Chapter 17
Eb
“You blew past at least three red lights,” Bobby grumbles from the passenger seat, clutching his stupid crutches like they’re going to save him from my wrath.
I growl—low and warning—but don’t answer.
Because if I open my mouth, I’ll start yelling.
And if I start yelling, I might crash the truck.
And if I crash the truck, I’ll definitely miss my chance to see Marigold before the gala.
And I can’t.
Not tonight.
Not ever again.
“Relax,” Bobby says, like he’s not the reason I’m cutting it this close in the first place. “She’s probably just—”
“If you finish that sentence with baking cookies, or getting dressed, I swear I will duct tape that cast to your face.”
“Okay, damn,” he mutters, holding up his hands. “Remind me not to interrupt your dramatic love spiral next time.”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy gripping the steering wheel like it owes me child support and praying to every God, Guardian, and Granter of Fated Mates, that I haven’t completely screwed this up.
Pretty fucking please.
By the time I screech to a stop in front of the bakery, I’ve got thirty minutes until the gala starts.
Thirty. Freaking. Minutes.
I slam the truck into park and am already halfway out before Bobby can say another word.
“Stay in the car.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll just chill here with my shattered ankle bones and a bag of gummy bears. No biggie.”
I’m already halfway across the sidewalk when I catch a whiff of her.
Honey. Cinnamon. A little citrus.
That’s her.
My Marigold.
God, my Badger goes stupid at the scent.
Practically rips his claws across my ribcage like, “WHERE IS SHE, YOU ABSOLUTE FAILURE OF A MATE?”
I reach the front door.
Knock once.
Twice.
I try the handle.
Locked.
Of course.
Damn it.
The lights are off inside, and the closed sign hangs a little too smugly in the window, like it’s freaking mocking me.
I jog around the side, dodging a snow pile, and try to peer through her apartment window upstairs.
Nothing. Dark. Empty.
“She’s gone,” I mutter, chest tightening.
I missed her.
I lean back against the cold brick wall, tux jacket flaring open as I let my head fall back and stare up at the sky like it’s got answers.
Big flakes of snow start falling, slow and soft.
Figures.
My first real shot at happiness in decades—not just a hook-up, not just a maybe—but the real deal.
The kind of bond you only get once.
The kind of woman you can’t forget even if you tried.
And I blew it.
All because Bobby wanted to go joyriding on ice like he was Vin Diesel on a budget.
I should’ve called her sooner.
Should’ve gone to her first.
Should’ve explained that I didn’t leave because I didn’t care—I left because I did care.
Too much to even think about inconveniencing her by waking her up.
And that scared the shit out of me.
But now?
Now I’m just standing here like a tuxedoed idiot in the snow, heart in my throat and a tux that smells faintly like antiseptic because I changed into it in the damn hospital bathroom.
I pull out my phone.
Stare at her contact.
Honey.
I sent three texts. Called twice. Nothing.
What if she’s already at the gala?
What if she doesn’t want to see me at all?
What if I’m too late?
I shove my phone back in my pocket and head toward the truck, chest burning.
I’m going to the gala. I don’t know what I’ll say. I don’t even know if she’ll listen. But I’m not leaving tonight without trying.
Because whatever this thing is between us—it’s real.
And I’d rather face down an entire farm of outraged bees than never see my Honey again.
Hell, I won’t be able to live with myself if I let her go without a fight.