Chapter 1
Cara
Iwrite spicy romance for a living. Happy endings, groveling heroes, the whole fantasy.
So it’s extra pathetic that I’m white-knuckling through a Montana snowstorm to help my grandmother while pretending I’m not terrified of running into the three alphas I ghosted a decade ago.
The irony isn’t lost on me. My last book had a hero who crossed an ocean to win back his omega. Very romantic. Very swoony. Very much not the same as slowly stopping answering your boyfriends’ calls until they got the message and stopped trying.
Boyfriends. Plural. Three of them.
My pack.
Well. Theyweremy pack.
My Honda groans at another icy patch. Same, girl. We’re both California creatures, made for palm trees and traffic and temperatures that don’t make your bones ache. The heater’s wheezing lukewarm air, and the windshield wipers have fully surrendered to the fat, lazy snowflakes assaulting my windshield.
I cranked my suppressants to maximum dose this morning. Double-checked the bottle before I left. My scent should be locked down tight. Nothing but neutral omega with a hint of my usual honey-citrus.
My body hasn’t gotten that memo.
There’s a low hum under my skin that’s been building since I crossed the Montana border. Some deep awareness that knows where I’m headed and what’s waiting there. I keep catching whiffs of my own scent turning sharp with anxiety, cutting through the suppressants like they’re tissue paper.
Great. I smell like honey-lemon panic.
The welcome sign looms through the white haze.Welcome to Honeyridge Falls - Where Every Season Feels Like Home.
I laugh. Slightly unhinged. Home. Right. Home is supposed to be warm and welcoming, not the place where you have to dodge three extremely hot alphas you definitely cannot face while pretending you’re a functional adult who makes good decisions.
I am not a functional adult who makes good decisions.
Exhibit A: this entire trip.
Exhibit B: every book I’ve ever written.
Exhibit C: the fact that I can still remember exactly how each of them smelled, tasted,felt. And my body is already responding to the mere proximity of this town like a homing beacon activating after years of dormancy.
My phone buzzes. Mom.
Are you there yet? Grandma’s been asking every five minutes.
I don’t respond. My available options are “this was a catastrophic mistake,” “is it too late to drive to Canada,” and “why did I think I could do this.”
None seem helpful.
Main Street materializes through the snow, and against every survival instinct screaming at me to keep driving, I pull into a parking spot outside The Honey Crumb.
Coffee first. Emotional breakdown later.
The bell chimeswhen I walk in, and the smell hits me like a warm hug I didn’t ask for. Cinnamon and sugar and fresh bread. Exactly the same as when I used to camp in the corner booth pretending to do homework while Maeve snuck me extra cookies.
My shoulders drop. Tension easing despite my best efforts to stay wound up.
Baked goods. Warmth. Safety.
For one stupid second, I let myself feel like I belong here.
Then Maeve Bennett looks up from behind the counter.
