My fingers brush past my stethoscope, a granola bar wrapper, my phone, but no wallet. Digging deeper, I push aside the bundled sweater I always keep at the bottom of my bag and feel a cold wave of panic wash over me when I realize my wallet is in the outside pocket, but I’m missing something else.
“I can’t find my prescription,” I blurt out, frantically searching my bag.
Caroline glances up. “Prescription?”
“Yes, I had it out while I was looking at the supplements. It’s just a piece of paper with my doctor’s letterhead. I need it to get my medication when the pharmacy restocks.”
My heart pounds as I empty the contents of my bag onto the counter. Keys, phone, protein bars, chapstick—but no prescription. And that damn paper might not have my designation written on it, but that doesn’t mean I want any random person in town scrutinizing it too closely.
Without that paper, I can’t get my suppressants. My doctor back home had already hesitated about faxing a new prescription so early, I really don’t want to ask for another one only a day later. Without suppressants, I’ll go into heat. In a town full of alphas.
While working with Dr. Noah Klinkhart who I can’t seem to get out of my head even though I also want to bury him in a snowdrift.
“I must have dropped it somewhere in the store,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady as panic threatens to overwhelm me. “Did anyone turn in a piece of paper? Maybe while I was browsing?”
Caroline shakes her head. “No, honey, nothing’s been turned into me. Let me help you look.”
We search the aisles, checking under shelves and between products. Nothing. I retrace my steps to the entrance, scanning the floor. My prescription is nowhere to be found.
“Could it have fallen out in your car?” Caroline suggests.
“No, I know I had it here just a few minutes ago. It has to be here.”
But it isn’t. That single sheet of paper might as well have disappeared into thin air.
“If it turns up, I’ll make sure it gets back to you,” Caroline assures me, patting my shoulder in a comforting gesture.
I let her bag up my items and take the credit card from my shaking hand as my level of unease grows. Losing the prescription isn’t that big of a deal. My doctor will probably fax another one if I beg hard enough.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to fall off of a cliff.
EIGHT
KAI
Nothing beatsa Heat Mountain afternoon in early winter. The sun hits the peaks just right, casting long shadows across Main Street while the air carries that perfect bite—cold enough to wake you up but not enough to freeze your ass off. I breathe it in deep, savoring the pine-scented breeze as I stroll toward the general store.
The fresh air and clean breeze are almost enough to take my mind off the email I just got from my financial advisor about how much money I’ve blown this month with nothing to show for it.
Another failed business venture. Another brilliant Kai Trujillo idea that crashed and burned spectacularly. This time it was custom-designed snowboards with built-in Bluetooth speakers. Turns out, not many people want to blast their music while shredding down a mountain. Who knew?
Everyone. Everyone knew except me.
But hey, that’s the beauty of inheritance money—I can fail upward indefinitely. People might like to tell me I need a “real job” and a “purpose in life,” but I’ve got a better plan: a six-packof beer and absolutely zero thinking about my future until at least next Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday. Possibly never.
I round the corner onto Main Street, whistling some half-remembered tune, when I spot a familiar figure emerging from Caroline’s shop. The skull-patterned bandana is a dead giveaway—Grayson, looking furtive as hell. Which, to be fair, is typically his default expression.
He moves with a predatory grace that openly dares anyone to fuck with him, eyes scanning the street like he’s expecting an ambush. The bandana covers most of his face and the hood of his jacket casts his expression in shadow, but I can still read the tension in his shoulders.
“Well, well, well,” I call out, unable to resist teasing him. “What were you doing in there? Picking up supplies for Saturday night?”
Grayson’s eyes flick toward me, his expression barely changing, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. He’s annoyed. Perfect.
“Trading change,” he says flatly, gaze dropping to the sidewalk. “Store is running low on quarters.”
I snort. If there’s one thing I know about Grayson Lambe after all these years, it’s when he’s feeding me bullshit. And right now? The bullshit meter is off the charts.
“Why not just go to the bank?” I ask, falling into step beside him, my tone light but pointed.
