Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Daphne
Thursday morning dawned gray and cool, with clouds rolling in that promised rain by afternoon.
I stood on my porch with my first cup of coffee, mentally running through my supplies.
I'd been putting off a trip to town, preferring the solitude of my property, but I was running low on basics—flour, sugar, coffee beans.
Things I couldn't produce myself, no matter how self-sufficient I tried to be.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I could grow almost everything I needed, preserve it, store it, make it last. But some things required venturing back into the world I'd tried so hard to keep at arm's length.
"Just get in, get out," I muttered, finishing my coffee and heading inside to grab my bag and keys. "No lingering, no conversations beyond what's necessary."
The drive into Haven's Rest was quiet, the road winding through pine forests. I kept my windows cracked despite the starting of crisp early morning air, breathing in the scent of damp earth and coming rain. This was the part of town trips I didn't mind—the journey itself, the solitude of the drive.
It was the destination that made my shoulders tense.
I parked on the street outside Morrison's Corner Store, a small family-owned place that had been there for as long as anyone could remember.
It was quieter than the main grocery store, and less likely to be crowded.
Mrs. Morrison knew me well enough to check me out without attempting prolonged small talk, which made it my preferred option for supply runs.
The bell above the door chimed as I entered, and the familiar scent of old wood floors and produce greeted me. Mrs. Morrison looked up from behind the counter, offering a small crinkled smile and a nod. I returned both, grateful she understood my preference for minimal interaction.
I grabbed a basket and started working my way through my mental list. Flour first—I was completely out and had planned to make bread this weekend.
Then sugar, coffee beans—the good dark roast Mrs. Morrison special-ordered from a roaster two towns over.
I was debating between two types of honey when I heard the bell chime again, followed by heavy footsteps and a cheerful greeting.
"Morning, Mrs. Morrison! How's business?
" The voice was deep, warm, with an easy confidence that made me glance up despite myself.
The Alpha who'd just entered was tall—though not quite as tall as Garrett—with sun-streaked blond hair that looked like he spent more time outdoors than in.
He wore work clothes, jeans and a canvas jacket, and moved with the kind of unselfconscious grace that suggested someone comfortable in their own skin.
I turned back to the honey, trying to be invisible. Just another customer, nothing notable, no reason for interaction.
"Can't complain," Mrs. Morrison replied. "Oliver called earlier about that lumber order. Said it'll be ready by tomorrow."
"Perfect. I'll swing by the yard to pick it up." The Alpha's footsteps moved deeper into the store, and I relaxed slightly. He was here for his own errands, not to bother me.
I selected the local wildflower honey and moved toward the baking aisle, mentally checking off items. Baking powder, vanilla extract, a bag of—
I turned the corner and collided directly with a solid chest, my basket jolting hard enough that the honey jar wobbled dangerously. Strong hands caught my shoulders, steadying me, and I found myself looking up into bright blue eyes that crinkled at the corners with instant concern.
"Whoa, sorry about that," the Alpha said, his hands still on my shoulders. "I wasn't watching where I was going."
I stepped back quickly, and he released me immediately, hands raised in apology. "It's fine. My fault."
"Pretty sure it was mine." He grinned, a dimple appearing in his left cheek. "I was trying to read a text and walk at the same time. My pack keeps telling me that's a bad habit."
His pack. The words registered slowly, and I found myself really looking at him for the first time. Blond hair, blue eyes, easy smile, work clothes that suggested construction or logging. And that faint scent beneath the soap and fresh air—cedar and sawdust.
"You're one of them," I said before I could stop myself.
His eyebrows rose. "One of...?"
"The pack that moved into the Henderson property." I clutched my basket tighter, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. "Sorry. That sounded accusatory."
"A little," he agreed, but he was still smiling. "Though I guess that depends on whether being 'one of them' is a good thing or a bad thing in your book."
I didn't answer, suddenly very interested in the shelf of flour behind him.
He studied me for a moment, and I could practically feel the pieces clicking into place. "You're Daphne."
It wasn't a question. My eyes snapped back to his face, defensive walls slamming into place. "How do you—"
"Garrett can't seem to stop talking about you." He extended a hand, that easy grin still in place. "Levi. I handle the business side of our operation, which means I get to hear about everything. Including mysterious neighbors with impressive gardens.”
I looked at his offered hand like it might bite me. After a long moment, I shook it briefly, my grip firm despite my reluctance. His hand was warm, calloused from work, and he released mine without any of the lingering that some Alphas seemed to think was charming.
"I'm not mysterious," I said, moving to step around him. "I'm just private."
"Nothing wrong with that." He shifted his basket to his other hand but didn't move out of my way. "Though I have to say, after hearing Garrett's descriptions, I was picturing someone a little more... intimidating."
Despite myself, I felt my lips twitch. "Disappointing?"
"Not at all. Just different." His expression turned thoughtful. "Garrett said you were guarded. He didn't mention you were..."
He trailed off, and I raised an eyebrow. "Was what?"
"Short," he finished, grinning. "I mean, not short-short, but the way he talked, I expected someone seven feet tall and made of thorns."
A surprised laugh escaped before I could stop it, and Levi's grin widened like he'd won something. "There we go. See? Not so scary."
"I never claimed to be scary," I muttered, but I could feel my defenses wavering slightly. There was something disarming about him—not in the intense, too-perceptive way Garrett had, but in a lighter, more playful manner that was harder to bristle at.
"No, but you're doing a pretty good impression of a porcupine right now." He tilted his head, studying me with open curiosity. "All prickled up and ready to run."
"I'm not running. I'm shopping." I told him defensively, though he really wasn’t wrong. I did have the urge to run the other way now I knew what pack he was a part of.
"Uh-huh." He glanced at my basket, which contained exactly three items. "Very decisive shopping. You've almost got a full basket there."
I narrowed my eyes at him, my lip curling up, "Are you always this annoying?"
"According to my pack? Yes." He seemed entirely unbothered by the accusation. "But I prefer to think of it as persistently charming."
"That's not what I'd call it." I muttered, but I knew by the look on his face he heard me.
"What would you call it?" He grinned, eyes bright as he kept talking to me.
"Pushy." I breathed out as I shook my head at the man…this Alpha before me.
He laughed, the sound genuine and warm. "Fair enough. Though in my defense, I'm not trying to push. I'm just making conversation with someone who ran into me. Literally."
"You ran into me." I glared, and he had even admitted to that a few moments ago.
"Pretty sure we ran into each other." He said teasingly. I knew he was just trying to get a reaction from me as I watched him shift his weight, somehow managing to look both relaxed and attentive. "But I'm willing to take full blame if it makes you feel better."
I didn't know what to do with him. Garrett had been intense, all careful attention and patient observation. Oliver had been direct, authoritative. But Levi was... playful. Like this was all a game he found genuinely entertaining, with no pressure for me to play along.
It should have been easier to dismiss. Instead, it was somehow more disarming.
"I need to finish my shopping," I said, trying to sound firm.
"Don't let me stop you." He stepped aside with an exaggerated gesture of courtesy. "Though if you need any recommendations on flour, I'm your guy. I've been trying to perfect my sourdough starter for months."
I paused despite myself. "You bake?"
"Trying to. Emphasis on trying." He grimaced. "So far I've produced approximately one edible loaf and seven hockey pucks. But I'm stubborn."
"Sourdough's tricky," I heard myself say. "The starter needs a consistent temperature and feeding schedule. Most people give up too soon."
His face lit up. "See, this is exactly the kind of advice I needed. Garrett mentioned you do fruit and vegetables but sometimes do preserves and baking for the market as well. Think you'd be willing to share any tips?"
I should have said no. Should have made an excuse and moved on. But there was something about his genuine enthusiasm, the way he'd admitted his failures without ego, that made me hesitate.
"The temperature is key," I said slowly. "Too cold and it won't ferment properly. Too hot and you'll kill the yeast. You want it somewhere around seventy-five degrees, consistent."
Levi pulled out his phone, actually taking notes. "Seventy-five degrees. Got it. And the feeding schedule?"
"Once a day if you're keeping it on the counter. Every few days if you store it in the fridge. Equal parts flour and water by weight, remove half the starter before feeding." I told him, reciting all the information by heart to him.
"By weight," he repeated, typing rapidly. "Okay, I've been measuring by volume. That might be my problem."