Chapter Seven
Leftovers
Holly
I wake up with a man in my bed. Not just any man ... my mate.
Which sounds romantic if you’re the kind of person who uses words like destiny without gagging.
I’m not that person. I’m the kind of person who wakes up, realizes Daniel Reed is warm and half-naked beside me, panics for exactly seven seconds, then remembers what his mouth did last night and decides panic can wait until after coffee.
You can call it growth or poor judgment, but it’s possibly both.
Daniel lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped loosely around my waist. Loose enough that I can move away. Tight enough that some sleeping part of him still wants to know I’m there.
The bond hums between us, warm and lazy, no longer screaming for attention like a toddler with a knife. It feels softer this morning. Settled in a way that terrifies me more than the wild hunger ever did.
Hunger I understand. This? This soft thing stretching between us while sunlight creeps through my curtains and Daniel’s breathing brushes against my hair? This is decidedly fucking dangerous.
I carefully lift his arm, and he tightens it immediately.
“Nice try,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.
I freeze. “You’re awake?”
“Barely.”
“Then release me, blanket troll.”
His lips twitch without his eyes opening. “Blanket troll?”
“You heard me.”
“I was promoted from handyman?”
“Demoted.”
“That’s harsh.”
I poke his ribs. “I need to open the bakery.”
His eyes open then, amber and warm and far too focused for this early in the morning. “You need to sleep another hour.”
“I need to make dough.”
“I fixed the mixer.”
“The mixer is not going to make its own dough, Daniel.”
“Patricia might help.”
“Patricia is an oven.”
“She has range.”
I try not to smile and fail miserably. His gaze drops to my mouth, and the whole room changes, just like that.
One look, and my body remembers all of him. His hands on my thighs. His mouth between my legs. His voice telling me I’m perfect, beautiful, wanted. His body moving inside mine with so much restraint and need that I could not tell where one ended and the other began.
My cheeks heat, and Daniel notices, because of course he does. His hand slides slowly along my waist, stopping before it becomes more than a morning touch.
“Still okay?” he asks.
I roll my eyes, because feelings are easier when disguised as irritation. “If you ask me that every time we share oxygen, I’m going to start charging.”
“And it will be worth it.”
“You don’t even know my rates.”
“I fixed your mixer. I’m rich in emotional credit.”
“That is not a currency.”
“It is in this relationship.”
The word sticks against something inside me I’m unwilling to name right now. He calls it a relationship. Not a bond or a claim or even fate.
A relationship.
I stare at him, and Daniel goes still beneath my gaze. “Too much?”
“No.” My voice comes out softer than intended. “Just ... new.”
His hand flattens gently against my side. “We can call it something else.”
“Like what?”
“Hostile bakery negotiations.”
I laugh, and the tension breaks. “That somehow seems accurate.”
His smile is sleepy and crooked. “Good morning, Holly.”
Oh. The simple words hit too deep. I hate that. And I hate that I like it. I also hate that the first thing I want to do is kiss him. So I do, because apparently I’m a woman of terrible decisions now.
Daniel groans when my mouth touches his, his hand tightening on my waist. The kiss is slow at first, sleep-warm and soft, but heat stirs quickly beneath it. He rolls toward me, careful even half-awake, letting me decide how close he gets.
I pull him closer, his thigh slides between mine, and my breath catches.
“Holly,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“I know,” I whisper.
His smile brushes my lips. “That phrase still worries me.”
“It should.”
His laugh turns into a groan when I press against him. He’s hard against my hip, thick and hot through the thin fabric of his boxers, and my body answers so fast I would be embarrassed if he was anyone else.
Right now, I have chosen to become shameless as part of my healing journey, and I’m finding it very, very therapeutic.
Daniel’s mouth trails to my jaw, then my throat, carefully avoiding the place where a claiming mark will one day sit if I let it. When I let it. The thought does not scare me as much as it should.
And that scares me.
His lips pause against my skin. “You tensed.”
I close my eyes. “I thought about the claim.”
He pulls back immediately, expression serious. “Am I going too fast?”
I search his face, expecting pressure, hunger, frustration. But I see none of it. Only concern.
“No,” I say slowly. “Not too fast. Just ... big.”
“Big things can wait.”
“What if I don’t want it to wait forever?”
His eyes darken, his wolf rising fast and hungry, but he controls it, because Daniel Reed is apparently determined to ruin every bad expectation I have ever had.
“Then you tell me when forever is over,” he says.
My heart hurts at his words. Stupid man. Stupid perfect answer.
I push at his chest. “Out of my bed.”
He blinks. “That was not the response I expected.”
“You were being emotionally competent. It made me uncomfortable.”
“I apologize.” He doesn’t look sorry in the least.
“You should.”
He catches my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “Later?”
The word is soft and hopeful but not at all demanding.
I swallow. “Later.”
His smile is slow and dangerous. “Good.”
We get dressed separately, mostly because if I watch Daniel pull on jeans again, the bakery will open at noon and Maisie will make a shirt about it.
He leaves through the back door with one last kiss that is supposed to be brief and somehow ends with me pressed against the wall, his hand in my hair, and both of us breathing like we ran ten miles.
“No claiming,” he rasps.
“I know.”
“No sex this morning.” He sounds disappointed, and I fight not to smile.
“I know.”
“No biting.”
I narrow my eyes. “Who said anything about biting?”
His mouth twitches. “I’m reminding myself.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“It’s very much a me problem.”
I laugh, and he kisses my forehead like the sound is worth something, and then he leaves.
And I stand in my kitchen like an idiot, fingers pressed to my lips, while my wolf stretches inside me with all the smug satisfaction of a creature who got exactly what she wanted.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her.
She’s inside my head and has no face, but I still know she’s looking.
****
The morning rush is chaos. Not normal chaos either. Romantic chaos.
Apparently the entire town has decided that because Daniel bought flowers yesterday and then spent half the evening in my bakery, every person with functioning eyeballs is allowed to comment.
Mrs. Bell arrives first, practically vibrating. “You look rested,” she says.
I hand her raisin buns. “You look nosy.”
“I’m nosy. At my age, shame is a waste of time.”
“Try knitting.”
“Tried it. Boring. Who was here last night?”
“Patricia,” I reply flatly.
“She doesn’t count.”
“She would be offended by that.”
Mrs. Bell leans over the counter, eyes bright. “Did he kiss you?” I stare at her, and she grins. “He did.”
“Pay for your buns and leave.”
“I knew it.” She’s so excited she actually claps her hands.
“I will ban you.”
“You won’t. You like my money.”
“I like silence more.”
She cackles all the way to the door.
Mr. Phelps arrives next and says nothing, which is suspicious. He buys his raisin buns, squints at me, then grunts, “Handyman fixed the loose board on my porch.”
“Congratulations.”
“He’s not useless.”
“Wow! Such high praise.”
“You could do worse,” he points out.
“Are you reviewing men for me now?”
“Somebody should.”
I give him an extra bun just to make him leave, and because I secretly like knowing someone out there’s watching my back—even if I didn’t ask him to and I won’t admit it out loud.
By ten, I’m deeply tired of the community’s interest in my vagina. Maisie, of course, is thriving.
“You’re glowing,” she whispers while restocking napkins.
“I’m sweating. It is hot near the ovens.”
“You have post-orgasm skin.”
I drop a tray and a customer at table three looks up.
Maisie smiles innocently. “Orange glaze?”
I snatch the tray off the floor and hiss, “I’m going to stuff you into the freezer.”
“You promised never to do that after the last time.” She looks terrified, and I would laugh if I didn’t feel bad about that incident.
“The last time was an accident.”
“You closed me in.”
“I didn’t see you standing there.”
“Sure, babe.”
I hate her. I love her. I should absolutely fire her before she sells my secrets to Mrs. Bell for gossip rights. The bell above the door rings again. I look up automatically, and my whole body goes cold.
Not Daniel. Not a customer. Not even anyone from this town.
The man who steps into my bakery wears Ash Hollow on his skin like a disease I thought I had cured. Cole Karter.
Not my former mate but worse in some ways. He’s my former mate’s cousin, and his loyal shadow. His favorite mouthpiece.
He looks almost exactly the same as the last time I saw him. Tall, dark-haired, and wearing an expensive jacket. His smile is polished enough to reflect your own bad decisions back at you. His eyes are pale blue, and they sweep over the bakery with open disdain before landing on me.
The past does not knock. It walks in wearing boots and entitlement. My wolf goes rigid beneath my skin. Maisie feels the shift in me and turns, her smile fading instantly.
“Holly?” she says quietly.
Cole’s smile widens. “There she is. The runaway baker.”
My fingers curl around the edge of the counter as the bakery falls away.
For one terrifying second, I’m not standing in Sweetique. I’m back in the Ash Hollow circle, surrounded by wolves who watched me break and whispered about how quietly I should bleed.
No.
No, I’m not there. I’m here in my bakery. These are my counters, my oven, my life.
“What do you want, Cole?”
He strolls closer, gaze dragging over the display case. “That’s not very welcoming.”