Then there's Rosemarie and Mila. Both amazing friends who I love. But they're both focusing on building their careers and businesses here in Oakridge Hollow. Rosemarie just opened her bakery expansion—added a whole second room for custom cakes and wedding desserts. She's working sixteen-hour days trying to keep up with holiday orders. Last time I saw her she looked like she hadn't slept in a week.
Mila's designing websites for half the town and building her portfolio to attract bigger clients. She's finally getting recognition for her work. Finally making decent money. Finally not living paycheck to paycheck like the rest of us. They don't have room in their lives for a displaced roommate right now. They barely have room for themselves.
I can't interfere with their lives. Can't impose on their success. They've all worked so incredibly hard to get where they are and I'm not going to be the friend who shows up begging for favors and making them feel guilty if they can't help. That's not fair to them.
But what are my actual options here? Sleep in my car? It's December in Canada. It gets below freezing at night. That's legitimately dangerous. I could die of hypothermia. Sleep at the bar? Marcus would definitely fire me for treating the workplace like a homeless shelter. Sleep in the library? They close at nine PM and I'm pretty sure they have securitycameras. Sleep in a church? Do churches even let people do that?
The panic is rising in my chest like water filling a sinking ship. That all-too-familiar tightness that makes it hard to breathe properly. The anxiety that tells me I'm failing at being an adult and everyone can see it and I'm going to end up homeless and alone and it's all my fault for forgetting to turn off the goddamn bathtub tap.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the table, trying to ground myself.
Breathe. Just breathe. There's always a solution. Always a way forward. I've survived worse than this. I can figure this out.
But then I feel warmth on my thigh. A large hand settling there with gentle pressure.
Grayson.
He leans in close enough that I can smell his maple-honey scent mixing with the syrup still on his lips. Close enough that I can feel his breath against my cheek.
Then he kisses me. Just a light press of lips against mine. Soft. Sweet. Grounding.
He pulls back slightly and licks the corner of my mouth—where I apparently still have maple syrup from my pancakes—and the gesture is so casually intimate that it makes my brain short-circuit momentarily.
"You need to calm down," he murmurs, his hazel eyes locked on mine with concern. "Before you trigger another migraine. Your scent is spiking with stress and that's not good for your recovery."
My scent is spiking? I didn't even realize. But he's right—I can feel the tension headache starting to build behind my eyes. The familiar pressure that says I'm pushing too hard, stressing too much.
I nod slowly, taking a deep breath. Let it out. Another breath.
Okay. Better. Still panicking internally but at least I'm not visibly hyperventilating.
"We'll figure something out," Grayson says softly, his thumb rubbing small circles on my thigh through my jeans. "I promise. You're not going to be homeless."
He looks across the table at Nash and Theo. Something passes between them—another one of those silent conversations that I'm not privy to.
Theo nods first. Then Nash.
"We have a proposition," Grayson says, turning back to me.
A proposition. That sounds ominous. Or hopeful? I can't tell if I should be worried or relieved.
"What's that?" I ask cautiously.
Nash clears his throat. Sits up straighter. His lawyer posture activating.
He looks me straight in the eye and says, "You can stay with us for the holiday season."
CHAPTER 20
Pack Promises
~NASH~
She stares at us.
Just stares with those blue-grey eyes going wide and her mouth falling open slightly in shock. Like we just told her we're planning to move to Mars or that Santa isn't real or some other earth-shattering revelation that doesn't compute with her understanding of reality.
Her scent spikes hard—vanilla-caramel-citrus going sharp with surprise and confusion and something that might be panic. It cuts through the diner smells of coffee and bacon and maple syrup like a blade through butter. Clean and bright and impossible to ignore. I can feel Grayson tense beside her and Theo shift on her other side.
