Burke (Black Butte Ranch #3)

Chapter One

Burke

AJA FOXX

~ Burke ~

I always thought the dumbest thing about country living was the idea that life slowed down. Nobody who’d ever drove into town with a sleep-deprived omega riding shotgun would call this relaxed. If anything, it was perpetual motion with a little extra dust in your teeth and more bugs in your grill.

Today’s mission: haul Jojo to the Black Butte Garden Center for “emergency tomato starts.” Apparently, Jojo was convinced the only thing standing between him and greenhouse glory was a flat of Early Girls from Harmon’s.

I’d suggested, more than once, that if tomatoes were such a goddamn crisis, maybe he could just plant the seeds Rawley brought home last week. Jojo, for his part, acted like this was sacrilege on the level of spitting in a preacher’s hat.

“Do you think the yellow ones are heirloom, or are they just dyed?” Jojo had been talking for the last six miles, half to himself, half to me, hands moving like he was already cradling a sun-warmed tomato.

“They don’t dye tomatoes, Jojo,” I said, shifting gears as my pickup hit the washboard outside the city limit. “They just breed ’em that way. Like dogs, except less inbreeding and more lycopene.”

“I read that supermarket tomatoes are engineered to survive being trucked for hundreds of miles,” Jojo said, voice grave, “but they’re basically tasteless. You can taste the difference, Burke. Like, the soul is gone.”

“Maybe I just like a tomato that’s built Ford tough,” I said, and he wrinkled his nose at me, like I’d offered to deep-fry a baby chick. He did that a lot. It never failed to amuse me.

We crested the little rise before downtown Black Butte.

To call it a “downtown” was like calling a single wildflower a bouquet, but they did their best. Harmon’s Garden & Hardware sat at the far edge of Main Street, between a shuttered video store and the kind of bank you only entered with a hat in hand.

The place smelled like fresh mulch and the chemical tang of bug repellant, even from the parking lot.

I killed the engine and stretched, listening to the metal tick as it cooled. Jojo was already halfway out the door, sneakers hitting gravel, ponytail bouncing. You had to hand it to the kid—he had the energy of a wind-up squirrel, even at eight a.m. on a Saturday.

“You coming?” he said, clutching his ragged canvas shopping bag. “Or are you gonna nap in the truck while I do the heavy lifting?”

“You see the size of your arms, Jojo? The only thing you’re lifting today is your dignity.”

He beamed at that, which was why I said it.

The garden center was a sensory mugging. Fifty flavors of dirt and peat, racks of neon seed packets, humming fluorescent lights, and the sticky-sweet perfume of petunias gone feral. Jojo made straight for the tomato section, as if his blood sugar depended on it.

I followed more slowly, my boot soles catching in the warped linoleum, because if there’s one thing I learned from years of spec ops and ex-military alpha wrangling, it’s that sometimes the best way to disappear is to just slow down and watch.

That’s how I noticed it.

The scent came at me sideways, an ambush in a river of garden store funk. It was… fuck. I wanted to say “clean,” but that was a copout. It was warm, alive, threaded with crushed basil and sun-baked sand, but under that, something green and sharp that hit every pleasure center I had.

Instinct snapped my head around. I scanned the aisles, hunting for the source, and when I found him, I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot.

He was stocking fertilizer, brown paper apron tied loose over a T-shirt with a faded university logo.

Short, sandy hair and narrow shoulders, jeans that hung on skinny hips.

Not my usual type, if I had a type, but what he lacked in size he made up for with concentration.

He bent, hefting a bag that probably weighed as much as he did, and I caught another punch of that scent.

My pulse tripped over itself.

I must’ve been staring, because the moment his gaze drifted my way, he froze. A glimmer of something—I couldn’t tell if it was irritation or anxiety—flickered across his face before he yanked his attention back to the shelf.

Okay. That was promising.

Jojo had vanished into the jungle of heirloom seedlings, so I followed my nose. I drifted into the fertilizer aisle, perused a spray bottle of deer repellent like it was high literature, and waited for the kid to notice he wasn’t alone.

It took about thirty seconds.

He straightened, wiped his hands on his apron, and gave me a wary side-eye. “Need help finding something?” His voice was soft, but not shy, a little rough like he was recovering from a cold. Or maybe he just didn’t love talking to strange alphas before lunch.

“Not unless you stock Stetson hats and Glocks in the back,” I said, smiling. “But I could use your professional opinion.”

He looked at me proper this time, eyes a weird shade of gold-green that I decided, instantly, was my new favorite color. “About…?”

“Deer repellents. Or tomato cages. Or which of these fertilizers won’t dissolve my eyebrows if I spill it on myself.”

He seemed to relax half a centimeter, like I’d passed some sort of test. “If it’s for tomatoes, you want the twelve-six-six.” He walked over, pointed at a sack with an ugly cartoon beefsteak on the front. “It’s slow-release, so you can’t screw up the timing.”

“I could screw up the timing,” I said. “I have a black belt in screwing up the timing. That’s why they put me on truck duty.”

That got a tiny, genuine smile out of him, which made me feel like I’d just leveled up in a game I didn’t remember starting. I held out my hand. “Burke. My brother owns the Black Butte Ranch, up north.” Well, technically not my brother, but my brother-in-arms.

He didn’t shake, but he did nod. “Danny. I’m—” He cut off. “I work here.”

“Nice to meet you, Danny.” I tried not to stare at his throat, which had gone a little pink. “You always smell this good, or is it just for the plants?”

His blush went up a notch. “I—I think it’s the basil in the greenhouse. You get used to it.” He turned back to the shelf, lining up the bags like they were toy soldiers. His hands shook, barely, but I caught it.

There was something about him. Not just the scent, though that was starting to do wild things to my prefrontal cortex.

It was the way he avoided eye contact, like he’d spent a lifetime being reminded not to draw attention.

I knew the type—runts from big families, perpetual background noise in their own lives.

Omegas who learned young that silence was safer.

Jojo appeared at the end of the aisle, holding a tray of green shoots and already talking. “I found Brandywines! And the weird stripey ones you like, Burke. Oh—hi.” He ducked his head at Danny, then looked at me. “Did you get the deer stuff?”

“I was just getting an expert recommendation,” I said, waving the spray bottle.

“I could ring you up,” Danny offered. “If you’re ready.”

I let Jojo take the lead, followed them to the register.

Danny kept his eyes on the barcode scanner, fingers flying over the keys with a speed that spoke to both boredom and efficiency.

He only looked at me once, when I fumbled a twenty out of my wallet.

His gaze darted up, met mine for a split second, and then dropped. But the faintest smile was there again.

“Receipt in the bag okay?” he asked.

“Sure. Or you can staple it to my forehead, if that’s store policy.”

That got a noise that was either a laugh or a cough.

I counted it as a win.

Jojo loaded his loot into a box. He lingered, fiddling with his phone, which meant I had a clear thirty seconds to make another move.

If I’d been less buzzed by the whole situation, I might’ve thought it through.

Instead, I said, “You got any recommendations for keeping raccoons out of a greenhouse?”

Danny’s eyes flicked over my shoulder, then back. “Lock the door. They’re not as smart as people think.”

“Neither am I,” I said, “but I’d love to pick your brain about it sometime. Maybe over coffee?”

He hesitated. I could see him weighing something, trying to decide if I was an idiot or just hitting on him. Probably both. Finally, he said, “I work most mornings.”

“Lucky store,” I said, and it came out softer than I meant.

For a moment, I thought he might say something else. Then a voice shouted from the back—someone calling for help with a pallet jack. Danny straightened, apology in his eyes.

“I should go,” he said.

“Yeah. Sure. Thanks for the help.”

Jojo and I stepped out into the morning glare. I could still feel that scent clinging to my skin, like pollen, like static electricity. I glanced back through the window and caught a glimpse of Danny’s pale neck as he carried a bag of potting mix, head down, moving fast.

I didn’t usually get obsessed. Or maybe I did, but not like this. Jojo jabbered about tomatoes the whole way home, but every time I breathed in, I could taste Danny’s scent on the back of my tongue.

And I already wanted another hit.

If there was a tactical manual for seducing shy omegas, I’d never read it. But in my professional opinion, the trick was knowing when to push and when to shut up and let gravity do its thing. Omegas moved toward warmth if you gave them enough safe space.

That was science.

“Oh, I forgot something.” Jojo shoved his purchases into my arms. “I’ll be right back.”

I struggled to hold everything for a moment then dumped it on the bed of the truck. If Jojo could go back, so could I.

The place was quieter this time, late afternoon sun slanting through the plastic greenhouse roof and making the seedlings glow.

Danny was at the back, restocking the watering cans.

He noticed me instantly, a faint flicker of something like recognition in his expression.

Not quite a smile, but not a grimace either.