The Gamma’s Second Chance (Crescent Lake #3)

7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

NOLAN

Some may argue that going on a run twice in a day is excessive. That I will burn myself out or give myself an injury. That this level of extreme avoidance is unhealthy for my mental state.

And they’re probably right, in all honesty. But they’re not the ones who have to live with Daisy.

I mean Cassandra.

They’re not the ones who have to see her smiles, hear her laugh, or smell the daisies she places all over the house.

When we’re in the car or at rehearsal with Haven, it’s manageable. There are others around creating a buffer, and my work requires enough focus to keep me distracted from it all.

Mostly.

But when we’re alone in my house? Just the two of us? That’s when I can’t trust myself. That’s when I know if I’m stuck with her for too long, I’ll end up doing something drastic. Something I’ll regret later.

Like grabbing her face and kissing her into oblivion.

Or lifting her up, throwing her over my shoulder, and carrying her up the stairs to my bedroom, my hand massaging and squeezing her ass every step of the way.

I’m not sure if I have the urges to do these things because I actually want to do them or if it’s because I want to see how she’ll react. Will she remain chipper and enthusiastic? Or will she snap at me? Will she finally show me her teeth?

Either way, it’s a bad idea. She’s too good for me. Too sweet, too pure, too optimistic. I’m a broken, jaded realist, and I’d only end up ruining her.

If I act on these urges, it will end in disaster. Like all my relationships. They all have a common denominator, and that common denominator is me.

So, I’m avoiding Cassandra. Her and her smiles and her laugh and her daisies.

I’m not sure I can pinpoint the exact moment my annoyance switched from being directed at those things to being directed at myself for starting to like those things.

Maybe it was the morning I watched her playing my piano with her skilled fingers and passion-filled expression. I never knew it was possible to be jealous of a musical instrument until she came into my life. But damn if I didn’t want to be that piano, to have her fingers dance over my skin, to be the music that enraptured her and brought fire to her eyes.

Or maybe it was when I found her in the kitchen with my mom a few days ago, perched on the counter with a bag of chips in her hand, talking with her as if she’d known her for years. Or maybe it was when she got sassy with me about my name not being on the bag of chips. Maybe it was when I leaned in close to her and sensed her racing heart and caught the barest hint of arousal wafting through the kitchen from between her legs.

Maybe it was all of that combined, all those moments building one on top of the other, until the source of the tension in my body switched to being caused by wanting her and being unable to act on that instead of being caused by wanting to be anywhere other than around her.

There are a million and one reasons I shouldn’t give in to my desires. A million and one reasons it would be a terrible idea to start anything with her. And aside from the fact I am a failure with females and relationships, the biggest reason I shouldn’t act on my urges is that she’s only a temporary fixture here. She’ll leave Crescent Lake once Haven is settled with the pup and her aura returns to normal. She’ll return to Greece, so she can become a true oracle once she finds her mate.

Her mate, who isn’t me. And won’t be me.

We’d know already if I was.

We’d just be a fling. A flash in the pan. And I’ve never been good at flings. I’m not Reid, chasing tail after tail until Taryn came along and tamed him. Or Wes, searching for Haven in every female he dated until she appeared on the shore of the lake one autumn evening. Other than Kimberly, who had me even though she never truly wanted me, and Rachel, who I never truly had even though I wanted her, I can count the number of females I’ve slept with on one hand, and none of those encounters resulted in a repeat.

The problem is clearly me.

Yes. Avoiding her is the best course of action.

I pause on the front step of my house, breathing deeply before I go inside after my run. I can do this. It’s almost dinnertime. That means she’ll head into her room after the dishes are done, so I only have to spend this one meal with her before I can be alone.

Until tomorrow. When everything starts over again.

I rush into the house and beeline for the kitchen, straight to the sink to grab water like I always do. It’s quiet, and I lean against the counter, waiting for Cassandra to pop her head through the archway or come out of the pantry with her arms full of whatever ingredients she needs for whatever she plans to make for dinner.

At least, I’m pretty sure it’s her night to cook.

I check the day on my phone and then look at the fridge, where our new agreements are taped, written in gold glitter gel pen on blank staff paper from the top of my piano. I found them the other day while staring at the daisies I can’t bring myself to actually hate, added the third agreement—Cassandra cooks Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and Nolan cooks Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday—and then placed the list on the fridge.

Okay. Yes. It’s Wednesday, so it’s Cassandra’s night tonight.

I glance at my phone again and realize there is a text from her, which I missed earlier.

Cassandra: I’m going to order pizza tonight. What toppings do you want?

I text her back immediately.

Me: Sorry, I just saw this. Combination is fine.

I stare at the phone, waiting, but she doesn’t reply. I let out a sigh and set the phone on the counter, then go into the pantry to scrounge up a snack while I wait for her to either order the pizza or return from picking it up.

The interior of the pantry lights up as I flip the switch, and I stop in my tracks, blinking, too stunned to do anything else.

Because there, filling an entire shelf, are at least twenty bags of salt and vinegar potato chips, each with a label slapped on them that reads “Cassandra.”

My hands curl into fists, and my teeth grind together, my nostrils flaring. I storm forward, reaching for a bag. Who cares if her name is on it? I don’t. It’s not a real claim. But I’m once again thrown for a loop when I spot a small, sandwich-sized bag of chips that she’s set aside, my name written across the front in permanent marker.

How fucking sweet of her.

I slam my fist onto the shelf and then bite my knuckles. I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or yell or find her and spank that cheeky little ass of hers.

Or all of the above.

Breathing in and out, I count to ten, then push off from the shelf and leave the pantry, sandwich bag of chips in tow.

They stay gripped in my hand as I stomp through the house and into the living room to grab my guitar. It’s the distraction I need right now, and I’ve left it in there, untouched, for far too long since Cassandra arrived.

But as I make my way back out of the room, guitar in one hand and chips in the other, and towards the stairs, I pause yet again. My brow furrows, and I turn in place, examining the room. Something is off. Different. Wrong.

I flick my eyes over every surface, my mind working overtime to determine what seems to be the issue. It’s not the piano—it’s still right where it should be, with a fresh bouquet of daisies in the center of it. It’s not the sofa or the loveseat—both are in their proper place, the same place they’ve been in since I moved in here.

“Huh.” I shrug and walk out of the room, and that’s when it hits me.

Or rather, that’s when it doesn’t hit me.

Because instead of bumping into the sharp corner of the small end table like I usually do, I move out of the room and into the entry unencumbered. My head whips around, and I search the space, desperate to find it.

There it is. Between the couch and the loveseat. And I bet I know exactly who put it there. The same someone who keeps putting daisies all over my house. The same someone who filled a shelf with bags of potato chips just for her.

Cassandra.

And the worst part? It works better there. The entire room feels more open, and the end table is no longer a safety hazard. I don’t have to worry about the corner jabbing my leg every time I walk by, and I don’t have to be embarrassed when a guest does the same.

But even though it looks better, even though it works better, I hate it. I hate that she took the initiative to move it, that she thought of it before I did, and I’m annoyed that I like it.

“Goddess damn it.”

The shower runs in the guest bathroom, clueing me in to her whereabouts and why she didn’t respond to my text about the pizza. Indecision wars within me, my grip on my chips and my guitar tightening as I decide my course of action. Should I confront her now? Barge into her bathroom, berate her for being so fucking irresistible, and then take her in my arms and let out all my frustrations on her naked body?

My dick twitches at that thought, the thought of her smooth, wet, naked skin against mine with the heated water of the shower raining down on us as I slam into her while she’s flat against the tiled walls. Her lashes would flutter over those jade green eyes, her sweet pink lips would part as she panted out my name, and I’d squeeze that adorable ass of hers hard enough to leave behind fingerprints. The resulting release would be so satisfying and would cure me of the irritation slithering and lurking beneath my skin for the last week and a half.

And the consequences of giving in to my undeniable attraction for her would be disastrous.

I lean against the wall of the entryway, eyes closed and head tilted towards the ceiling, every muscle in my body as tense as can be. “Fuck!”

I swear this female will be the death of me. Her and her smiles and her gumption. The way she doesn’t take any of my shit and meets me toe to toe, blow for blow, without batting an eyelash, without a perfectly curled hair falling out of place. Her constant presence is a curse, because I crave more of it. Even as I push her away and claim that I can’t stand having her around, even as I claim she’s a nuisance and a detriment to my routine and my stability, I find myself desperate for the unpredictability she brings. I find myself desperate to act with the same unpredictability.

So I do what any desperate male would do. I head upstairs to my room to eat my potato chips and play my guitar in solitary silence.

However, each step I take feels like trudging through molasses. The further I get up the stairs, the harder it is to climb them. There is a tiny, thin thread wrapped around my heart, and it tightens as the distance grows.

But I make it. I make it to the top of the stairs and into my bedroom.

Where Cassandra has placed a vase of tulips on my dresser, right beneath my bedroom window.

That’s it. That’s the straw that breaks my back. I leave my guitar and chips behind and storm out of the bedroom and down the stairs. A trail of water droplets lies between her bedroom door and the bathroom, but I ignore it and pound on the bathroom door.

“Cassandra!” I shout, biting my bottom lip and hitting the door with my fist again.

“What?” she asks from behind me.

I spin around, fist still lifted. Cassandra raises her chin at me, framed in her bedroom doorway, body and hair damp, wrapped in a white towel that barely covers her body. My eyes widen and I freeze, unsure of where to look.

I can’t look down, because that towel ends at the tops of her thighs, revealing those smooth, endless, perfect legs to me. And I can’t look at her chest, at the swell of her breasts and the cleavage peeking out from the towel, because fuck, that would just about ruin me. And I can’t look at her face, because the fiery defiance in her stunning eyes draws my wolf forward and has me yet again questioning why there is so much space between our bodies and our lips.

Her fists grip her towel, pulling it tighter around herself, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips as I try to look anywhere but at her. Try, and fail.

It would be so easy to cover the two steps keeping us apart. That towel is nothing but a minor obstacle, one I could rip from her body in half a second, leaving her naked and panting and pinned against the door at her back. I’d cup her cheeks and slide my lips over hers, lifting her into my arms and opening the door, where I’d toss her on the bed and sink my cock deep inside her, keeping her flush against me and in my arms all night.

But I do none of those things. No, all I do is gesture at the floor and glare at her, diverting my thoughts away from the things I can never let myself do with her. “You’re getting water all over my floor.”

She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “I thought I left my comb in the bedroom.”

“You thought you did?”

“Well, it wasn’t on the dresser where I’ve been leaving it, so I guess I—”

“Didn’t I tell you no flowers in my room?” I snap, no longer able to hold that complaint in.

“Daisies,” she says, standing up taller and squaring her shoulders.

I blink. Once, then twice, then a third time. My arms cross, and I angle my head to the side. “What?”

“You said you didn’t want daisies in your room.”

I nod. “And?”

“And those are tulips.”

“Those are—” I shake my head, pinching my lip between my fingers, my other hand on my hip, a derisive laugh huffing from my chest. Leave it to Cassandra to find the loophole in my “no daisies in my room” comment. “And what about the chips?” I ask, once again changing topics as I take a singular step towards her.

She shrugs one shoulder. “Salt and vinegar chips are my favorite, too.”

I stalk closer, and her chin lifts higher so she can hold my gaze. I press my palm into the wall and lean towards her, lowering my face until we’re only inches apart. She’s unexpectedly petite, considering how long her legs are—I have to lean down further than I thought I would to be this close to her—and I’m shocked at how much her small stature delights me. She’d fit right under my chin if I pulled her into my chest and wrapped my arms around her, creating a little pocket of comfort and safety for her to snuggle into.

Goddess, could my thoughts wander any further from the actual issues at hand?

“You can’t just slap your name on something and claim it’s yours,” I say, my hand curling into a fist against the wall so I don’t act on my raging impulses.

“Sure you can.” Her green eyes glitter and swirl with her wolf’s presence, calling out to mine. He pushes against my restraints, whining for me to let him out to interact with her, but I shove him away, back into the recesses of my mind. “Isn’t that what we do when we mark another as our mate?”

I involuntarily glance at her neck. Or, at least, I tell myself it’s involuntary. I’m not entirely sure it was. She stiffens, and her throat bobs, her heart pounding and her pulse thrumming beneath the skin of her neck as she grips that tiny, insignificant towel closer to her body, and her legs squeeze together.

Before I know what I’m doing, my body shifts closer to hers, so our torsos almost touch, and my hand lifts to her damp hair, fingertips playing with the ends of it where it lies on the fabric of the towel. Even while wet, it’s silky beneath my touch, and the faint hint of daisies with the undertone of something light and sweet fills my lungs. I thought before that the scent of the daisies she keeps bringing into the house is what always lingers on her skin and in her hair, but I’m realizing it’s just her. She’s a true breath of fresh spring air, promising new beginnings and second chances.

And I deserve neither.

Cassandra continues to stare up at me, the glittering in her eyes shifting to something deeper, something heated. It calls to me, awakening desires for her beyond what was already there. The desire to take, to claim. Desires I can’t act upon or give in to.

Even though everything in me screams in protest, even though my wolf pleads with me to move forward instead of backwards, I tear myself away from her and back up against the far wall again, arms crossed and eyes downcast. A growl of frustration escapes me, one I can’t hold back, fueled by the combined aggravation of my wolf and me.

“Pizza,” I say at the tail end of my growl. “You mentioned something about pizza?”

She tucks her hair behind her ears and nods. “I went ahead and ordered it when I didn’t hear back from you. It should be ready soon.”

“Pick up?” I ask, and she nods again. “I’ll go get it,” I offer, desperate for any excuse to get as far away from her as I can before I do something I can’t take back.

“Thanks,” she says.

I turn and walk to the front door, and her bare feet pad across the hall and into the bathroom, the door clicking shut and locking only seconds later.

And I grit my teeth and leave the house to grab our dinner, my head and my heart still at war with each other over what to do about the seeds Cassandra is planting in my life.