Chapter 2
2
EMMA
M istcrest Rural Airport is smaller than my apartment back home.
The entire arrivals area consists of one sad baggage carousel, a rental car desk with precisely zero people staffing it, and a coffee kiosk that looks like it might serve motor oil instead of caffeine.
Welcome to my two-week exile.
I grab my black duffle bag on wheels and head toward the exit.
The terminal is surprisingly crowded for such a tiny airport, a testament to the region’s popularity as a summer escape.
Families juggle luggage and excited children, couples lean into each other with vacation anticipation, and I’m suddenly, painfully aware of my solo status.
My phone pings with a notification from my rideshare app.
Twelve minutes until my driver arrives.
Good timing especially by the storm building in the sky over the mountains .
I make my way to the coffee kiosk, where a bored-looking teenager is scrolling through his phone.
He looks up when I approach.
“What can I get you?” he asks, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“Largest coffee you have, black as my soul.”
His mouth quirks.
“Rough flight?”
“Rough week,” I correct, sliding my card across the counter.
“One soul-black coffee coming up.”
While he prepares my drink, I scan the crowd, a writer’s habit.
I love people-watching.
My gaze snags on a familiar broad-shouldered silhouette near the exit.
Atlas stands with a small group of people, all wearing similar practical clothing.
Co-workers, maybe? I duck my head when he glances in my direction, pretending to be fascinated by the napkin dispenser.
“Here you go,” the barista says, sliding a cup toward me.
“Hope your week improves.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing the coffee and my luggage and making a beeline for the exit, carefully avoiding Atlas’s general vicinity.
Stepping outside, the wave of humidity that hits me is like walking into a steam room.
June in Whispering Grove means temperatures in the high eighties with humidity to match.
My thin cotton sundress suddenly feels like too much fabric, and I regret ordering hot coffee despite my emotional need for bitterness .
My phone pings again.
My driver has arrived, a blue sedan pulling up to the curb.
I wave to catch his attention and roll my bag toward him.
“Emma Collins?” the driver confirms as he pops the trunk.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Bob, your driver. So, is this your first time in Whispering Grove?” he asks as we drive away from the airport.
“Is it that obvious?”
He chuckles.
“Nah, just making conversation. Here for the summer festival?”
“There’s a festival?”
“Starts this weekend. Biggest event of the year for crafts, food, music. Whole town gets involved. Hotels book up months in advance.”
“Great,” I mutter and sip at my coffee.
Not only am I nursing a broken heart in a strange town, but I’ll be doing it surrounded by festival-goers having the time of their lives.
Perfect.
“Where you headed?” he asks.
“I’m staying at a rental cabin,” I explain, rattling off the address.
“I just need to drop off my duffle bag first. Then, if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind taking me back to town? I need to pick up some supplies before heading back, and I’d rather not lug the bag around with me.”
“No problem. Town’s gonna be packed, though. Brace yourself.”
Forty-five minutes later, my coffee cup is empty, and I’ve dropped off my duffle bag at the rental cabin.
Now, we’re back in town.
I see what the driver means.
Whispering Grove’s Main Street looks like it was plucked straight from a Hallmark movie, charming storefronts with colorful awnings, hanging flower baskets, old-fashioned lampposts, and currently, it’s swarming with people.
Every sidewalk cafe is filled, people window-shop in groups, and there’s a line outside an ice cream parlor despite the early hour.
In truth, it’s beautiful.
“You can let me out here,” I tell him, spotting a grocery store.
“I’ll call another ride when I’m ready to head to the cabin.”
He wishes me luck before pulling away.
I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, overwhelmed by the sheer humanity around me.
So much for my peaceful mountain getaway.
The grocery store is blessedly air-conditioned, and I take a moment to cool down before grabbing a basket.
I mentally run through my list, essentials for a two-week stay, plus comfort food.
Heartbreak demands chocolate and wine in medically inadvisable quantities.
I’m debating between cheap wine in large quantities versus good wine in smaller amounts when I hear it, a laugh that stops me cold, a sound that featured in countless brunches and girls’ nights before it became the soundtrack to my nightmares.
No. It can’t be.
But it is .
Megan stands at the end of the aisle, examining a bottle of sparkling water like it’s a fascinating artifact.
She looks precisely as she always does, sleek dark brown hair falling in a perfect curtain, designer jeans, and not a drop of sweat despite the heat outside.
A silk scarf is wrapped loosely around her neck, the fabric printed with a pattern of tiny gold moths swirling through inky blue.
Her scent, jasmine and leather with that underlying sour grape note I never quite liked, drifts toward me.
For a moment, I consider retreating.
I could abandon my basket, duck out the back, and avoid this confrontation entirely.
But then I remember her text on Chad’s iPad, and white-hot anger surges through me, overpowering any instinct for self-preservation.
Before I can reconsider, I’m marching down the aisle, my basket swinging dangerously from my arm.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I blurt out, my voice sharper than the fancy cheese knife Megan got me for my last birthday.
“Small world. Or should I say, small bed?”
Megan’s head whips around, her eyes widening in genuine shock.
“Emma? What are you?—”
“Doing here? Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.” I step closer, noticing with vicious satisfaction how she takes a small step back.
“Were you going to meet Chad here? Was that the plan? A romantic getaway while he was supposed to be in the cabin he booked with me? ”
Her perfectly contoured face pales.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? Because Chad’s iPad knows. It knows all about how you can’t wait to see him, Alpha.” I mimic her breathy, syrupy tone from the text I saw.
Megan glances around nervously.
We’re attracting curious stares from other shoppers, including an elderly woman who’s abandoned all pretense of shopping to watch our drama unfold.
“Emma, please,” Megan hisses, lowering her voice.
“This isn’t the place.”
“I’m sorry, is my public confrontation inconvenient for you? Next time I discover my friend is sleeping with my boyfriend, I’ll be sure to schedule it at a more appropriate venue.”
Megan reaches for my arm, but I jerk away.
“It’s not what you think.”
“Oh? So you weren’t texting Chad about whether he’d broken up with me yet? You weren’t planning to meet him?”
“I—” Megan falters, her calculated composure slipping.
“It’s complicated.”
“It’s really not.” I laugh, a brittle sound that doesn’t remotely resemble humor.
“It’s actually incredibly simple. You’re a backstabbing fake friend, and he’s human garbage. See? Simple.”
Megan’s expression hardens.
“You don’t understand. You never saw what was right in front of you. Chad and I… we have something special. A real scent bond. Something you and he never had. ”
The words are like a slap to the face.
Chad had said almost the exact same thing to me.
To hear it echoed by someone I’d considered a friend twists the knife deeper.
“A real scent bond,” I repeat flatly.
“So special he couldn’t tell me the truth about why? You two deserve each other.” I’m fuming, my breaths coming fast.
“He was trying to spare your feelings,” Megan insists.
“He cares about you, just not... not like that.”
“Spare me,” I snap.
“If either of you cared about my feelings, you wouldn’t have been sneaking around behind my back. How long has this been going on?”
Megan at least has the decency to look uncomfortable.
“Emma...”
“How. Long,” I push.
She drops her gaze. “Three months.”
Three months.
I’m sick to my stomach.
A quarter of my relationship with Chad was spent in complete ignorance while my supposed friend was with him behind my back.
Every girls’ night when she asked about him, every sympathetic nod when I confessed my concerns, every you two are so cute together —all lies.
The shop is spinning with me.
“Were you ever actually my friend?” I ask, hating the catch in my voice, and I feel my chest tightening.
Something flickers across her face.
“Of course I was. I am. This... it just happened.”
“Things don’t just happen, Megan. You make choices. Both of you made choices. ”
“Like you’ve never made a mistake,” she snaps, her own anger finally surfacing.
“You’ve always been so perfect, so special. Emma, the successful author. Emma, with her talent, her career, and her life together. Maybe if you’d paid more attention to Chad instead of your precious books, he wouldn’t have looked elsewhere.”
My mouth drops open.
The old woman watching us gasps audibly.
I’m momentarily speechless, blindsided by the venom in her words.
“So, it’s my fault,” I say slowly.
“I was too successful, too focused on my career, so naturally, the appropriate response was for him to cheat with my friend.”
“That’s not what I?—”
“No, I think that’s exactly what you meant.” I set my basket on the floor, suddenly exhausted.
“You know what? Have him. Have this trip. Have all of it. I don’t need either of you in my life.”
I turn to leave, but Megan grabs my arm.
“Emma, wait. I didn’t come here to meet Chad. I’m here for work. The Tideline Tribune sent me to cover the literary panel at the festival for the local paper. I had no idea you’d be here.”
I blink at her, ripping my arm free while processing this new information.
Megan has been the features editor at our hometown magazine in Moonshell Bay for three years now.
It’s the kind of publication that covers artisanal coffee shops and beach cleanups with equal enthusiasm, quintessentially small-town but with aspirations of cosmopolitan relevance.
Exactly the sort of place where everyone knows everyone’s business, which is why I’d been so careful to keep my breakup quiet.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell her, feeling myself shaking, and I’m surprised to realize I mean it.
“Even if you’re telling the truth, it doesn’t change what you did. What you both did.”
Her expression shifts to something almost pleading.
“Can we at least talk? Properly? Maybe over coffee?”
“Fuck no.” The words come out firm and final.
“I don’t have anything else to say to you.”
I walk away, leaving my abandoned basket and a speechless Megan behind.
The elderly woman who’s been watching our exchange gives me an approving nod as I pass.
My hands are trembling, and my chest feels tight, as though I might either cry or scream, possibly both.
Outside the grocery store, the cheerful bustle of Main Street is jarring against my inner turmoil.
I need somewhere quiet, somewhere I can process what just happened.
And I need sugar to drown in, immediately, in whatever form I can get it.
Across the street, a storefront catches my eye.
A cozy-looking bakery with an old-fashioned sign reading Flour it’s doing you a solid. Better to find out Chad’s a walking red flag factory now than after you’ve picked out matching towels.”
“That’s a good way of looking at it.”
She leans in conspiratorially.
“Between us Omegas, I used to be the poster child for terrible Alpha choices. My dating history was so bad my friends started a betting pool on my next disaster.” She winks.
“But then I hit the Alpha jackpot… times three.”
“Oh, you’re one of the lucky ones.” I try to keep my tone light, but the words stick a little in my throat.
It’s hard not to wonder if that kind of happy ending is something people like me get…
or if it’s just the kind of story you hear from someone else’s life.
“What can I say?” She grins wickedly.
“I’m an overachiever. And let me tell you, it wasn’t on my vision board, more like my ‘when hell freezes over’ list.” She waves her hand dismissively.
“But that’s not the point. The point is, you’re not broken because some knothead Alpha couldn’t appreciate you. That’s like blaming the sunset for someone being colorblind.”
Her words stay with me, striking something raw and vulnerable beneath her humor.
“How do I move past it?”
“Step one: eat more cake. Step two: remember you’re Emma first, Omega second.” She takes a sip of her coffee.
“And step three: accept that your biology is just one chapter in your story, not the whole damn book. You just told me you literally write romance novels, you know the good ones are worth wading through the Chad-infested waters to find.”
I instantly move to hug her.
“You have no idea how good it feels to hear this.”
We chat until I’ve demolished the entire cake slice and drained my coffee.
Lily is funny with a sarcastic edge I immediately appreciate.
She tells me about growing up in Whispering Grove, about the summer festival I’ve unknowingly arrived for, and about her ridiculous obsession with true crime shows.
“I basically think I’m a detective now,” she admits with a laugh.
“My sister says I see conspiracies everywhere.”
“Are there many murders in Whispering Grove to solve?” I ask, amused.
“Sadly, no. But Mrs. Abernathy’s prize-winning petunias were suspiciously trampled last month, and I have theories.”
I laugh, surprised at how much better I feel after an hour in Lily’s company.
“This was what I needed. Thank you.”
“Anytime. Seriously, stop by whenever.” She glances at her watch.
“I hate to cut this short, but I’m meeting my friend Ruby for a drink. You should join us.”
I hesitate.
“I should probably get to my cabin and check in...”
“Come on,” she wheedles.
“Just for a bit. We’re just going across the street to Winterscape. Ruby owns it, best bar in town. You said yourself, you need something stronger than coffee.”
The thought of facing my rental cabin alone, with all its romantic getaway trappings, is suddenly unbearable.
“Okay,” I agree. “One drink.”
“That’s the spirit!” Lily stands, gathering our empty cups.
“Let me change out of my flour-coated clothes, and we’ll head over.”
Twenty minutes later, we cross Main Street to a building with a sleek, modern facade that stands out from the rest of the quaint storefronts.
A minimalist sign reads Winterscape .
“Don’t let the name fool you,” Lily says as we approach.
“Ruby actually hates winter and all things Christmas with a passion. The name is ironic.”
Inside, Winterscape is surprisingly cozy despite its modern exterior.
Warm wood, comfortable seating, and subtle lighting create an intimate atmosphere.
The bar itself is a magnificent piece of polished wood, behind which stands a woman with reddish-blond hair pulled into a messy bun and amber eyes that assess us as we enter.
“You’re late,” she calls to Lily as we approach.
“I made a friend,” Lily replies, unperturbed.
“Ruby, this is Emma. Emma, this is Ruby, owner of this fine establishment and collector of random bar coasters.”
Ruby’s sharp gaze softens slightly as it lands on me.
“Nice to meet you. Any friend of Lily’s is welcome here.”
“Emma needs a drink,” Lily announces.
“She caught her Alpha cheating with her friend.”
“Jesus, Lily,” I mutter.
“Tell the whole town, why don’t you?”
“Ruby isn’t the whole town,” Lily says cheerfully.
“Just the part of it that serves alcohol.”
Ruby doesn’t miss a beat.
“Cheating Alpha, huh? I know just the thing.” She pulls three glasses from under the bar.
“Join me?”
Before I can answer, she’s pouring amber liquid into the glasses and sliding them across the bar.
“What is it?” I ask, sniffing cautiously.
“Whiskey. Good whiskey.” Ruby, who I’m convinced is closer to my age of twenty-four, raises her glass.
“To men being disappointments and women being resilient.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Lily agrees, lifting her glass.
I raise mine, clinking it against theirs before taking a sip.
The whiskey burns pleasantly down my throat, warming me from the inside.
“So,” Ruby says, leaning on the bar.
“How bad was it?”
I give her the condensed version of my saga, which she listens to with an increasingly disgusted expression.
“What a complete waste of genetic material,” she declares when I finish.
“And the friend? Almost worse.”
“Almost?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Alphas being trash is practically expected, but another Omega betraying you?” Ruby shakes her head.
“That’s some next-level betrayal.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, the words rougher than I mean them to be as I take another sip of whiskey.
The burn is nothing compared to the twist in my chest, but at least it gives me something else to focus on.
“Listen,” Ruby says, her amber eyes serious.
“Men are like buses. Miss one, there’s always another coming. And sometimes the next one is nicer, cleaner, and doesn’t smell like someone died in it.”
I choke on my whiskey, laughing despite myself.
“That’s... weirdly specific.”
“I have a lot of bus-related trauma,” she says with a straight face before breaking into a grin.
“But the point stands. This Alpha wasn’t your last chance at happiness. He was just a stop on the route.”
“God, now you’re getting metaphorical,” Lily groans.
“Next, she’ll be telling you about the transfer tickets of life.”
Ruby swats her with a bar towel.
“My metaphors are excellent, thank you very much.”
Their banter makes me smile.
Looking at these two women, so comfortable with each other, so genuine, makes me realize how superficial my friendship with Megan had always been.
There was always a level of competition that I’d ignored, always a sense she was measuring herself against me.
“So, where are you staying while you’re in town?” Ruby asks, refilling our glasses with water.
“I rented a cabin a few miles outside town. The Pinecrest property?” I check my phone, realizing with a start that it’s almost 6 p.m. “Actually, I should probably head there soon and check in.”
Ruby’s eyebrows rise.
“Isolated place. Beautiful, though.”
“Good for writing your stories,” Lily adds.
“Oh, you should totally set your next book here in Whispering Grove! We could be characters.”
“I write fantasy, not small-town romance,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I feel the tiniest tug.
I’ve always craved the escape of far-off worlds, monsters, magic, battles bigger than real life in my books.
It’s easier than facing the mess of the everyday.
Still… there’s something about this place, as though it has its own kind of magic.
The kind that sneaks up on you with front porches, good coffee, and people who might just want you to stay .
“Even better. Make me a witch. I’ve always wanted magic powers, especially when dealing with difficult customers.” Lily wiggles her fingers like she’s casting a spell.
“I’d turn rude people into toads. Or maybe just make them compulsively overtip.”
I laugh.
“I’ll consider it.”
“Ooh! And I could solve magical mysteries!” Lily’s eyes light up.
“Like, ‘The Case of the Cursed Cupcakes’ or ‘Who Hexed the Honeybuns?’“
Ruby grins.
“If Lily gets to be a witch, I want to be a werewolf. I already work nights at the bar, and I’m grumpy during full moons, anyway.”
“Perfect!” Lily claps her hands.
“We could be a supernatural crime-solving duo. Ruby sniffs out the clues with her wolf senses, and I cast spells to trap the culprits.”
“I’d read that,” I admit, surprised by how much I’m enjoying this ridiculous conversation.
“What about Hannah?” Ruby asks.
“Your sister’s too sweet to be anything scary.”
Lily taps her chin thoughtfully.
“Fairy, definitely. Looks innocent but actually has ancient, terrifying power. Like, she smiles at you while simultaneously commanding an army of magical bees.”
We’re all giggling now as we build this absurd magical version of Whispering Grove.
The door behind the counter swings open, and a young, handsome, tall man with sleeve tattoos of nautical scenes steps through, carrying a box of supplies.
“Did I miss something?” he asks, eyeing our laughter.
“We’re casting Emma’s next fantasy novel,” Ruby explains.
“I’m a werewolf, Lily’s a witch, and Hannah’s a fairy queen.” She glances at me.
“This is Ash, my bar hand and sometimes bodyguard for the place. Ash, this is Emma. She’s in town for vacation.”
Ash sets the box down, revealing the charming gap between his front teeth when he smiles.
“What about me appearing in the story?”
“Hmm.” I study him, getting into the spirit.
“Maybe a selkie? You’ve got the whole Navy background, nautical tattoos...”
“Nah,” Ruby cuts in.
“He’s obviously a guardian griffin. Protector type with sharp eyes who can spot trouble from a mile away.”
“I like that,” Ash nods appreciatively.
“Do I get to fly?”
“And tear apart bad guys with your talons,” Lily adds cheerfully, then at my raised eyebrow, “What? Every good fantasy needs some violence.”
“You all are too much fun,” I say, yet I’m smiling.
“But you’ll write us into your book, right?” Lily presses, eyes sparkling.
“Maybe I will,” I answer, surprising myself.
“A witch, a werewolf, a fairy, and a griffin walk into a magical bakery...”
“...and solve magical crimes while eating supernatural pastries,” Lily finishes.
As we dissolve into another round of laughter, I realize I haven’t thought about Chad or Megan in over an hour.
Maybe Whispering Grove is exactly what I needed after all.
After promising to return to the bakery, I call a rideshare to take me to the cabin just as it starts to sprinkle outside, darkening the sky fast. The driver is less chatty than the first, which suits my increasingly tired state.
As we leave the main part of town, the road winds upward through thick forest. The trees grow denser, the houses more sparse, until finally, we turn onto a private drive marked Pinecrest Cabin.
“Pretty remote,” the driver comments as we approach.
“You staying here alone?”
“Oh… yeah, I’ve got friends meeting me later today,” I say, forcing a smile.
No way am I about to admit to a complete stranger that I’m here alone.
The cabin itself is beautiful.
A classic wooden building nestled among towering pines with a wide deck and large windows.
In other circumstances, I’d be thrilled by the romantic seclusion.
Now, I just hope the Wi-Fi is strong enough for streaming sad movies.
The driver leaves me alone in the darkening storm.
I punch in the four-digit code Chad gave me, back when we were still supposed to vacation here together, then step inside.
My duffle bag sits just where I left it earlier.
The cabin is just as charming inside as it is out: knotty pine walls, a stone fireplace, a cozy seating area, and a kitchen that opens into a small dining nook.
A spiral staircase leads up to the loft bedroom.
I reach for a light switch.
Nothing happens.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, trying another switch.
Still nothing.
I pull out my phone, relieved to see I have one bar of service, and call the number for the rental agency.
“Whispering Grove Rentals, this is Donna,” a cheerful voice answers.
“Hi, I’m checking into the Pinecrest Cabin, and there’s no power,” I explain.
“Oh, dear. There was a storm last night that knocked out some lines in that area. The electric company is working on it, but they’re backed up with the festival preparations.”
“So, when will it be fixed?” I almost gasp the words.
“They’re hoping by tonight.” Her voice is apologetic.
“There are flashlights in the kitchen drawers, and the water should still work since it’s on a well with a backup generator.”
“Great,” I say, not bothering to hide my sarcasm.
“Anything else I should know about? Bears? Axe murderers? Alien abductions scheduled for tonight?”
She laughs nervously.
“No, nothing like that. With the festival, most places are booked solid, or I would offer to find you another temporary location to stay.”
“It’s fine.” I sigh, remembering what both my rideshare drivers had said about accommodations.
“I’ll manage.”
“I’ll have someone out first thing tomorrow to check on things if the power hasn’t returned. And I’ll apply a discount for the inconvenience, of course.”
“Thanks,” I say and end the call.
I find the mentioned flashlights and even some candles in the kitchen drawers and set about making the place habitable.
Thankfully, the refrigerator isn’t fully stocked yet, so there’s nothing to spoil.
The stove is gas, at least, so I can make coffee in the morning with the French press I spot on the counter.
As I light candles, the romantic atmosphere they create feels like a cruel joke.
This is where Chad and I were supposed to spend two weeks together, where I thought he might finally mark me as his Omega with his bite.
Instead, I’m alone with flickering shadows and a growing sense of ridiculousness.
I heave my duffel bag upstairs and onto the bed, unzipping it, and I freeze.
The scent that wafts up isn’t mine.
It’s Chad’s, that familiar blend of sandalwood and citrus that used to make my heart race and now makes my stomach clench.
“What the hell?” I mutter, digging through the contents.
Men’s clothes. Chad’s favorite designer shirts meticulously folded.
His expensive toiletry kit.
His stupid protein powder.
Wait! This isn’t my bag.
It’s Chad’s. Our duffels are identical, both black with tan leather trim.
We’d bought them as a set last Christmas, laughing about how it was our first couple purchase.
Now, I’m standing here holding his packed bag, not mine.
“Why the hell would he have his bag packed?” The answer follows immediately, stealing my breath.
He was planning to move out of his place until I relocated, considering I moved across the country to move in with him.
His decision wasn’t spontaneous.
I sink down onto the edge of the bed, a shirt clutched in my hands.
The one I’d bought him for his birthday last month.
He must have decided to end things days, maybe weeks ago, and was just waiting for the right moment.
All those late nights at the office, the distracted conversations, the way he’d stopped scenting me in the mornings before work, it hadn’t been stress or tiredness.
He’d been mentally checking out of our relationship while I was still planning our future.
“God, I’m such an idiot,” I whisper, my voice catching.
Despite everything, despite telling myself I hate him, his scent still calls to something primal in me.
My Omega biology responds to the Alpha pheromones embedded in his clothes, making me ache for the security I thought I had with him.
I hate that my body betrays me like this.
Hate that I can hate him and miss him simultaneously.
Hate that he’s somehow managed to ruin even this, my escape, my chance to start fresh, by literally forcing me to sit in a cabin surrounded by his scent with none of my own things.
In a sudden burst of fury, I grab the duffel and upend it, scattering his belongings across the bed, including a plastic folder of documents inside, because, of course, he would pack work stuff whenever he travels.
He’s always been a workaholic.
I gather his things roughly, shoving them back into the duffel with none of the care he’d taken in packing.
The zipper catches on a sleeve, and I yank it so hard the fabric tears.
Good. Let something of his be damaged, too.
My phone vibrates with a text.
For one pathetic heartbeat, I hope it’s him, realizing the bag mix-up, concerned about me.
But it’s just my service provider welcoming me to Whispering Grove with a notification about roaming charges.
I wash my face with cold water from the tap, using one of Chad’s t-shirts as a towel out of spite.
Without any of my own clothes, I’m forced to borrow one of his shirts to sleep in.
The soft material feels like a betrayal against my skin, but it’s either that or sleep in my travel-worn clothes.
The bed is huge and inviting.
I spread my second slice of Lily’s Emergency Chocolate Situation cake on a napkin and settle onto the bed, using my phone flashlight to illuminate my impromptu dinner.
“Happy vacation to me,” I mutter, taking a bite of cake, and before I know it, I’ve finished the whole slice.
Outside, the forest sounds are punctuated by distant rumbles of thunder that seem to draw closer with each passing minute.
A flash of lightning briefly illuminates the trees, their shadows dancing across the cabin wall like restless spirits.
Night falls completely as the patter of rain begins—soft at first, then growing steadily more insistent against the roof and windows.
Under different circumstances, a summer storm in the mountains would be peaceful.
Now, it just underscores how utterly alone I am.
As I settle under the covers, my phone chimes with a text from my bestie, Jess.
How’s the Fuck Chad vacation going?
Drowning in wine yet?
I smile despite myself and type a response.
Currently holed up in a cabin with no electricity, eating emergency chocolate cake for dinner.
Ran into Megan—yes, that Megan—at the grocery store.
That was... fun. On the upside, made two new friends and tried some really good whiskey.
So, yeah, calling it a mixed bag.
Her reply comes quickly.
NO ELECTRICITY? And you MET Megan there?
I need details! Call me tomorrow!
Will do. If I survive the night without being eaten by bears .
Bears are the least of your worries.
Watch out for hot forest rangers instead.
More dangerous to your swear-off Alphas plan.
Snorting, I set my phone aside.
The idea of meeting any Alpha, hot or otherwise, is the furthest thing from my mind.
One day of emotional upheaval is quite enough.
I blow out the candles and curl under the covers.
I think about Atlas from the plane, of his woodsmoke, maple, and toasted sugar scent, his midnight eyes, and quickly shut down that train of thought.
The last thing I need is to start romanticizing every Alpha who crosses my path.
Tomorrow, I’ll get groceries properly and some clothes, too.
I’ll charge my devices and start working on my book.
I’ll take back control of this vacation and my life.
But for now, I let the exhaustion pull me under, thunder rumbling in my ears as sleep drags me down.