Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Leif
The winter wind whips across the Pinecrest docks, tugging at Quinn’s purple knit hat as she clutches my hand and watches the water taxi nose toward the pier.
At her other side, Sprinkles sits patiently, the massive black Newfoundland’s fur ruffling while the blue service vest across his shoulders flutters.
The sun hangs over the water, already sliding toward the mountains beyond the mainland.
Quinn tilts her face up toward me, her mitten-covered fingers tightening around mine. “Do you have to stay?”
“I do,” I tell her gently. “There’s a PTA meeting tonight.”
“But you could come to Misty Pines,” she insists. “Uncle Holden said there would be cookies.”
“That’s a very strong argument,” I admit.
The water taxi bumps up to the dock, its engine dropping to a steady idle as a dockhand throws the rope around a cleat.
“But the parents are expecting me,” I continue. “And if I skip the meeting, they’ll spend two hours arguing about fundraiser budgets with no one there to referee.”
Quinn wrinkles her nose. “They argue a lot.”
I sigh. “They really do.”
Passengers begin filing down the gangway, coats pulled tight to block the wind, and one of them towers over the rest.
Jared steps onto the dock with the grace of someone used to shifting decks beneath his feet. His work jacket hangs open despite the cold, and the scent of saltwater and engine grease trails behind him.
When he spots us, his expression softens. “Well, there’s my favorite dockside welcoming committee.”
Quinn lights up. “Mr. Jared!”
She releases my hand and runs forward, Sprinkles rising to follow at her side, and Jared scoops her up before she can crash into his knees.
“Are you ready for your trip back to the island?” he says.
“I am,” Quinn tells him. “But Leif won’t come.”
Jared glances at me over the top of her hat, his lips twitching with amusement. “Is that right?”
My eyes narrow on the Alpha. He knows perfectly well where I’ll be spending my evening. “PTA meeting.”
“Ah.” Jared nods, still stifling his smile. “My condolences.”
Quinn wraps her arms around his neck. “You should come home with me. Uncle Holden made cookies.”
“Tempting,” Jared says as he sets her back on her feet. Sprinkles presses against Quinn’s leg to confirm she’s stable. “But Emily’s making me stew tonight.”
My stomach growls on cue.
Quinn gasps. “Stew?”
“And fresh bread,” Jared adds with a wink.
She appears conflicted before turning back to me. “You could still come for cookies.”
I crouch so we’re eye level. Sprinkles lowers himself beside her boots, watching us both.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Bright and early.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Okay.”
Kyle calls for final boarding, and Jared nudges her toward the boat. “Go get your life vest on. And eat extra cookies for both of us. Tell Uncle Holden we said it was okay.”
She brightens and throws her arms around me, squeezing tight. Sprinkles leans in as well, his enormous head bumping my hip as if he expects a goodbye, too.
“Don’t let the parents argue too much.”
I pat her head. “I’ll try not to.”
She trots toward the boat, Sprinkles pacing beside her, and waves as she climbs aboard.
Jared waits until she steps onto the deck before turning back to me with a concerned frown. “You’ve been running yourself thin lately.”
“I’m fine,” I assure him.
His gaze lingers, unconvinced, but he lets it drop. “You still coming for dinner?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good.” He jerks his head toward the parking lot. “Emily’s headed back on the last boat to get the bread going.”
Warmth spreads through me at the picture of her kitchen, bread and stew filling the cottage while the three of us settle into the quiet comfort we’ve been building.
“A quiet night sounds perfect,” I admit.
Jared claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t let those parents keep you too long.”
“I’ll escape as soon as they stop arguing.”
Jared snorts and heads up the gangway toward the old truck he shares with Emily, and I wish I could skip going back to school so I could just follow him home.
I stay on the dock until the water taxi pulls away, Quinn waving from the rail, Sprinkles a dark sentinel at her side, her bright orange vest vivid in the fading light.
Only when it disappears from view do I turn toward the road and the waiting PTA meeting.
I stride down the empty school hallway, the rubber soles of my shoes squeaking on the polished floor. My coat drags at my shoulders, the strap of my messenger bag cutting into my neck.
At night, the school becomes an echoing shell, stripped of the chaos it holds during the day.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to find a photo of fresh bread beside a simmering pot of stew.
Emily
Bread’s out of the oven. Stew’s simmering.
Come hungry.
My stomach twists at the reminder that I skipped lunch while finishing the PTA meeting minutes, and there had been no time to stop and grab something after dropping Quinn at the docks.
The meeting ran an hour late with parents arguing about fundraiser allocations and class field trip budgets. Then, after everyone left, I had to stay to clean up the refreshments.
The thought of Emily’s kitchen, of sinking into her couch with a bowl of stew, quickens my steps toward the exit.
Through the glass doors I see that darkness has already settled over Pinecrest. My fingers hover over the keypad, ready to type a reply—
“Leif! Just the man I was hoping to catch.”
My spine stiffens, and I turn to see Carson striding toward me from the administrative wing, his leather briefcase swinging at his side. His dress shirt remains crisp despite the late hour, not a wrinkle in sight, and his sandy hair catches the hallway light.
“Heading out?” His smile appears genuine, but I don’t buy it. “Give me five minutes of your time first?”
I clutch my phone tighter, the screen dimming in my grip. “I have dinner plans. Can this wait until morning?”
Carson’s smile doesn’t falter as he reaches me, though it doesn’t touch his gray-green eyes.
“Five minutes.” His hand settles on my elbow, steering me back toward the office wing. “It’s regarding the committee presentation next week. Quite urgent.”
He steers me away from the exit, the pressure of his hand sending a flutter of panic through me. Still, my feet follow on autopilot, years of conditioning overriding my urge to pull free.
“I need to get going,” I try again, the protest weak even to my own ears. “I’m already running late.”
“This won’t take long,” Carson says without slowing. “It’s better to address concerns now than scramble later. The board has expectations.”
My phone buzzes again. I don’t have to look to picture Emily’s name lighting up the screen, wondering where I am and if I’m still coming.
The administrative offices are dark except for the emergency lights. Carson flips a switch as we enter, and fluorescents hum to life, casting harsh shadows across the carpet while the sharp scent of cleaning solution mixes with Carson’s pheromones.
“The Millers expressed concerns about the service animal policy implementation timeline,” Carson continues, as if we’re mid-conversation by mutual agreement. “I thought you might want to address those points before the holiday break, given your investment in the project.”
A knot tightens in my stomach. It always starts this way, with reasonable requests wrapped in professional language, concerns framed as legitimate, appeals to dedication that make refusal sound selfish.
I check my watch to find it’s already seven forty-five. The PTA meeting ended fifteen minutes ago. I should be halfway to Emily’s cottage by now.
“Couldn’t this be an email?” I ask, the question edging toward desperation as we approach his office door.
Carson pauses, his hand still on my elbow, and turns to me without stepping back, forcing me to tilt my face up to meet his stare.
“Leif,” he says, my name a gentle reproach on his lips, “some matters require personal attention. You understand this better than most.”
The threat lurks beneath the surface of his words. I understand better than most what happens when I push back too hard, when I refuse to play along. The memories of Westbrook rise unbidden, and a shudder goes through me.
My phone vibrates with a reminder of the unread message, and the dinner I’ve been looking forward to all day slips further away with each passing second.
“Five minutes,” I concede, my shoulders slumping beneath my coat.
“Excellent.” Carson releases my elbow and opens his office door. “After you.”
I step inside, the door clicking shut behind me. Leather-bound books and stale coffee fill the air, undercut by the heavier press of Carson’s pheromones. My coat weighs on me, but shrugging it off would mean admitting I won’t be leaving in five minutes.
Carson moves past me, his shoulder brushing mine as he circles behind his desk. The contact, brief as it is, sends a chill across my skin.
“Please, sit.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “This won’t take long at all.”
I perch on the chair, refusing to settle into its leather embrace, as if maintaining physical readiness to leave might somehow speed up this interaction.
Carson hangs his suit jacket on the coat rack in the corner before turning to his computer, the screen illuminating his profile in a wash of blue light.
“There’s an issue with the substitute coverage for next week,” he begins, clicking through files. “The administration asked for your input, given your extensive work with the policy committee.”
“What’s the issue?” I ask, hoping to expedite whatever this is. “I can review any documents by email tonight.”
Carson clicks his tongue, faint disapproval in the sound. “This requires your immediate attention, Leif. The Roberts family has questions about Sprinkles being in the classroom with a substitute present.”
He crooks two fingers, the casual gesture still expecting obedience. “Come see these emails. The language concerns me.”