responding to the mere thought of it, heat pooling low in his belly, his shaft lengthening, his fur prickling with awareness. Spring was close now—close enough that he could feel it thrumming under his skin like a second heartbeat.
He stared at the brownies again, then reached for one. The chocolate was still warm, melting on his tongue, rich and bittersweet and so intensely her that something in his chest twisted.
Fuck.
He ate another. Then another.
This had to stop. He was losing control, and control was the one thing he’d managed to salvage from the wreckage of his old life. But every time he saw her, every time she looked at him with those kind, determined eyes, he felt the foundation of his self-imposed exile cracking.
He left the brownies on the counter and retreated to his living room, grabbing his guitar without thinking.
He didn’t try to play any songs, just sat there, his fingers tracing the familiar frets, the worn wood a comfort against his palms. He thought about the women from his past—the faces, the names, the brief, anonymous encounters. None of them had made him feel this…
He put the guitar down again, drawn back to the window again, staring at her house from his dark living room.
Not because you’re overwhelmed by instinct. But because you want to be there.
The laugh that escaped him was rough, almost bitter. Want. As if want was a strong enough word for what he felt when he looked at Sara. Want was what you felt for a cold beer after a long shift. Want was the mild craving for your favorite meal.
What he felt for Sara was closer to necessity. To air. To the bone-deep certainty that if he didn’t touch her soon, something vital in him would simply… stop working.
But that was exactly what terrified him.
Six years. Six years of discipline, of control, of proving to himself that he wasn’t the same reckless bastard who’d burned through women like they were disposable. He’d built something here—a business, a reputation, a life that didn’t revolve around the endless chaos of desire.
And then Sara had moved in next door with her brownies and her smile and her maddening refusal to be intimidated by him.
His reflection stared back at him from the dark glass—tall ears, sharp features, the permanent furrow between his brows that everyone in town had learned to interpret as “don’t bother me.
” He looked exactly like what he was: a grumpy rabbit Other who’d spent half a decade convincing himself that solitude was the same as peace.
It wasn’t.
The realization hit him like a punch to the chest. He’d known it for weeks now—had known it since the first time Sara smiled at him like he was worth smiling at—but he’d been too stubborn to admit it.
He was lonely. He was tired. And he wanted, more than anything, to spend time with the woman who saw past all his defenses and liked what she found there anyway.
He turned away from the window, his decision crystallizing with sudden, startling clarity.
He would do it. He would spend time with Sara, go to the Festival with her, prove to both of them that this wasn’t just instinct driving him mad.
He could control himself—he’d been controlling himself for six years. What was a few more weeks?
And if he couldn’t…
His jaw tightened. If he couldn’t, at least he would know. At least he would have tried.
He looked at the brownies again. Then, almost reverently, he picked one up and took a bite.
The chocolate melted on his tongue, rich and perfect.
Tomorrow, he thought. I’ll tell her tomorrow.
Sleep came in fragments, broken by dreams that left him tangled in sweat-damp sheets.
Sara’s laugh. Sara’s scent. Sara’s hands on his chest, her breath warm against his neck as she whispered words he couldn’t quite make out.
The dreams weren’t explicitly sexual—not quite—but they were intimate in a way that felt almost worse.
Her head on his shoulder while they watched television.
Her fingers threading through the fur between his ears.
The casual, comfortable weight of her presence beside him.
He wanted that. God help him, he wanted that almost as much as he wanted her body.
By the time dawn broke, he had given up on sleep entirely.
He took a cold shower because his body had apparently decided that morning arousal was now a permanent fixture of his existence and dressed in jeans and a gray Henley that he’d been told was “flattering” by Nina, who had opinions about his wardrobe that he hadn’t asked for.
The clock read 6:47 AM. Sara usually left for school around 7:30.
He made coffee and drank it standing at the window, watching her cottage come alive. Lights flicked on in sequence—bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. He caught glimpses of movement behind the curtains, and his imagination filled in the gaps in ways that immediately overcame the effects of his cold shower.
Get a grip, Holloway.
At 7:15, he left his house.
The morning air was crisp, but it carries the first hints of spring—new grass, wet earth, the distant sweetness of early blooming flowers. His nose twitched involuntarily, cataloging each scent, searching for the one that made everything else fade to background noise.
Vanilla. Sugar. Warmth.
Sara.
She emerged from her cottage just as he reached the edge of her property, wrapped in a soft green cardigan that made her eyes look impossibly bright. Her hair was pulled back in one of those messy buns she favored, a few chestnut strands escaping to frame her face.
She stopped short when she saw him, her eyebrows rising.
“Ben?”
“Morning.”
“It’s… early.” She glanced at her watch, then back at him. “You’re never up this early.”
“I own a restaurant. I’m always up this early.”
“All right. You’re never here this early.” Her lips twitched, a smile threatening to break through her confusion. “Did you need something?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling suddenly and absurdly nervous.
He’d performed in front of thousands of people.
He’d stared down drunk werewolves and angry trolls and that one time, an actual dragon who’d taken offense at the wine selection.
None of that had made his palms sweat like this.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
Her expression shifted, the humor fading into something more careful. More hopeful. “And?”
“And…” He took a breath. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to the Festival with you. I’ll even help with the planning.”
The smile that broke across her face was like sunrise—sudden, brilliant, impossible to look away from. Her whole body seemed to lift with it, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her cheeks flushing pink.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re not just saying that because you felt guilty about the brownies?”
“The brownies were excellent. I ate three of them.” He stepped closer, drawn by the warmth radiating from her despite the morning chill. “But no. This isn’t about guilt.”
“Then why?” Her voice was soft, genuinely curious.
Because you asked. Because you believed I could. Because I want to be the kind of man who deserves that belief.
“Because you were right,” he said instead. “I’ve been hiding. And I’m tired of it.”
Her breath caught. She looked up at him with those wide green eyes, and he had to physically restrain himself from closing the distance between them. His body was screaming at him—touch her, hold her, show her what she does to you—but he forced himself to remain still.
This wasn’t about giving in. This was about choosing.
“The planning meeting is Tuesday,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady. “Six o’clock. Town hall.”
“I remember.”
“You don’t have to come to everything. Just… whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“Sara.” He waited until she met his eyes again. “I said I’ll help. That means all of it.”
Something passed between them—a current of understanding, of acknowledgment. They both knew what he was really saying. That this wasn’t just about setting up booths and coordinating food orders.
This was a test. And he intended to pass it.
“Can I walk you to school?”
The question surprised them both. He hadn’t planned to say it—the words just emerged, propelled by some instinct he didn’t want to examine too closely.
She blinked. “You want to walk me to school?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, I just…” She laughed, a soft, disbelieving sound. “You’re full of surprises this morning.”
“Don’t get used to it. I’m still an asshole.”
“I know.” Her smile was fond now, teasing. “It’s one of your more charming qualities.”
They fell into step together, their pace easy and unhurried.
The school was a fifteen-minute walk, and he found himself cataloging every detail of the journey—the way her shoulder occasionally brushed his arm, the rhythm of her breathing, the small sounds of pleasure she made when they passed a garden with early-blooming crocuses.
“Flora is going to have a field day,” Sara said as they turned onto Elm Street.
“Flora has a field day every time I leave my house.”
“True. But now you’re walking me to school. She’ll probably start planning the wedding.”
His step faltered almost imperceptibly. Wedding. The word should have sent him running in the opposite direction. Instead, it settled somewhere in his chest and stayed there, warm and welcome.
One step at a time.
“Let her plan whatever she wants,” he said gruffly. “It’ll keep her busy.”
She laughed, and the sound wrapped around him like a physical thing. He wanted to hear it every day. He wanted to be the reason for it.
Focus.
They passed the small fountain in the town square. A few early risers waved at Sara, their curious gazes sliding to him with barely concealed interest. He could practically hear the gossip spreading—Did you see Ben Holloway walking with the new teacher? They looked cozy. Very cozy.
Let them talk.
The school came into view, and she stopped at the gate, turning to face him.
“Thank you for walking with me.”
“It’s on my way.”
“Your restaurant is in the opposite direction.”
“Details.” He shifted his weight, suddenly aware that this was the moment. The goodbye. The chance to walk away and put some much-needed distance between them.
He didn’t want distance.
“Sara.”
“Mm?”
He stepped closer. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t back away. Her eyes were wide, fixed on his face, and he could see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat.
Keep it chaste, he told himself. Just a goodbye. Nothing more.
But God, she smelled incredible this close. Vanilla and sugar and underneath it all, the warm, unique scent that was purely Sara. His nose twitched, drawing it in, cataloging every note.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, “for asking me.”
“Thank you for saying yes.”
He leaned down.
The kiss was brief—just a press of lips, soft and careful. He kept his hands at his sides, kept his body still, kept every raging instinct on a brutally short leash. His mouth brushed hers once, twice, and then he pulled back before he could let it become something more.
Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. A flush had spread across her cheeks, and her breathing was uneven.
She looked beautiful. She looked like everything he’d ever wanted.
“Have a good day at school,” he said, his voice rough.
Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, she just stared at him, dazed, then a slow smile curved her lips.
“You too.” A pause. “I mean—have a good day at the tavern. Not school. You don’t go to school.” Her flush deepened. “You know what I mean.”
He felt something crack in his chest—something that had been locked down tight for six years. A smile, rusty and unfamiliar, tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I know what you mean.”
He forced himself to step back. She clutched the strap of her bag, her smile wide and wondering.
“Tuesday,” she said.
“Tuesday.”
He turned and walked away.
He didn’t look back—if he looked back, he’d go back, and if he went back, he wouldn’t be able to stop. The desire was still there, roaring through his body like wildfire, but it was tempered now by something else.
Hope.
He’d kissed her and stopped. He’d touched her and let go. He’d made a choice, a real choice, not one driven by instinct or mating urges or the mindless hunger that spring always brought.
Maybe Sara was right.
Maybe this was real.