Chapter 5
Milk, Cinnamon, And Terrible Decisions
~HAZEL~
Nothing good ever comes from having multiple Alphas in your kitchen. It's like inviting sharks to a blood drive.
The afternoon light slants through my bakery windows, catching flour motes that dance like snow in a disturbed globe.
I'm trying very hard not to watch Rowan's shoulders work as he excavates my oven's internal organs, trying harder not to notice how his white undershirt has gone translucent with sweat in places that make my omega hindbrain whimper.
Stop it. You're not a horny teenager. You're a grown woman with a business and baggage and—
The bell chimes, salvation in the form of another complication.
"Neighborly milk delivery!"
Levi Maddox shoulders through my door like sunshine had a baby with a golden retriever and taught it to walk upright.
He's carrying a wooden crate that would make most people grunt with effort, but he handles it like it weighs nothing, setting it on my counter with a flourish and a wink that should require a permit.
Jesus, they travel in packs now?
"I didn't order—" I start, but he's already unpacking glass bottles that gleam in the afternoon light, their contents so pristinely white they look like liquid innocence.
"Consider it a welcome-back-to-civilization gift," he says, and his honey-butter scent rolls through the bakery like August afternoons and first kisses. "Plus, I heard someone's been making cinnamon rolls that could make angels weep, and I figure those angels deserve quality dairy."
It's easier to breathe around Levi. His presence doesn't press the way Rowan's does—it seeps, warm and coaxing, like butter melting into fresh bread.
Where Rowan's cedar smoke makes me want to bare my throat in submission or violence (I can never decide which), Levi's honeyed warmth just makes me want to. .. relax.
Dangerous. That's even more dangerous.
"The partnership thing," I gesture vaguely toward the window where the banner mocks me with its existence. "Ranch and fire department. That's new."
"Yeah, well." He leans against my counter, and the movement is studied casualness, performed ease. "Turns out rescued ranch animals are great therapy for kids who've been through trauma. Fire department brings the kids, we provide the animals and space. Win-win."
"How altruistic."
"We're regular saints," he agrees, grin widening. "Halo's in the shop, though. Kept catching on doorways."
From under the oven, Rowan snorts. "Your halo caught fire years ago, Maddox."
"That was one time," Levi protests. "And technically, it was your fault for daring me."
"You lit yourself on fire to prove you could juggle flaming batons."
"And I could. Just not for very long."
They're comfortable with each other. Easy. The kind of comfortable that comes from years of friendship, shared disasters, mutual survival.
I find myself leaning against the opposite counter, watching their dynamic like it's a nature documentary. Alphas in Their Natural Habitat: Deadly but Occasionally Amusing.
That's when I see him.
Through the window, across the street, standing by the firehouse entrance like a shadow given form—Luca Maddox.
He's perfectly still in the way predators get right before they strike.
Dark hair tied back, showcasing those sharp cheekbones that could cut glass and a jaw that belongs in museum exhibits labeled "Weapons of Omega Destruction.
" His storm-gray eyes are fixed on my bakery with laser focus, and even from here, even through glass and distance, I can feel the weight of that stare.
Why is he watching? What does he want?
My pulse kicks up, that sick-sweet flutter that says my body recognizes a hunter even if my brain wants to pretend otherwise. There's something about Luca's stillness that's more threatening than action—like he's cataloguing everything, filing it away for later use.
I turn away too quickly, my elbow catching the container of cinnamon sticks I keep by the register.
Of course.
They explode across the counter in a cascade of aromatic chaos, rolling every direction like fleeing prey. The scent blast is immediate—spice and heat and the ghost of everything I bake to keep the darkness at bay.
"Shit," I mutter, scrambling to collect them before they escape to the floor.
Levi's there instantly, those ranch-worn hands helping gather the runaway spices. "Nervous?"
"Why would I be nervous?" I snap, hyper-aware that Luca's still watching through the window. "It's just Tuesday. Random Alpha invasion Tuesday. Totally normal."
"We do travel in packs," Levi says, amused. "It's more efficient for terrorizing unsuspecting Omegas."
"I'm not unsuspecting. I'm suspicious as hell."
"Good instinct—"
The bell explodes open, and chaos incarnate arrives in the form of Reverie Bell.
"Holy mother of hormones!"
My best friend bursts through the door like a blonde hurricane, curls bouncing with enough energy to power the eastern seaboard. Her eyes are comedy-wide, and she's fanning herself with both hands in a gesture that belongs in a Victorian drama about the vapors.
"So that's the firefighter who looks like sin dipped in muscles and rolled in 'daddy issues,'" she stage-whispers.
Except it's not a whisper. It's not even close to a whisper. It's practically a megaphone announcement to all of Main Street.
Rowan freezes mid-wrench-turn. I can see the tips of his ears go red from where he's still pretzel-ed under my oven.
Levi chokes on what might be a laugh or his own spit.
I want to spontaneously combust. Just burst into flames right here and let them explain that to the insurance company.
"Reverie," I hiss, but she's already swept into the kitchen like she owns it, which honestly, she might as well.
"Don't mind me," she trills, dropping her purse on my clean counter with zero regard for the laws of hygiene or my sanity. "I'm just here to witness— Oh. Oh, there's two of them."
She's spotted Levi, who's watching her like she's a particularly interesting species of exotic bird. One that might explode.
"Three, actually," Levi supplies helpfully, pointing toward the window. "Luca's on guard duty."
Reverie whips around so fast her curls create their own weather system. "Where— Oh sweet baby Jesus in a basket." She presses a hand to her chest. "They make them like that now? Is there a factory? Can I place an order?"
"We're naturally occurring," Levi says, and his grin has gone from friendly to something sharper. "No assembly required."
"Some assembly definitely required," Rowan mutters from under the oven, finally emerging with a grunt. There's a streak of grease across his cheek that absolutely doesn't make him look rugged and capable. "Your heating element's shot, Hazel, but I've jerry-rigged something that should hold—"
He stands as he talks, turning to face me fully, and his hand moves to gesture at the oven. I step back to give him space, he steps forward to show me something, and—
Contact.
His fingers brush my bare forearm. Just a whisper of skin on skin, callouses catching on the soft inner part where I'm most sensitive, where my ex used to—
No.
The reaction is immediate and catastrophic.
Heat floods my system like someone mainlined sunshine directly into my veins. Every nerve ending lights up in technicolor, my temperature spikes, and my scent—fuck, my scent—explodes through the bakery like a pheromone bomb.
Vanilla cream and cinnamon smoke, but underneath, that honeyed note that screams interested, available, choose me floods the space until it's thick enough to taste.
No, no, no, NO—
Rowan freezes mid-sentence, his pupils dilating so fast I can watch the gold get swallowed by black. His own scent doubles, trebles—cedar smoke and bourbon vanilla crashing through the air like a possession.
Levi's easy smile falters, falls, reshapes into something hungrier. His honey-butter warmth goes sharp, edged with clove and want.
Outside, through the window, Luca's head tilts. Even from here, I can see his nostrils flare.
They can all smell it. They can smell ME.
"I—" My voice cracks. I stumble backward, hip catching the counter hard enough to bruise. "It's the cinnamon rolls! New batch. Testing a recipe. Pumpkin spice with a, um, a vanilla cream swirl, very potent, very—"
"Hazel." Rowan's voice has dropped an octave, gone gravel and smoke.
"It's the recipe!" I insist, grabbing a towel to fan at the air like that could disperse three years of repressed omega hormones having a nervous breakdown. "Sometimes the spices, they just—the ratios get intense and—"
"That's not cinnamon rolls," Levi says slowly, and his eyes are doing something complicated, fighting between concern and biological imperative.
"It absolutely is," I lie with the desperation of someone whose body has just betrayed them in 4K. "Reverie, tell them about the cinnamon rolls."
Reverie, the traitor, just smirks. "Oh honey, that's definitely not pastries."
I'm going to murder her. Slowly. With a rolling pin.
The air in the bakery has gone thick, pressurized.
Three Alpha scents competing and combining, creating something that makes my knees want to buckle and my omega instincts want to present.
The rational part of my brain is screaming evacuate, but my body has other ideas, still humming from that barely-there touch.
"I need to—" I gesture vaguely toward the back. "Inventory. Yes. Urgent inventory situation."
I bolt for the storeroom, catching my hip on another counter because apparently my spatial awareness has fled along with my dignity. Behind me, I hear Reverie say cheerfully, "So, who wants to tell me about this charity event?"
The storeroom is blessedly cool, dark, filled with familiar scents of flour and vanilla extract and industrial chocolate. I press my back against the door and try to remember how to breathe without it sounding like a mating call.
What the fuck was that?
My arm still tingles where Rowan touched me. Just a brush of fingers, nothing remotely intimate, and my body went into full biological override. Three years of careful control, of suppressing every omega instinct, undone by an accidental touch.
This is why I stayed away. This is why I should KEEP staying away.
Through the door, I can hear voices—Reverie's bright chatter, Levi's easy responses, Rowan's lower rumble. They're talking about the charity event, about logistics and baked goods and time tables. Normal things. Like I didn't just scent-bomb them with three years of repressed attraction.
My fingers find the spot on my arm where Rowan touched. The skin feels branded, marked, even though I know that's impossible. Alphas can't mark through casual touch.
But it felt like marking. It felt like claiming. It felt like—
"Hazel?" Rowan's voice through the door, careful and controlled. "We're heading out. The oven should hold until you can get it properly serviced."
Properly serviced. Jesus, even his appliance repair innuendos are affecting me.
"Great!" I call back, voice only slightly manic. "Super great! Thanks for the... milk! And the oven fixing! Very neighborly!"
There's a pause. Then Levi: "We'll see you around, sunshine."
The bell chimes. Once, twice, three times as they leave.
I wait a full minute before emerging, finding Reverie perched on my counter like a cat who got into the cream, the butter, and possibly the entire dairy section.
"So," she says, examining her nails with theatrical casualness. "Want to talk about how you nearly went into heat from Deputy Fire Chief McDreamy barely touching your arm?"
"I want to talk about where to hide your body," I counter, but my voice lacks conviction.
She laughs, bright and knowing. "Honey, the way those three were looking at you? You're going to need bigger problems than a broken oven."
Through the window, I can see them by the firehouse. Rowan's head is bent toward Luca, clearly explaining something. Levi's gesturing animatedly, probably making it worse. And Luca—
Luca's looking back at the bakery.
At me.
His storm-gray gaze finds mine through glass and distance, and his lips curve in something that isn't quite a smile. It's darker. Promising.
Bigger problems indeed.
My arm still tingles where Rowan touched me.
My pulse still races from Luca's stare.
My skin still hums from the combined weight of three Alphas' attention.
"I'm so fucked," I whisper.
Reverie pats my shoulder sympathetically. "Yeah, but at least the view will be spectacular."
Outside, October continues its slow burn toward winter, and the charity event banner flaps like a war flag.
Or maybe a white flag of surrender.
With my luck, probably both.