“Scarlett Monroe.” Maeve’s smile goes full Cheshire cat. “I’ve read them all. Recommended them to the whole book club. Eileen’s personal favorites, actually.”
I’m going to melt into a puddle of mortification and seep through the cracks in the hardwood.
My grandmother reads my books.
My grandmother reads my booksabout the three alphas I ghosted.
My grandmother has read detailed descriptions of the fictional versions of real men I actually slept with. Men who are currently living in this town. Men whose bodies I know intimately and have been writing about for adecade.
“How did you?—”
“Your mother told Eileen, Eileen told me, I told the book club.” Maeve pats my hand, utterly unrepentant. “Don’t worry, honey. We all think it’s wonderful. Very creative. Verydetailed.”
Behind me, Mrs. Peterson gasps.
“Wait,Carawrites those books? Oh my.” She actually fans herself. “The alpha in book two, the quiet, intense one? I always thought he seemed familiar. Those gray eyes...”
She trails off meaningfully.
I want to sink into the earth and never resurface.
Because she’s talking about Nate. She’s talking about the character I based on Nate, the one who pins the omega against the wall in chapter eight and doesn’t let her come until she begs. And Mrs. Petersonknows.
Now every person in this bakery is going to mentally cast my ex-boyfriends in my sex scenes.
This is worse than the nightmare where I show up to a book signing naked. This is the nightmare where everyone I’ve ever known has already read exactly what I want done to me and by whom.
And they’re not even fictional wants. They’rememories. Embellished, sure. Extended, definitely. But rooted in two years of actually being with them, actually knowing their bodies, actually?—
Nope. Not going there in the middle of a bakery.
“I should go.” I’m backing toward the door before I consciously decide to move. “Grandma’s expecting me. Thank you for the coffee. Lovely seeing everyone.”
Maeve’s laughter follows me out into the snow.
Grandma’syellow house sits at the end of Maple Drive, cheerful and stubborn against the gray sky. Smoke curls from the chimney. The porch still has that ridiculous welcome mat from my childhood:The Queen Is In.
I pull into the driveway, kill the engine, and sit there.
Deep breaths. You can do this. It’s just Grandma. Grandma who apparently reads your smut. Grandma who knows which real-life alphas inspired your fictional ones. Grandma who?—
The front door swings open.
“Are you planning to freeze to death in your car, or are you coming inside?”
Eileen Donovan, seventy-five years old and sharp as a tack, stands on the porch in a hand-knitted cardigan and fuzzy slippers. Her white hair is pinned up in its usual messy bun. Her eyes, the same dark brown I see in the mirror every day, are sparkling with amusement.
“Coming inside,” I manage, grabbing my bag.
The cold hits me the second I open the door. Montana cold. The kind that makes your nostrils stick together and your lungs burn. I hustle up the walkway, freshly shoveled I notice, and let Grandma pull me into a hug that smells like lavender and sugar cookies.
“Look at you.” She holds me at arm’s length, studying my face. “California made you soft. You’re shivering like a chihuahua.”
Grandma practically raised me while my parents chased jobs across three continents. They finally settled in New York a few years back, but this yellow house is the only home I’ve ever really known.
“Hello to you too, Grandma.”
“Don’t you ‘hello to you too’ me.” She tugs me inside. “I’ve been waiting three hours. Your mother said you’d be here by four.”
