Chapter 25 Bookmobiles And Vinyl Dreams #2
Hazel's looking at me with a new kind of hunger now. Not just physical, though that's definitely in the mix. It's like she wants to devour every second of this—us—before it goes away.
She squeezes my hand, and I sense what she's about to say before she opens her mouth. "I've wanted to kiss you since the first day you came into the bakery." She says it fast, like she has to get it out before she loses courage. "But I thought you were being polite. Or just not interested. Or—"
"I'm interested," I growl, and she shivers again, her pupils dilating at the sound. Beneath the sweetness of her, I catch a spike of something sharper—adrenaline, maybe, or the first curl of true heat. My own scent is all smoke and cedar and want, barely leashed.
She bites her lip, eyes dropping to my mouth before flicking back up. "I think, uh, the bookmobile is going to close soon. Unless you want to keep making out on the sidewalk."
I glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, the proprietor is giving us a look that is equal parts amused and scandalized. I recognize him as one of the Betas from the Hollow's End Book Nook, and he gives me a sly thumbs-up before ducking back inside.
"I vote for the bookmobile," I say. "But we can revisit the sidewalk option later."
She grins, the dimple on her left cheek appearing and damn near knocking me out. It’s enough to encourage me to kiss her one last time. It’s less “intense”, if I can even label anything revolving Holloway’s lips less anything, but it’s more “public appropriate”.
I think.
When I pull back, we're both panting. She looks wrecked—lips swollen, eyes glazed, face flushed. I probably don't look much better.
"That was—" she starts.
"I'll have to make up for being last," I say, licking my lips slowly, tasting her there.
Her face goes impossibly redder.
"Look Mommy, lovebirds!" A kid's voice pierces our bubble, and we both turn to see a small boy pointing at us while his mother tries not to laugh.
Hazel makes a mortified sound and starts dragging me toward the bookmobile. I wave at the kid over my shoulder.
"I'm her prince," I call out. "It's allowed!"
The mom laughs outright then, and Hazel's dragging becomes more insistent.
"You did not just say that!"
"I absolutely did."
"To a child!"
"He needs to learn about true love somehow."
"Oh my god, you're impossible."
"Impossibly romantic, you mean."
She's laughing, though, even as she pulls me up the bookmobile's steps.
Inside is a wonderland of books. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, all secured for travel, organized by genre with helpful handwritten tags. There's a reading nook with pillows, a checkout desk with an ancient librarian who looks like she's been with the truck since books were invented.
"Rowan Cambridge," she says, adjusting her glasses. "Finally brought your girl."
"You know her?" Hazel asks.
"He's been calling every week for a month to arrange this."
"A MONTH?"
I study the mystery section intently. "They had a waiting list."
"You booked a bookmobile a month ago?"
"Maybe."
"We weren't even a pack then!"
"I was optimistic."
"You were presumptuous!"
"Optimistically presumptuous."
She shakes her head, but she's smiling, already running her fingers along book spines like she's greeting old friends. She picks up a cozy mystery with a cat on the cover, then another with a bakery, then a romance that has a cover suggesting clothing is optional.
"That looks educational," I observe.
"It's about Vikings."
"Historically accurate Vikings?"
"Definitely not."
"Good. Reality is overrated."
She laughs, adding three more books to her pile. I follow her through the truck, carrying her selections, watching her light up with each discovery.
"Oh! They have the new one!" She practically bounces, grabbing a book with what appears to be a wolf in a suit on the cover.
"Is that wolf wearing Armani?"
"He's a CEO."
"A CEO wolf."
"Werewolf. Very different."
"My mistake."
By the time we're done, she has fifteen books and eyes that sparkle brighter than the fairy lights.
"This is too many—"
"Fifteen books for fifteen years of waiting," I say, handing my credit card to the librarian before Hazel can protest. "Seems fair."
"That's not how math works."
"It's romantic math."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now."
We carry her book haul to the picnic setup, and she gasps again when she sees it properly.
The quilts are layered—practical flannel on the bottom, softer cotton on top.
The wooden crate has an actual tablecloth, the mason jars aren't just wildflowers but specifically the ones she mentioned loving.
There's a basket with wine, cheese, fruit, and what looks suspiciously like pastries from her bakery.
"Did you raid my shop?"
"Mila helped. Said you needed to eat your own cooking for once."
"Traitors, all of you."
We settle on the blanket, October sun warm despite the breeze, and she immediately pulls out one of her books, running her fingers over the cover with reverence.
"I haven't just sat and read in..." She trails off, calculating. "Four years? Maybe five?"
"Criminal."
"Reading wasn't practical. There was always something else—cooking, cleaning, managing the pack's social calendar."
"Korrin's pack," I correct. "Never yours."
"No," she agrees quietly. "Never mine."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, her knee pressed against mine, the October afternoon wrapping around us like a gentle embrace.
The park is mostly empty—a dog walker in the distance, a jogger on the far path, but otherwise it's just us and the books and the picnic that I definitely overthought.
"I have one more thing," I say, because apparently I've become the kind of Alpha who plans multiple surprises.
"Rowan, this is already too much—"
"Nothing's too much for you."
I retrieve the box from where I hid it behind the bookmobile's tire, carrying it back with what I hope is casual confidence and not desperate-to-impress energy.
Her eyes widen as I set it down. "Is that—"
"Open it."
She pulls back the vintage-style wrapping paper I spent forty minutes picking out, and gasps.
It's a record player—pastel pink because I noticed she gravitates toward soft colors when she's not covered in flour.
The case has custom decor—little hand-painted pies and tarts that I commissioned from the art student at the community college.
And beneath it, a collection of vinyl records, all special editions of artists I've heard her humming while she bakes.
"Rowan." Her voice breaks on my name.
"Your apartment's above the bakery," I explain, suddenly needing to fill the silence. "That's stressful sometimes, being so close to work. Thought maybe music would help you unwind. With wine. And maybe one of those tarts you make that are basically butter held together by hope and prayer."
She's not saying anything, just staring at the record player like it might disappear.
"If you don't like it—"
She launches herself at me.
One moment she's sitting there, the next she's in my lap, hands on my face, kissing me with the same passion I kissed her with earlier. No hesitation, no careful exploration, just pure want that makes my brain short-circuit.
Fuck.
My hands find her waist, pull her closer, and she makes this sound—half sigh, half moan—that nearly undoes me completely. She tastes like wine and sunshine and every good decision I've ever made. Her tongue traces my lower lip and my control evaporates.
I flip us carefully, laying her back on the blanket, hovering over her without breaking the kiss. Her hands thread through my hair, tugging slightly, and I groan into her mouth.
"Hazel—"
"Thank you," she whispers against my lips. "For listening. For the books. For the music. For being you."
"I'd give you anything," I tell her, meaning it. "Everything."
"I don't need everything." She smiles up at me, autumn light making her eyes look more green than brown. "Just you. All of you. My pack."
My pack. We're her pack.
"GET A ROOM!"
We break apart to find the jogger has circled back, grinning at us with the kind of amusement reserved for public displays of affection.
"We have a room," I call back. "Several, actually."
"Use them!" the jogger laughs, continuing on.
Hazel's hiding her face in my chest, shoulders shaking with laughter. "We're never living this down."
"Good. Let this whole town and the next know you're officially ours."
"Possessive."
"Accurately possessive."
We resettle on the blanket, more space between us now but her hand in mine. She pulls out a book, I pour wine, and we spend the afternoon like that—her reading passages out loud, me playing with her hair, both of us existing in this bubble where time doesn't matter.
"This heroine is an idiot," she announces after a while. "The killer is obviously the butler."
"It's always the butler."
"Except when it's the secret twin."
"Or the supposedly dead first wife."
"Or the friendly neighbor who's too helpful."
"You read a lot of mysteries."
"I like knowing the bad guy gets caught." She's quiet for a moment. "I like the justice of it. Everything tied up neat, all the wrongs made right."
"Life should be more like mysteries. Clear villains, clever detectives, justice in three hundred pages or less."
"My life is more like one of those series that goes on too long. You know, where they solve the original mystery but then seventeen more things go wrong?"
"But those usually have happy endings, too. Eventually."
"After much drama and at least one fake death."
"No fake deaths," I say firmly. "Real death,s maybe, but only Korrin's."
"Rowan!"
"Kidding." Mostly. "Probably."
She laughs, snuggling closer as the sun starts its descent. The October light goes amber, then gold, then that particular shade of pink that only exists for about ten minutes before dark.
"We should head back," she says reluctantly.
"We should."
Neither of us moves.
"The girls will gossip if I'm gone too long."
"Let them."
"The town will talk."
"They're already talking."
"Good point." She sits up, starts carefully packing her books. "Thank you. For all of this. For making me feel..."
"Feel what?"
"Worthy. Seen. Loved."
The word hangs between us, heavy and perfect.
"You are loved," I tell her. "By all of us. Completely."
She kisses me again, soft and sweet this time, tasting like promises.
"I love you too," she whispers. "All of you. Even when Levi sets things on fire."
"Especially then. Fire damage builds character."
We pack up the picnic, load everything into my truck, and the record player is carefully secured in the back. The bookmobile librarian waves as she drives away, probably to spread gossip about the fire captain's romantic afternoon.
"Your reputation's shot," Hazel observes as we drive back.
"Good. Maybe people will stop trying to set me up with their daughters."
"People try to set you up?"
"Constantly. Mrs. Patterson has three nieces, apparently."
"Three!"
"All 'lovely girls who'd make wonderful mates.'"
"What do you tell her?"
"That I'm already taken. Have been for fifteen years, even if you didn't know it."
She's quiet for a moment, then: "That's either the most romantic or most stalkerish thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Romantic. Definitely romantic."
"Romantically stalkerish."
"I prefer devotedly patient."
"That's just stalking with better vocabulary."
We're both laughing as we pull up to her apartment, the lights already on in the bakery below, where the evening shift is probably gossiping about our afternoon.
"Want help carrying everything up?" I offer.
"Want to stay for dinner?" she counters. "Levi and Luca will be there. We can tell them about you finally kissing me properly."
"And plan their murders for not telling me about kissing you first."
"No murder on date night."
"That seems like an arbitrary rule."
"All the best rules are arbitrary."
I carry the record player while she manages her books, and as we climb the stairs to her apartment—our apartment, really, since we practically live there now—I think about fifteen years of waiting.
About the boy who fell for a girl who threw pies at gropers.
About the man who came back to a town he'd outgrown just to be near her.
About the Alpha who's finally, finally getting everything he never dared dream of.
"Racing thoughts?" she asks, pausing at her door.
"Good thoughts," I assure her. "The best thoughts."
"Want to share?"
"Later. After dinner. After I interrogate the twins about their kissing technique."
"It was a good technique."
"I don't want to hear that!"
"Luca's very thorough."
"Hazel!"
"Levi's enthusiastic."
"I'm begging you to stop."
"You're better, though," she says, unlocking her door. "More... consuming."
Consuming. She thinks I'm consuming.
"Keep talking like that and we're not making it to dinner."
"Promises, promises," she teases, but she's blushing as she says it.
The door opens to chaos—Levi cooking something that might be food, Luca trying to stop him, three cats and a dog creating their own drama, and Reverie apparently filming it all for TikTok.
"THE DATE WORKED!" Reverie screams when she sees us. "LOOK HOW GLOWY THEY ARE!"
"We're not glowy," Hazel protests.
"You're totally glowy," Levi says, then to me: "Finally kissed her properly?"
"Finally," I confirm. "No thanks to you two."
"We warmed her up for you," Luca says with a smirk.
"I'm going to warm you up with my fist."
"Promises, promises," Levi echoes Hazel's earlier words.
And as chaos erupts—Reverie demanding details, the animals deciding to join whatever Levi's cooking, Hazel laughing bright enough to power the town—I think maybe romantic math is real after all.
All these years of waiting… were worth the wait.