Chapter 16
Cole
Morning comes in blue haze and the slow shudder of the bakery’s rolling gate.
I wake to the familiar ache behind my eyes.
The house is dead silent, save for the hum of old radiators and the far-off squawk of seagulls that always sound like they’re arguing.
But next door, some of my bakery staff have already arrived.
“Hang on, mate,” I yell, not unkindly. I scrape my hands off on my apron and make my way around the corner to unlock the door with a twist. Lucas stands in the entry, hair wet from a morning swim and sticking up in wild tufts.
His lifeguard windbreaker is only zipped halfway and he’s wearing shorts that leave most of his legs to the breeze.
His eyes are impossibly blue, slightly bloodshot from salt or lack of sleep.
He’s carrying a box of fancy coffee pods like an offering to the gods.
“You look like shit,” he greets me, stepping inside and not waiting for permission. The ocean is always on him, clinging to his skin, turning the mundane air in the shop into something sharper and fresher. It’s hard to stay annoyed.
“Good morning to you, too.” I roll my eyes. “You want a scone or just come to tell me I look like shit?”
“Both.” He drops the pods on the counter. “Brought these for the other lifeguards and was hoping to grab some pastries, too.” He lingers, watching me for a half-beat before adding, “Saw the light on. You bake even on your day off?”
“There are no days off.” I grab a mug from the rack and pour him some of the good stuff from the French press. He takes it, hands big and warm around the chipped pottery.
I break off two scones from the fresh tray and slide one onto a plate for him and one for me. We perch at the far end of the counter, backs to the storefront window, the world outside still mostly shadow.
Lucas tears into the scone, eyes rolling back, and makes an appreciative noise that verges on an animalistic growl.
I stifle a laugh. “That good, eh?”
“Everything from your bakery always is.” He swallows down the food still in his mouth. “Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t win Helena over quicker with it.” He licks crumbs off his thumb then leans in. “How is she, by the way? Have you heard from her since the press stuff?”
“No. You? She seemed pretty adamant on not letting it get her down.”
Lucas shakes his head, but his eyes wrinkle with concern. “I know her father told her to come home. Can’t imagine she’ll do it, but…”
He doesn’t need to say it. I don’t want her to leave, either. But Helena came to Seamuse with the intent of only staying for the summer. What are the chances two new alphas in her life and a pack bond are enough to get her to stay?
Would I leave?
I never thought so. Now, though, I wonder. Is a pack enough to get me to leave the family bakery?
I nod. “If she needs space while she sorts things with her father, she knows where to find us. But maybe we can make a more direct show of support.” I turn to Lucas. “Would you go, if it were you?”
Lucas shrugs. “Hard to say. My family never had that sort of drama. Closest thing we got was my brother’s weed scandal.” He laughs. “Whole school lost their damn minds.”
I snort a laugh. “Good thing your family name survived the disgrace.”
Lucas goes quiet, his expression turning over something private. “But it’s different for Helena. Her life is, like, always on stage. Even when she’s just existing.”
“Yeah.” I cross my arms. “Never really thought about what it would be like, growing up like that. All those cameras and rules. The expectation to behave.”
Lucas raises his eyebrows. “And here I thought you loved rules.”
I shrug. “Rules in baking make sense. They have a purpose. They don’t change based on whether you smile enough for the right people.”
The sun’s edge finally tips the horizon, bringing color to the street outside. The blue-painted windows of the neighboring shops start to glow, and the distant hiss of the espresso machine starts as Esmé starts brewing.
Lucas leans forward, elbows on the counter.
“So, I was reading about that pop star last night. Piper Sumner? She’s causing a whole thing with the prince, apparently.
He’s the prince who ended up in a pack with Piper and both of their bodyguards.
So these high society omegas falling in with commoner alphas isn’t that rare. Surely, that counts.”
“I hope.” I’d rather not have Helena ruin her relationship with her father for us. Hardly a great way to start a pack.
“Do you think…?” He hesitates, choosing his words with unusual care. “Do you think Helena gets compared to people like that?”
“I think it’s all a mess, honestly. She’s never really had a choice. Even now, her ‘choices’ are… I don’t know, whatever makes the news look better. And she’s not even actual royalty.”
Honest curiosity shines in Lucas’s eyes. “Would you want to live like that?”
“God, no.” I look around the bakery at the worn wood and the flour dust. “I like it here. Even when it’s quiet, even when it feels like nothing’s ever going to change. At least I get to pick what I do every day.”
A pensive curl twists Lucas’s brow. “Same. I mean, I like the beach, and the water, and the people. I get to teach kids how not to drown, and sometimes I save a dog. It’s good.” The scone is gone, and he swipes at the crumbs.
I can’t argue with him. “We may be biased, but yeah, Seamuse is a pretty great place to live.”
Lucas stands. He dusts the last of the scone off his hands and stretches, broad shoulders nearly brushing the wood beam overhead. “I’ve gotta get down to the swim program before the little monsters take over. Do you need any help here before I go?”
“I’ve got it. Unless you want to do the window display.”
He shudders, mock-dramatic. “Never again. That cake looked like it was built by toddlers.”
I grin, waving him off. “Tell the monsters I said hi.”
He steps to the door, then pauses, looking back. “Hey, Cole?”
“Yeah?”
He hesitates, scratching behind his ear. “If Helena doesn’t go back, what happens to us?”
I take a breath. “I don’t know. We’re not a pack, not officially. We’re somewhere in between that and friends right now. So more of that, I guess.”
Lucas holds my gaze. “Do you want to be a pack?”
I think about it, about how easy it is to share space with him. Hell, even with Zane now that we’re past all the juvenile bullshit. “Yeah, I do.”
Lucas grins. “Then let’s figure out how to make her want to stay.”
He opens the door, letting in a waft of salt air, and steps out into the morning, his shadow trailing long behind him on the wet pavement. I watch him go, then turn back to my ovens, ready for the day to begin.
The last customer leaves at 7:17, a local high schooler with a taste for cheese pasties and a penchant for never quite making eye contact.
He’s out the door before I finish wishing him a good evening, but I don’t take it personally.
Not anymore. Some people are just like that.
I sweep up his trail of flakes and thumbprints, lock the register, and pretend to fuss with the night’s doughs a little longer.
If I go home now, I’ll just stare at the ceiling fan and let it hypnotize me while Lucas watches TV without a care for volume.
There are better places to zone out.
I end up on the boardwalk instead, drawn by the sound of the tide lapping at the shore. The wood is cool through my sneakers. The only life on the beach are a couple kissing on the lifeguard stand and me. Well, me and a figure with long, black hair sifting through the surf line.
Helena Starling.
Her posture’s always a little too straight for this town, like she’s expecting a photographer to pop up and snap a candid for People of the Cornish Coast. She’s got a basket dangling from her left hand, swaying as she walks.
A collection basket, I realize. For shells.
I stop at the end of the boardwalk and shove my hands deep in my hoodie pocket. I debate saying anything. Maybe she’s having a moment, and who am I to interrupt it? Then she bends down and the hem of her skirt flaps up in the wind, and something about it—something about her—makes me move.
I trudge down the sand, sneakers filling instantly. “Evening,” I call out.
She startles and then, when she recognizes me, her eyes soften. “Hey, Cole.” She grins. “What are you doing all the way out here after closing?”
I close the gap. “I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep right away.” I nod to her basket. “Are you collecting shells or sea glass?”
She lifts her basket for me to see. The bottom is lined with cockles and a single, perfect scallop shell, pink with a white star at the center.
“Mostly shells, I’m afraid. The glass hunters are ferocious at this time of year, let alone this late at night.
” She squints out at the water, like maybe the ocean’s holding back the best pieces just to spite her.
“Would you mind some company?” I ask.
Her smile widens. “I’d like that.”
We walk. She walks slower than I do, so I force my stride to half-speed. She points out a strange conch and a shard of blue pottery. I pretend to be an expert, though most of my beachcombing experience involves trying not to step on glass at the end of a party.
“Do you always go collecting after sunset?”
“It’s quieter,” she says. “And the light makes it easier to see colors in the wet sand.” She stoops to dig out something, then hands it to me. A chunk of what looks like old beer bottle, sanded by the surf into a dull green gem.
“For your collection?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It suits you; you keep it.”
“Thank you.” It sounds dumb because it’s just a bit of sea-washed glass, but the fact that she thought to give it to me speaks volumes. To be considered is a wonderful gift. I pocket the glass.
We fall into an easy rhythm as we walk and search for anything exciting. I relish simply being in my scent-matched omega’s presence. She hums under her breath a melody I don’t know.
At some point, the sky starts leaking navy and purple, and her basket is half-full.
“What do you do with them all?” I ask. “The shells?”
She glances at the basket. “Arrange them, I suppose. On a windowsill at the rental flat. Or sometimes I give them away.”
“To anyone special?” I mean it as a joke, but she takes a second too long to answer.
“To anyone who asks nicely,” she says at last with the edge of a smile in her voice.
The tide creeps higher, wetting our toes. Helena shivers, though she tries to hide it by tucking her hands into her sleeves. I risk a closer look. The hairs on her arms are standing up, and her lips are a little pale.
I’m already halfway out of it when I ask, “Do you want my hoodie?”
She considers, then nods. “Only if you’re sure.”
I hand it over. I’ve got a thick bakery polo on underneath.
And truth be told, I’d handle a few hours of cold so she could stay warm while we hang out.
My cinnamon scent still lingers on the fabric even when it mingles with her honey scent as she pulls on the hoodie.
She tucks herself into it, hair falling loose around her shoulders.
The sight of her in my clothes does something complicated to my chest. There’s nothing possessive about it, just the way she looks softer, a little less breakable.
We walk a little more, but she’s losing steam.
Finally, I stop and gesture at the village lights. “Should I walk you home?”
Her cheeks flush instantly. “If you don’t mind. This was a wonderful time, though.” She chuckles some and shakes her head. “You know, I could get used to this. Hanging out with you and Lucas and Zane after work.”
I try not to get too hopeful. She’s leaving after summer, after all. But I return the smile. “I could, too.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment before rocking up onto her tiptoes and kissing me thoroughly. My breath hitches as our lips meet. She tilts her head to deepen the kiss. By the time we pull back, we’re both breathless. And she’s shivering harder.
“We have to get you back,” I press, although I’d do anything to stand right here and kiss her for the rest of the night.
“Y-You’re r-right.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely need to get you warm.”
On the way back, she asks me about the bakery and what it’s like growing up in Seamuse. I tell her about hiding in the flour bins as a kid and about the time I almost burned down the bakery with a careless toss of a dishtowel.
Mostly I describe how in a small town like this, nothing ever really changes. That it’s not necessarily a bad thing to find something so steady.
She listens, head tilted, like she’s memorizing every word.
We reach her rental. I can see Zane’s silhouette walking around the living room inside.
She stops at the stoop and fumbles for her key. “Thank you for tonight.”
I shift my weight. “Anytime. Seriously. Let’s hang out more often, even doing simple stuff.”
Her face lights up. “I’d love that.”
Then she disappears inside, a rustle of black hair and borrowed hoodie. I stand there a full minute after the door closes, wondering how many more nights I may be able to spend with this wonderful woman.
And if even forever might not be enough.