Chapter 7
CARLOS
Hmm. Those hips.
They're hiding under her sweater, the grey one that's too tight across her chest and too loose everywhere else, but all I can think about is wrapping my hands around them.
Feeling the curve of her waist under my palms. Pulling her against me so I can find out if she still fits against my body the way she did six years ago when we danced at the Fourth of July barbecue.
Spoiler alert: she'll fit better now. Because now I know exactly what I want to do with those hips. How I want to grip them while I kiss her.
Stop it, I tell myself. She's terrified. This is not the time.
The way her scent is flooding the street. Peaches and honey mixing with fear and stress hormones.
My alpha recognizes it. Has been waiting six years to smell it again.
And then she runs.
Again.
I watch her disappear into the pharmacy, the bell over the door jingling in her wake, and something cracks in my chest. Sharp. Painful. Like a rib breaking inward.
Six years ago, I kissed her on our porch while Callum snored on the couch inside, and she ran then too. Vanished before sunrise like a ghost. Like I'd done something unforgivable. Like the kiss we both wanted was the worst thing that could have happened.
I've replayed that night a thousand times.
The firelight catches in her blonde hair, turning it gold.
The way she laughed at my terrible carpentry jokes, the ones everyone else groans at but she thought were funny.
The way she looked at me when everyone else had gone inside, with this intensity, this focus, like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
Her hands. God, her hands. Small and soft but capable.
The way she'd touched the table I was building, running her fingers over the wood grain, asking questions about the joinery, actually caring about the answers.
The way those same hands fisted in my shirt when I kissed her, holding on like she needed the anchor.
I should have stopped myself, and remembered she was Callum's girlfriend. That he was my best friend. That some lines you don't cross no matter how badly you want to.
But she was so close. And she smelled so good. And when I leaned in, she didn't pull away. She met me halfway, rising on her toes to reach me, her mouth opening under mine like she'd been waiting for it too.
"Finally," she whispered against my lips.
For thirty seconds, the world made perfect sense.
Then she pushed me away, eyes wide with panic, and I knew I'd scared her. Knew I'd moved too fast, wanted too much, been too everything like I always am.
Now she's back. Wearing clothes that don't fit her curves right, curves I wanted to worship six years ago and still want to worship now. Looking at me like I'm dangerous. Running the moment I got too close.
Story of my life. Too much. Too intense. Too ready to give everything when people just want a little.
I climb back into my truck and sit there, engine off, hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. Through the pharmacy window, I can see her sitting in one of those plastic chairs, head down, shoulders hunched. Making herself small.
The way she used to do around Callum when she thought no one was watching.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth hurt.
I pull out my phone and open the pack group chat, thumbs moving fast.
Carlos: She ran from me. Literally ran. Like I was going to hurt her or something. We need to talk.
Sergio responds first: Where are you?
Carlos: Outside the pharmacy. She went to see Pedro. Looked terrified when she saw me. Did I do something wrong? I just said hi.
Nacho: I know she went to Pedro. Patricia texted me.
Of course she did. Patricia texts everyone about everything. The woman should work for the CIA.
Pedro: Just got out of my last appointment. Heading home.
Sergio: Pack meeting. Thirty minutes. Kitchen.
I stare at my phone, then at the pharmacy window where Jessica is still sitting with her head down.
I want to go back in there. Want to tell her I'm sorry for whatever I did that made her look at me like that.
Want to explain that I've spent six years missing her laugh, the way she'd lean in close when I explained how a dovetail joint works, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about the wedding designs she was working on with Sharon.
The way her hands felt against my chest. Small and perfect and right.
But she ran. And I can't chase someone who doesn't want to be caught. Learned that lesson the hard way when I was twelve and tried to befriend a stray cat. Sometimes people need space. Even when it kills you to give it to them.
I start the truck and pull away from the curb. In the rearview mirror, I see Jessica emerge from the pharmacy, prescription bag in hand. She looks both ways before walking, like she's checking for threats.
Or for me.
The thought makes my chest hurt worse.
I turn the radio on. Then off. Then on again.
Can't find a station that doesn't remind me of her.
Country makes me think of the time we danced at the Fourth of July barbecue.
Classic rock reminds me of her singing along badly in the kitchen.
Pop stations play those songs about heartbreak that hit too close to home.
I settle on static. At least static is honest about being noise.
The drive home takes fifteen minutes but feels like hours. Our packhouse sits on three acres at the edge of town.
Sergio inherited it when his parents died. Car accident, six years ago. Same year Jessica left. My mom stepped in as pack mom after that—been the glue holding us together when we were all falling apart from losing too much at once.
She doesn't live here, has her own place in town, but she's here more than she's there. Makes sure we eat. Makes sure we talk. Makes sure we don't forget what pack means.
Mom started cooking for five guys instead of just me and my dad after he died when I was fifteen. Construction accident. That's how packs work when they're chosen instead of born. You build your own family.
Sergio went to the academy. Got his coaching degree.
Came back to build something here. Pedro went to medical school, specialized in omega health, and kept this place as his base.
Nacho did his four years at State, then the police academy, worked his way up from deputy to sheriff.
Me? I stayed local, learned carpentry from my dad before the accident, built the business from the ground up.
We've been a pack since high school. Four alphas who fit together like puzzle pieces.
We've been incomplete in other ways too. But I try not to think about the empty omega-sized hole in our pack.
Stop it, I tell myself. She ran. She doesn't want this.
I pull into the gravel driveway and park next to Nacho's patrol car. He must have beaten me here. The man drives like every trip is an emergency, even when he's just getting groceries.
The house is warm when I walk in. Smells like home. Like the beef stew Nacho makes when he's stressed and needs to do something with his hands. Like the lemon cleaner Sergio used this morning. Like pack and safety and everything good.
Nacho is at the stove, still in his sheriff's uniform but wearing the gray house slippers with little stars that Sergio bought him as a joke three Christmases ago. He pretended to hate them. Wears them every single day.
"Hey," I say, dropping my tool belt on the hook by the door. Try for cheerful. Normal. Like my heart isn't currently being shredded into confetti. "That smells amazing. You stress cooking again?"
"Maybe." He doesn't look up from the pot. "You look like someone kicked your puppy."
"Accurate." I cross to the fridge, grab a beer, twist off the cap. Take a long drink. "Pretty sure I am the puppy. And I got kicked."
Nacho finally turns to face me. His dark eyes scan my face, reading me the way he reads crime scenes. Seeing everything I'm trying to hide.
"She really ran?"
"Like I was on fire and she was afraid of getting burned." I slump against the counter. "I just wanted to say hi. Make sure she was okay. Maybe make her laugh. She used to laugh at my jokes, remember? Even the bad ones."
"Especially the bad ones," Nacho says quietly.
"Yeah." My voice cracks. I clear my throat, try again. "She looked scared, Nacho. Of me. Like I was going to hurt her or something. I would never... I'd cut off my own hands before I'd hurt her."
Nacho's expression softens. "I know. But last time she saw you, you kissed her and she fled the state. Now you're waiting outside her doctor's appointment. That's a lot."
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. He's right. I know he's right. I've been acting like a lovesick idiot since the moment I heard she was back. Waiting for her. Unable to stay away even though I should.
"I'm pathetic," I mutter into my beer.
"You're in love." Nacho turns back to the stew. "There's a difference."
The front door opens and Sergio walks in, bringing cold air and the smell of ice rink with him. He's still in his coaching gear, whistle around his neck, clipboard tucked under his arm. His dark curly hair is damp with sweat and there's tension in every line of his body.
"Practice ran late," he says. "Whitfield kid still can't pass to save his life. His mom is going to murder me when she finds out I benched him."
"She thinks he's NHL material," I say, trying for the usual banter. Trying to act normal.
"He's barely house league material." Sergio drops the clipboard on the counter and moves to stand beside Nacho. His hand settles on the small of Nacho's back, automatic and unconscious. "How long until dinner?"
"Twenty minutes."
"Good. That gives Pedro time to get here and Carlos time to tell me why he looks like someone stole Christmas." Sergio turns to face me, and I see the pack leader surface behind his eyes. The one who takes care of all of us. "What happened?"