Chapter 3 #2
His black t-shirt clings in all the wrong ways, OAKRIDGE FIREHOUSE stretched across his chest like a warning label. He fills the doorway, eclipse in human form, blocking out everything that isn't him.
"Hazel—" he says finally, and my name in his mouth after three years is a key turning in a lock I thought I'd changed.
I freeze.
Which means when I go to take another sip of coffee, my hand spasms.
The mug tips.
Coffee—scalding, pumpkin-spiced, and vindictive—cascades across the front of Rowan's shirt, right across where LIEUTENANT marks him as someone who saves people. Someone who didn't save me.
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear my dignity's death rattle.
Coffee streams down his abs in brown rivers, soaking into cotton that's seen better days. Steam rises from his chest like I've just attempted murder by beverage.
His eyes go wide—not angry, just surprised. Like he forgot I could still affect him.
"Shit!" The word rips out of me as I grab napkins, boundaries and self-preservation abandoned.
For a moment, we're frozen. Then I'm pressing paper towels to his chest—fuck, that's my palm against Rowan's pecs—solid muscle beneath worn cotton and now pumpkin coffee.
I'm basically petting him in public, dabbing at his sternum like that could erase three years of history along with the coffee stains.
He lets me. Which is either very kind or very cruel.
His scent doubles—Alpha pheromones mixing with embarrassment, surprise, and something warmer I refuse to name. It cuts through coffee steam and pumpkin-everything, marking the air as his.
Heat crawls up my neck, sets my hair follicles on fire. Every cell in my body switches to panic mode: Deflect, joke, dissociate, maybe just die right here.
"Hey," he manages, voice rough like he's been swallowing smoke. Then softer, "Hazel. Didn't mean to scare you."
"Scare?" I'm ninety percent mortification, ten percent wishing for death.
"Didn't expect you," I mumble into the napkins. "You're, um, early."
He blinks, then gives a low laugh that vibrates through where my hand still rests on his chest.
"Guess I should've called ahead. Maybe the coffee would've stayed in the cup."
God, his voice.
Deep enough to feel in your bones, steady even when surprised.
Like expensive bourbon poured slow, or gravel under bare feet, or every bad decision I've ever wanted to make.
My pulse hammers against my throat. My scent—fuck—is definitely spiking.
Cinnamon smoke and vanilla, but underneath that, the honey-sweet note that says interested even when I'm not.
I realize I'm still rubbing circles on his chest. Right over his—
I jerk my hand back so fast I nearly take out the cookie display.
Abort. Hide. Become one with the floor.
"Sorry," I fumble, shoving coffee-soaked napkins into my mug. "Reflex. I have a thing about messes."
To prove it, I aggressively realign the pumpkin scone basket, determined to look anywhere but at him.
He grins—crooked, dangerous, the kind they put on book covers with warnings about explicit content.
"Not the worst hello I've ever gotten. Though you might've ruined my only clean shirt."
I have ninety responses loaded, but they all die in my throat.
Instead, I focus on safer things—the glaze pooling at the basket's edge, maple on my thumb, anything except Rowan Cambridge's Alpha pheromones dismantling three years of carefully constructed walls.
Around us, the bookstore stirs back to life. Browsers pretend not to stare at the scene: the local Omega baker, shaking like a leaf, face flushed, and the giant Alpha firefighter looming over her, soaked in seasonal shame.
My cheeks burn hot enough to bake on.
I risk looking up.
He's still staring—two parts concern, one part something my ego wants to call longing. His gaze drops to my lips for just a heartbeat, then back to my eyes.
"Hazel—really, it's fine. You doing okay?" There's a softness that wasn't there before. An apology for things neither of us can say.
I want to say yes. I want to say, "I'm a professional, nothing affects me, especially not six-foot-six firefighters who smell like my next breakdown." But the words get tangled in late-night memories, muscle memory, the ghosts of pack dynamics gone wrong.
Instead, I say nothing.
Just hold the embarrassment close and pray for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
My hands keep moving without permission—smoothing napkins, realigning cookies, stacking promotional cards. I focus on the work, on fighting back against Rowan's pheromones with pastry scents, on looking busy enough that maybe no one will notice my complete dissolution.
But his scent lingers, stubborn and supernatural.
He's close enough to reach across and pull me to him if he wanted.
He doesn't.
But he doesn't leave either.
The standoff lasts one heartbeat. Two. Three.
If this were a horror novel, the narrator would say: "She'd survived the first wave, but the storm was just beginning..."
The bell chimes.
The pack.
They move in perfect synchronization—Levi Maddox charging ahead like sunshine weaponized, Luca following in his shadow, silent and twice as dangerous.
The space they command is obscene. Neither has spoken, but the air changes, pressurizes, becomes something you could drown in.
Their scents hit like a fucking train.
Levi strikes first: honey butter biscuits and vanilla chai, whipped cream and orange peel.
It should be comforting. Instead, it's overwhelming—aggressive sweetness that makes my teeth ache and my omega instincts whimper.
If someone weaponized comfort food and gave it hunting instincts, this is what it would smell like.
Then Luca—darker, meaner. Molasses gingerbread and black coffee, bitter enough to hurt. Smoked oak and allspice, not trying to comfort anyone. It's the scent of the storm's eye, the calm that comes before everything goes to hell, the voice in your head that says you should have known better.
All three together—Rowan's smoke, Levi's false sunshine, Luca's calculated darkness—create what can only be called an Alpha convergence. My knees call it a threat. My omega hindbrain calls it something else entirely.
The bookstore is too small for this much predator.
Levi zeros in on me immediately. His smile is practiced, performative, designed to disarm.
"Oh, this is perfect. Getting into hot water already?" He doesn't wait for Rowan to explain, suddenly beside us, examining the coffee stain with theatrical disappointment. "I thought you preferred your coffee black, not... wearing it."
I snort—involuntary, automatic.
He winks. "Just saying, someone should've warned her how jumpy you get in public."
Rowan's jaw tightens with fond resignation. This is routine for them—Levi torpedoing tension with all the finesse of a sledgehammer.
"Hazel was helping," Rowan says, but the way he looks at me says please don't run and I know what you're thinking and I'm sorry all at once.
Before I can dissociate properly, Levi turns his full attention on me.
Jesus Christ.
Six-one of calculated country charm. Butter-blond hair in studied disarray, falling over a forehead that's seen just enough sun to look wholesome. Mismatched green-gold eyes—genetic lottery winner—that crinkle at the corners when he smiles, which is constant.
Plaid shirt with rolled sleeves showing off forearms that have definitely been in a few bar fights. A pumpkin bandana around his wrist because he commits to the bit. Scuffed boots that have seen real work or at least want you to think so.
Bachelor Alpha, Autumn Edition. Probably has a calendar deal.
But up close, the honey-butter scent has edges—clove underneath, getting stronger the longer he stands there. My body responds without permission, breathing him in, cataloguing, categorizing, remembering what Alphas can do when they smile like that.
"Didn't know you worked events, Hazel. These your famous cinnamon rolls?" He picks one up, inspects it like it might contain secrets. Another unnecessary wink. "You've got a fan club at the ranch, just so you know."
I know. That's the problem.
I try for cool. What comes out: "Can't stop, won't stop. Carbs are my love language."
Levi laughs—loud, practiced, designed to make you feel special. "See? Meant to be." He claps Rowan's shoulder. "She's the reason we survived last winter. Pretty sure I'd be six pounds lighter if Holloway Bakery didn't deliver."
Rowan grunts acknowledgment, but his eyes never leave me. Like if he blinks, I'll vanish. Like he knows I want to.
Meanwhile, his twin lurks at the periphery like a beautiful storm system.
Luca Maddox is shadow incarnate. Same height as Levi, broader through the chest, built for violence and keeping secrets.
His hair—espresso dark, nearly black under the fake orange lights—has a copper streak that catches light like a warning.
Tied back tonight, emphasizing cheekbones that belong in black-and-white photos about dangerous men.
Storm-gray eyes, almost colorless from certain angles. Right now, they're calculating distances—between Rowan and me, between me and the exits, between what's happening and what could happen.
Black Henley that costs more than my monthly grocery budget, worn jeans with strategic mud splatter. Leather band on his wrist that's definitely hidden weapons, work gloves in his back pocket that have seen more than work.
He doesn't come closer. He doesn't need to.
Because his scent is doing all the work—gingerbread and espresso, smoke and bourbon, and underneath it all, bittersweet chocolate dark enough to hurt. It crowds out oxygen, makes thinking impossible. For one stupid second, I swear he's breathing at me on purpose, watching my pupils dilate.
His smirk lasts half a second, there and gone.
"You always assault customers with beverages, or is this the friends and family rate?"
No smile. Just razor-sharp delivery that cuts straight through my remaining defenses.
Christ, that's effective.