Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Beau
I’ve jerked off into her panties so many times this past week that the lace is starting to fray at the seams. And that’s saying something—I don’t usually keep trophies like that.
But these aren’t just panties. They’re hers.
The last tangible thing that smells like her, like that three-day blur where I didn’t think about work, or food, or anything except how many times I could make her come before she passed out in my arms.
It’s been a week since. A whole damn week of wanting her but keeping my distance. Just like Simon said we should.
She hasn’t texted the group chat once. Believe me, I check the thing daily. Not in some casual way, either—I check it like a man waiting for a call that might never come.
So seeing her here, on a random Thursday morning, is like being blindsided.
The bell over the bakery door had barely chimed before I caught her scent—lighter now, post-heat, but still distinctly her.
My head snapped up from the pastry case, and there she was, standing by the counter with Norah at her side. Laughing. Head tipped back, eyes bright, utterly unaware that she’s just punched a hole through my ribcage and set my chest on fire.
And then my gaze drops lower, and that fire turns molten.
She’s in my Henley, the dark charcoal one I wear on cold mornings, the one that fits close through the shoulders but loosens over my stomach. The same shirt we walked in and found covered in her come.
My shirt. Only she’s gone and made it hers.
She’s rolled the sleeves up twice, pushing them to her elbows. Half-tucked the hem into a short, flared skirt that shows the soft line of her thighs when she shifts her weight.
Gold hoops in her ears, hair loose around her shoulders, cowboy boots with a bit of heel. She’s styled it so she looks like she stepped straight out of a glossy magazine spread, and fuck me, it works.
The thought of her in it—of her pulling it on over bare skin, no bra, no panties, just the heat of her body trapped in my shirt—makes my cock throb instantly.
“Your coffee’s ready.”
The voice cuts through my haze. I blink and turn, and there’s Cora, sliding a paper cup across the counter.
“Right,” I mutter, grabbing it, but my eyes flick back to the window before I can stop myself.
Cora follows my line of sight. Her soft giggle tells me I’ve been caught. “Ohhh. That’s why you turned me down on the dancing last night.”
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to look casual. “I’ve just been busy at the station.”
“Uh-huh.” She smirks knowingly, leaning her hip against the counter.
I take a sip of coffee, but I don’t really taste it.
She nudges me with her elbow. “If you’re gonna stare that hard, you might as well go talk to her.”
I shake my head, forcing my gaze away from the window. “It’s complicated.”
Because it is.
From where I’m standing, I can see her gather her bag, laughing at something her friend says as they head for the door. She doesn’t even glance my way.
And maybe that’s the part that burns most… because if she’s not reaching out to us, not even acknowledging I’m here, then I must consider the thing I’ve been trying not to think about.
She rejected me the first time I asked her out. Then she went into heat, and we fucked.
A lot.
And maybe it was all just hormones. Just biology. Exactly what Simon had warned us about when he said not to make decisions in the middle of it.
I hate how much that thought scares me.
The door chimes when she and Norah step out, and I’m already moving before I realize it. Coffee in one hand, keys in my pocket. I follow like a man pulled on a leash.
Her scent is lighter now, muted by the cool morning air and whatever perfume she dabbed at her wrists, but I’d know it anywhere. It threads through the damp sidewalk air, teasing at the edges of my restraint, daring me to close the gap.
I push open the bakery door, the bell jangling behind me, and step into the brightness outside.
There she is.
Just a few yards ahead, hair catching in the breeze, her skirt swaying around her thighs. She and Norah are talking, their heads bent close, laughter bubbling between them like nothing in the world could weigh them down.
For a second, I imagine striding up, sliding an arm around her waist, murmuring something low in her ear that would wipe the calm right off her face and replace it with the heat I remember.
I stop dead on the sidewalk.
My chest is a mess of contradictions. Everything in me wants to chase her down, to prove that what we had wasn’t just a fever dream.
But then Simon’s voice cuts in, steady and maddening: Give her space, Beau. Let her come to us. Don’t corner her.
I curse under my breath and scrub a hand over my face.
The air is cool against my skin, and yet I’m overheating. Because I swear—I swear she glanced back. Just the faintest flick of her eyes in my direction before she opened the passenger door of Norah’s car.
She saw me. I know she did.
So why didn’t she come over?
Why didn’t she say anything?
My chest tightens, frustration clawing through me. Maybe Simon was right all along. Perhaps this thing—the heat, the nights tangled in her sheets, the kind of sex that left me wrecked and shaky—was just biology.
Maybe she’s already tucked it away in a mental box labeled “temporary.”
The thought guts me.
My phone rings, startling me back to myself. I fish it out of my back pocket, glance at the screen, and frown.
“Lydia?”
My cousin’s name glows on the display. I swipe to answer. “Hey.”
The sound of a baby crying filters through the line, followed by Lydia’s laugh. “Beau! God, it’s about time you picked up. Do you know you’re impossible to reach?”
I force a chuckle, dragging my gaze back to where Norah’s pulling out of the lot. Wren’s profile flashes through the window—soft, unreadable—before the car slips into traffic and disappears.
“Sorry,” I murmur, shifting the phone against my ear. “Been busy at the station. What’s up?”
“Well,” she says, voice warm with exhaustion, “you’re officially an uncle again. Thought maybe you’d want to hear the news from me instead of the family group chat you never check.”
My heart squeezes differently. “Another girl?”
“Yep. Seven pounds, ten ounces. Healthy lungs—you probably heard her just now.” There’s a rustle, the muffled sound of someone cooing in the background. “We’re all good, but Beau, when are you gonna come visit us? Everyone misses their favorite uncle. You promised last year, remember?”
I lean back against the brick wall of the bakery, the phone pressed tight to my ear, the outside noise fading around me.
Her words feel like they’re coming from another world. Idaho—open fields, long dinners, a family that expects me to eventually settle down with some sweet Beta girl and bring kids to Thanksgiving.
“I remember,” I say quietly.
“Then come,” she presses, her voice softening. “Even just for a weekend. It’s been years. Mom keeps saying she wants to see you before her hair goes completely gray. Don’t make her wait that long.”
I close my eyes, dragging in a breath of air still tinged with Wren’s scent, and something twists hard in my gut. Because Lydia’s right—it’s been too long.
But the idea of leaving right now, of stepping away when Wren’s still here in this town, makes every muscle in me rebel.
“I’ll try,” I tell her. “Congratulations, Lyd. Really. Tell Tyler I said congrats, too.”
“We will,” she says warmly. “Just… don’t forget us, okay? You’ve always been part of this family, no matter where you are.”
“I won’t forget,” I promise, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
We hang up, and I’m left staring at the space where her car disappeared, coffee cooling useless in my hand.
Maybe Simon’s right. Perhaps we should handle this as a pack and not push her.
But Christ, the sight of her in my shirt—laughing with someone else, leaving without a word—is going to haunt me all damn day.
The afternoon drags at the station, the kind of lull that makes every second feel like it’s been doubled. My shift started at eleven, but it’s after three now, the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead mixing with the faint buzz of the TV someone left on in the corner.
I’m sitting with Jamila at the big stainless-steel table, both of us hunched over mugs of stale coffee and a half-finished game of cards.
She’s grinning at me, eyes sharp, her black curls tied back in a braid that brushes her shoulder every time she leans in to play. “You’re losing your edge, Rhodes. I’ve beaten you three rounds in a row.”
“You’re cheating,” I mutter, though there’s no heat in it.
Her smirk widens. “You just can’t handle getting outplayed by a girl.”
I flick my card down, earning a groan from her. “That’s not what you said the last time I beat you seven times in a row.”
Her laugh bursts out loud enough that it echoes across the room. Heads turn from the couches, but she doesn’t care.
Jamila’s never cared. She’s all ease, all confidence—which is precisely what got me into trouble with Captain Daniels in the first place.
Because Daniels doesn’t like me. Not one damn bit. And he likes her—too much, in that watchful, possessive way I can spot a mile off.
Ever since he figured out that Jamila and I had a thing, brief and uncomplicated, he’s had a chip on his shoulder the size of a hydrant.
If I weren’t so good at my job, and we didn’t live in a small town with only one firehouse, I think he would have shipped me off by now.
Like clockwork, the man himself steps into the bay just then, voice carrying: “Rhodes.”
Jamila’s smirk falters.
I glance up. “Yeah, Cap?”
He looks between us, his jaw tight, like he walked in on something more than a card game. “Got a call for you. Direct line.”
That makes me pause. The station’s phones seldom ring straight through. Official calls get routed through dispatch.
Direct lines mean personal, and personal at the station is never good.
I push back my chair, head into the small office off the bay, and grab the phone. “Rhodes.”