Chapter 6
JESSICA
The cold air hits me like a slap when I step out of the clinic, sharp and bracing after the stuffy warmth inside. I suck in a breath. Then another. Trying to clear my head of Pedro's sage and honey scent, and ignoring what he said.
Heat.
Two weeks. Maybe less.
What am I going to do?
The pharmacy is next door, its green cross blinking in the afternoon light. I should go. Fill the prescription Pedro gave me. Start being a responsible adult who handles her problems instead of running from them.
But my feet freeze on the sidewalk as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see a message from Mom.
Mom: Jessica. The Mexican men out here are Picante! Look I'm speaking Spanish already.
Well. Maybe me worrying about Mom holding on to Dad's clothes was an issue for me and not her. Mom is doing just fine. Better than fine. She's learning Spanish and apparently rating the local male population on the spice scale.
Me: Yes, you are. Proud of you.
What else could I say? Please stop objectifying the locals, Mother?
Mom: We've decided there's no rush. You're a big girl now. We're going to stay here for two more weeks.
They've only been out there two days and already they're extending their trip. The men must be really hot.
Me: Ok.
Mom: Unless I come vuelto.
Oh Lord, is she really speaking Spanish already? Or is she just making up words?
Me: No Mom. You enjoy yourself. You deserve it. I want to hear all the details.
I don't really. I can't think of anything worse than Mom's vacation romance play-by-play.
Mom: Don't worry we'll tell you all the salsa when we get back.
I stare at the screen. All the salsa? Does she mean... gossip? Chisme? Is she trying to say "tea"?
I'm about to text back asking for clarification when I look up and my entire brain short-circuits.
Because across the street, parked in front of Cristina's Florist with its window full of poinsettias and winter arrangements, is a truck I'd recognize anywhere.
Navy blue with white lettering: Negrorio Carpentry.
The bed is filled with wood shavings and what looks like a partially finished cabinet.
Tool bags sit neatly organized along the side rails.
And leaning against the hood, arms crossed over his chest, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, is Carlos.
My heart stops.
Then starts again, triple time, hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape my chest entirely and make a run for it.
Oh no.
He looks the same and completely different all at once, and my brain is struggling to reconcile the two.
Six years have carved definition into his jaw, added lines around his eyes that make him look less like the boy I remember and more like a man who's seen things.
Lived things. Built things with those hands.
His sandy brown hair is longer now, curling slightly where it escapes from under a worn Negrorio Carpentry baseball cap. Stubble shadows his jaw, darker than his hair, giving him an edge he didn't have before. An edge that makes my omega sit up and pay very close attention.
He's wearing work clothes. Faded jeans covered in a fine layer of sawdust, the denim molded to thick thighs from years of physical labor.
A dark green flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms that are frankly obscene.
Thick with muscle. Dusted with golden hair.
Marked with a few pale scars that tell stories of hammers and saw blades and wood that fights back.
A white t-shirt underneath hugs his chest in ways that should be illegal, showing the breadth of his shoulders, the solid wall of his torso.
And the tool belt. Oh God, the tool belt.
It hangs low on his hips. Really low. The kind of low that draws the eye down, makes you notice the leather which sits just below his waist, the weight of the tools pulls it to one side, revealing the edge of that white t-shirt where it's tucked into his jeans.
When did tool belts become attractive? When did I start having feelings about a man's work clothes? When did forearms become a thing that makes my knees weak?
Since about three weeks ago, apparently. Thanks, omega hormones. Really appreciate you turning me into a walking puddle of hormones over a carpenter in a flannel shirt.
And then the scent hits me.
It cuts through the cold December air like a physical thing, like it has weight and substance and purpose. Sandalwood and sawdust, warm and woodsy and earthy. It wraps around me, fills my lungs, sinks into my skin, and my new omega senses catalog it immediately with alarming enthusiasm.
Important. Essential. Home. Mine.
The last thought makes me stumble, actually stumble, like my feet forgot how to work.
Not mine. Can't be mine. Shouldn't be thinking about mine when I just ran from a wedding three days ago and my life is a complete disaster and I have no idea what I'm doing with anything, let alone with feelings about a man I haven't seen in years.
But my omega doesn't care about logic. My omega is purring, a sound I didn't know I could make vibrating in my chest like I've swallowed a very satisfied cat.
Shut up, I tell my omega. We're having a crisis. Multiple crises. This is not the time.
My omega ignores me completely and purrs louder.
Carlos is watching me. Has probably been watching me since I walked out of the clinic, which means he saw me see him and then freeze like a deer in headlights.
Those blue eyes, blue like summer sky, blue like deep water, tracking my every move, making my heart race and my omega do a little happy dance.
The memory floods back without permission, sharp and vivid and entirely unwelcome.
The kiss. At a party six years ago, when I was still dating Callum. One moment that changed everything and made me run.
Carlos pushes off the hood of his truck in one fluid movement. The action is smooth, easy, the kind of grace that comes from a body that knows how to move. How to work. How to use its strength without thinking about it.
My mouth goes dry.
He takes a step toward me. Then another. Moving into the street, those work boots solid on the pavement, eating up the distance between us.
My omega instincts scream at me to go to him. To close the distance, but my brain screams at me to run. Yet, I stand frozen on the sidewalk like a complete idiot, caught between want and terror, clutching my prescription slip so hard the paper crinkles and nearly tears in my fist.
"Jess."
One word. My name. But the way he says it carries everything. All the years. All the silence. All the things we never got to say. All the apologies I owe him. All the explanations I don't know how to give.
His voice is deeper than I remember. Rougher. Like he's been swallowing gravel or keeping too many words locked inside for too long.
And hearing it, hearing him say my name after years of silence, does something to me. Something that makes my chest tight and my throat close and my stupid traitorous eyes start to burn.
Don't cry, I tell myself firmly. Do not cry on this sidewalk in front of Carlos. Have some dignity.
My body's doing its own thing as usual. Traitor.
He's crossing the street now, each step deliberate, careful, like he's approaching a spooked animal and doesn't want to scare it away.
The winter sun catches the gold in his hair.
His breath makes small clouds in the cold air.
He's big, bigger than I remembered. Not just tall, but broad.
Solid. Built from years of lifting lumber and swinging hammers and working with his hands.
The scent gets stronger as he gets closer.
"I heard you were back," he says when he's close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. "Mrs. Whight called my mom. My mom called Sergio. Sergio called me." He shrugs, and the movement makes those shoulders shift under the flannel. "Small town."
I should say something. Anything. Ask him how he's been. Apologize for leaving. Make some stupid joke to break the tension that's thick enough to choke on.
Instead I just stand there like a deer in headlights, clutching my prescription slip like it's a life raft, fighting the urge to either burst into tears or close the distance between us and finish what we started years ago.
His eyes move over me. Not leering. Not objectifying. Just looking. Taking me in like he's memorizing every detail. Like he's afraid I'll disappear if he blinks.
"You look good," he says, and his voice drops lower. "Different. But good."
I'm wearing my mother's too tight gray sweater that keeps riding up over my stomach and her too loose jeans that keep sliding down my hips despite the belt cinched to its tightest notch.
My blonde hair is unwashed and pulled back in a messy bun.
I have dark circles under my eyes and no makeup and I probably still smell like yesterday's panic sweat.
But the way he's looking at me, like I'm wearing silk and diamonds instead of borrowed clothes, like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, makes heat creep up my neck and settle in my cheeks.
"Carlos." I finally find my voice. It comes out strangled. Wrong. Breathy in ways I didn't intend. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you."
The honesty of it hits me in the chest.
"How did you know I'd be here?"
"Patricia texted Hazel who texted my assistant who texted me." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Like I said. Small town."
Of course. The Largo Waters gossip network strikes again. By tonight, everyone will know that Jessica Delacroix went to see Dr. Negrorio. By tomorrow, they'll have theories about why. By next week, they'll probably know about the omega thing, the heat, everything.
I need to move. Need to get to the pharmacy and then home before I do something stupid.
"I should go," I say, taking a step toward the pharmacy. "My mom is expecting me."
It's a lie. Mom is in Mexico. But he doesn't need to know that.