I have to.
Chapter 7
Cara
The whole town has lost its mind over Valentine’s Day.
I’m not exaggerating. Every storefront on Main Street is drowning in red and pink. Heart-shaped wreaths on doors. Twinkle lights strung between lampposts. The hardware store has a display of “romantic” power tools. Romantic. Power tools.
Banners everywhere announce the Valentine’s Day Charity Fundraiser. The community center needs a new roof, apparently, and Honeyridge Falls has decided the best way to fund it is through a bachelor auction.
A bachelor auction featuring three specific alphas I can’t stop thinking about.
But that’s tonight. Right now, I’m standing outside Ashpine Books, watching Theo Holt load bags of mulch into his truck, trying to remember how to breathe.
It’s been four days since the clinic. Four days of failed attempts to get any of them to talk to me. And I’m running out of ideas.
Just walk over. Say what you practiced. Don’t be a coward.
I force my feet to move.
He’s wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, despite the February cold. His forearms flex as he lifts another bag, muscles moving under sun-weathered skin. Even from here, I can smell him—sun-warmed earth and honeysuckle, fainter in the winter air but still achingly familiar. Still making my chest tight after all this time.
He sees me coming.
I watch his whole body change. Shoulders tensing. Movements speeding up. By the time I reach the truck, he’s already slamming the tailgate shut.
“Theo, wait?—”
“Can’t talk.” He’s moving toward the cab, keys already in hand. “Got a job.”
“Please.” I step into his path, which is either brave or stupid. Probably stupid. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
He stops. We’re close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands have curled into fists at his sides. His scent has shifted—the honeysuckle gone bitter, the warmth turned sharp.
“Theo, I know I don’t deserve?—”
“Don’t.” His voice cracks on the word. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say what I’m already thinking.” He’s not looking at me, but his hands have uncurled from fists. “You think I don’t know you don’t deserve five minutes? You think I haven’t been telling myself that for a week?”
“Then why?—”
“Because it doesn’t help.” He finally looks at me, and oh god, there it is—the hurt underneath the wall he’s been building. The boy who used to look at me like I hung the moon, still in there somewhere, still bleeding from wounds I inflicted. “Knowing you don’t deserve it doesn’t make me stop wanting to give it to you anyway. That’s the problem, Cara.”
My heart stutters. “Theo...”
He takes a step toward me. Just one. His hand comes up like he’s going to touch my face, and every cell in my body leans toward him?—
Then he stops. Drops his hand. Something shutters in his expression.
“I can’t.” His voice is rough. “We agreed—all three of us. And if I stay here talking to you, I’m going to—” He shakes his head. “I have to go.”
“Theo, please?—”
“I’m sorry.” He’s already moving toward the truck, and the worst part is he sounds like he means it. “I can’t do this. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
