Chapter 4
FOUR
Ro
I'd been in love with Michelle for six months before I ever met her.
Not that I'd realized it at the time. I'd told myself our email rapport was just good professional chemistry.
That I looked forward to her messages because she was efficient and competent.
That I reread her responses because I was checking for details, not because I enjoyed the way she structured her thoughts.
I'd been lying to myself spectacularly well.
Then I'd caught her at Pike Place Market, and every careful lie I'd built had shattered instantly.
Now I was unpacking my camera equipment in her childhood home, trying to be calm and professional while my alpha screamed that our omega was thirty feet away behind a closed door.
"You're spiraling," Dex observed from the doorway of my green guest room.
"I'm organizing."
"You've arranged those camera batteries three times."
I looked down at the perfectly aligned row of batteries on the dresser. "I'm ensuring optimal accessibility."
"You're spiraling."
I gave up the pretense and sat on the bed. "She set ground rules. Professional boundaries. Slow. Time to figure things out."
"Which is reasonable."
"Which is torture." I ran a hand through my hair, dislodging my baseball cap. "Do you know how long I've been talking to her? Six months of emails. Six months of inside jokes and efficient communication and feeling like I'd found someone who understood how I think. And then I meet her and she's—"
"Everything," Dex finished quietly.
"Everything," I agreed. "And now I have to be patient and professional and not overwhelm her when every instinct says claim, protect, keep."
"Welcome to the club. Lucas is baking stress cookies with her right now trying not to combust from proximity."
Despite everything, I smiled. "How's that going?"
"He's covered in flour and looking at her like she hung the moon. So, about as well as expected."
I stood and went to the window. It overlooked the backyard, the massive Douglas fir, the barn, the workshop. Beyond that, forest. The property was beautiful, peaceful.
"I keep thinking about her emails," I said quietly. "All those months, we were building something. She just didn't know it was pack."
"She knows now."
"And she's terrified." I turned back to Dex. "What if we can't prove we're worth the risk? What if her career really is more important than the bond?"
"Then we respect that," Dex said firmly. "But Ro, she invited us here. She's not running anymore. That means something."
He was right. Michelle had stopped running. That was progress.
I just had to be patient enough to let her set the pace.
The next morning, I woke early, old habits from years of chasing the perfect light for shots. The house was quiet, dawn just starting to paint the sky outside my window.
I grabbed my camera and headed downstairs, thinking I'd scout the property for potential filming locations. If Michelle agreed to let Lucas stream from here, I'd need to know the best spots for natural light, for framing, for that cozy aesthetic Lucas's viewers loved.
The kitchen light was on.
I paused in the doorway, and there she was.
Michelle stood at the counter in pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt, her dark hair loose and messy, no makeup, making coffee with the kind of automatic movements that spoke of routine. She looked soft and unguarded and absolutely beautiful.
She hadn't seen me yet.
I should have announced myself. Should have made noise, given her warning, respected her space.
Instead, I watched her for a moment, memorizing the way she moved in her safe space, the way the early morning light caught her profile, the way her scent (peppermint and pine, with none of the sharp panic from Pike Place) filled the kitchen like welcome.
She was home. This was her territory, her nest in a way. And she'd let us into it.
My alpha purred softly.
Michelle's head snapped up, her eyes meeting mine across the kitchen.
For a moment, we just stared at each other. Her guard was completely down, her professional mask nowhere in sight. This was Michelle before the world, before the walls, just... her.
"Sorry," I said quietly. "Didn't mean to startle you. I was going to scout the property for filming locations."
"At six AM?"
"Best light is early morning or late evening. I'm chasing the golden hour."
Something in her expression softened. "Of course you are. You're always thinking about the shot."
"It's what I do." I moved into the kitchen slowly, giving her space to retreat if she wanted. "Coffee smells good."
"Want some?"
"If you're offering."
She pulled down a second mug, and I noticed she didn't ask how I took it. Just added cream and one sugar, exactly right, and handed it to me.
"How did you know?" I asked.
Michelle's cheeks flushed slightly. "You mentioned it once. In an email. Six months ago. You were complaining about a coffee shop getting your order wrong."
She'd remembered. From one casual mention in a professional email six months ago.
My alpha wanted to purr, to press close, to mark her as ours right there in her mother's kitchen.
Instead, I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and said, "Thank you."
We stood in comfortable silence, drinking coffee as dawn light slowly filled the kitchen. Outside the window, I could see the backyard taking shape in the growing light, perfect for filming, actually. The Douglas fir would make an excellent backdrop.
"You're planning shots," Michelle observed.
"Always. Can't turn it off."
"I know the feeling. I'm always planning schedules and strategies. Even now, part of my brain is working through your content calendar."
"Even though we're supposed to be separating professional and personal?"
"Professional Michelle doesn't have an off switch." She took another sip of coffee. "It's kind of a problem."
"It's kind of amazing," I corrected. "You built an entire business on that drive."
"Built a business, destroyed my work-life balance, forgot how to relax." She shook her head. "Sasha, my best friend, says I've been running from anything personal since my dad died."
"Are you?" I asked gently. "Running?"
Michelle was quiet for a long moment, staring into her coffee like it held answers.
"I don't know how to not run," she finally admitted. "Emotions are messy. Unpredictable. Relationships end badly. But work? Work has clear metrics. Clear goals. I can control work."
"You can't control a pack bond."
"No." She looked up at me. "Which is why it's terrifying."
I wanted to close the distance between us. Wanted to cup her face and promise her that letting go of control wouldn't mean losing herself. That we'd catch her.
But we'd agreed to slow. To boundaries. To letting her set the pace.
So instead I said, "Want to help me scout locations? Show me Cedar Falls through your eyes?"
She blinked, surprised. "Now?"
"If you're free. Unless you have work—"
"I always have work. But..." She glanced out the window at the growing light. "Location scouting actually is work. I need to approve any filming locations before Lucas goes live."
"Very professional reasoning."
"I'm a very professional person." But she was almost smiling. "Give me twenty minutes to get dressed."
She disappeared upstairs, and I leaned against the counter, processing.
She'd remembered how I took my coffee from one email six months ago. She'd been paying attention too. Building something without realizing it was pack.
Maybe we had more foundation than I'd thought.
Twenty minutes later, Michelle appeared in jeans and a sweater, hair pulled back, professional mask firmly in place. But I'd seen her without it now, soft and unguarded in her kitchen, and I knew what was underneath.
"I'm driving," she announced. "You film. That way I can multitask."
"Works for me."
Her car was an older crossover, well-maintained but clearly loved. The interior smelled like her, peppermint and pine everywhere. My alpha was very happy to be in her space.
"Okay," Michelle said as she pulled out of the driveway. "You want cozy holiday content, right? Small-town Christmas vibes?"
"That's Lucas's brand."
"Then I know exactly where to take you."
We drove through Cedar Falls as the town woke up. Shop owners were opening, stringing lights, setting out holiday displays. People waved at Michelle's car, she clearly knew everyone here, was part of the fabric of this place.
This was where she'd grown up. Where she'd learned to be driven and ambitious, but also where she'd learned about family and home and roots.
I filmed through the window as she drove, catching the early morning light on storefronts, the way Christmas decorations glowed against historic brick, the small-town charm that would make excellent B-roll.
"Town square," Michelle announced, pulling into a parking spot near a gazebo. "This is peak Cedar Falls Christmas."
I climbed out with my camera, and she was right. The square was perfect, gazebo wrapped in garland and lights, a massive Christmas tree, historic buildings forming a picturesque backdrop. Even this early, it was beautiful.
I started filming, but my lens kept drifting to Michelle.
She stood near the gazebo, looking around with an expression that was part nostalgia, part fondness. This place meant something to her. This was home.
"You're filming me again," she said without looking at my camera.
"You're part of the location. You make it more interesting."
"I'm not content."
"You're everything," I said quietly.
She did look at me then, and something in her expression shifted. Not quite fear, not quite hope. Something in between.
"Ro—"
"Sorry. Professional boundaries. I know." I lowered the camera. "But you are beautiful, Michelle. Especially here, in your town, with your guard down."
"My guard isn't down."
"It was this morning. In the kitchen. Before you remembered to be scared."
She looked away. "I'm not scared of you."
"You're scared of what we represent. Loss of control. Emotional vulnerability. Depending on someone."