Chapter 7
Flowers And Other Bad Decisions
~HAZEL~
Morning rush at a bakery is its own special circle of hell, and today Satan decided to add Alphas to the mix.
The bell above my door hasn't stopped chiming for forty minutes straight.
A line of caffeine-deprived townspeople snakes from my register to the door, each one radiating that particular brand of pre-coffee murderous intent.
Mrs. Peterson wants her usual—bran muffin, no nuts, extra fiber, as if that'll fix forty years of emotional constipation.
Tommy Chen needs six bear claws for his construction crew, all while eyeing my cinnamon rolls like they hold the secrets to the universe.
My hands move on autopilot—bag, twist, smile, change, next—while my brain calculates inventory. Three dozen cookies left, maybe twenty muffins if I stretch the definition of "fresh," and please God let the coffee hold out until I can brew more.
The October morning presses against my windows, all golden light and dying leaves, mocking my indoor chaos with its pastoral bullshit. The bakery smells like yeast and cinnamon, and the faint desperation of a woman who's been up since 4 AM.
Then the bell chimes again, and everything goes sideways.
Levi Maddox walks in carrying sunshine.
No, wait—flowers?
Autumn wildflowers that look like someone murdered a craft store and arranged the corpse artistically.
Burgundy dahlias, orange cosmos, yellow something-or-others that probably have names but might as well be called "aggressive cheerfulness.
" He's holding them like a man who knows exactly what he's doing, which is the most dangerous kind of Alpha there is.
Nope. Not today. Not any day.
"Morning, sunshine," he says, and his voice carries over the coffee-starved masses like honey poured over broken glass—sweet but still capable of cutting.
Every head in my bakery swivels toward him. Mrs. Peterson's mouth actually falls open, revealing coffee-stained dentures. Tommy Chen drops a bear claw.
Levi doesn't notice—or pretends not to. He navigates the crowd with the fluid grace of someone used to moving through space like he owns it, which he probably does.
Six-foot-one of calculated country charm wrapped in worn flannel and jeans that fit like they were sewn onto him by angels with impure thoughts.
His honey-butter scent rolls through my bakery like August afternoons, coating everything in warmth and want. Vanilla chai and orange peel dance underneath, but there's that spike of clove that says danger even while the rest of him screams safety.
Don't trust it. Never trust it.
He sets the flowers on my counter like he's laying down weapons in a surrender, but his grin says this is anything but retreat.
"Delivery for the prettiest baker in Oakridge," he announces, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The audacity of this fucking Alpha.
"I'm the only baker in Oakridge," I point out, hands still moving—bag, twist, ring up Mrs. Henderson's sourdough while she gawks at Levi like he's the second coming.
"Doesn't make it less true," he says, and winks.
Actually winks.
In front of God, Mrs. Peterson, and my entire morning rush.
"Those'll be six-fifty, Mrs. Henderson," I say, ignoring him with the dedication of someone who's perfected avoidance as an art form. My spine stays rigid, professional smile locked in place like armor. "Would you like your receipt?"
"Is this your boyfriend, dear?" Mrs. Henderson asks, because subtlety died in this town around the same time as privacy.
"No," I say.
"Not yet," Levi adds cheerfully.
I'm going to murder him with a baguette.
"He's delusional," I tell Mrs. Henderson. "Probably all the time he spends around cattle. Cow fumes. Very dangerous."
"Cows don't have fumes," Levi protests.
"See? Brain damage."
Mrs. Henderson titters and takes her sourdough with a look that says this'll be all over town by lunch.
The line continues moving, but now everyone's watching us like we're the morning entertainment. Levi leans against my counter, patient as a hunter, those mismatched green-gold eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that belies his easy smile.
"You're disrupting my customers," I inform him, bagging Tommy's bear claws with perhaps more force than necessary.
"I'm enhancing their morning experience," he counters. "Dinner and a show, except it's breakfast and flowers."
"The flowers are unnecessary."
"The flowers are gorgeous. Like you."
Tommy Chen chokes on nothing. Someone in line whispers, "Smooth."
Kill me. Kill me now.
"I have work to do," I say pointedly. "Actual paying customers who want actual baked goods, not whatever this is."
"This is courting," Levi says, like we're living in a Jane Austen novel instead of modern-day Oakridge where people meet on apps and ghost each other after mediocre sex.
"We don't do courting anymore. This is the twenty-first century."
"Then consider it a hostile takeover."
"That's corporate speak for assault."
"Only if you're not into it." His grin widens. "Are you not into it?"
Before I can form a response that doesn't involve throwing hot coffee at another Alpha this week, Muffin saves me.
My cat—twenty pounds of tortoiseshell rage wrapped in fluff—emerges from her perch by the register like a kraken rising from the depths. Her green eyes lock onto Levi with the kind of focus usually reserved for laser sights and executioners.
She hisses.
It's not a normal cat hiss. It's the sound of demons being expelled, of hell gates creaking open, of every bad decision I've ever made manifested as feline fury.
"Muffin, no," I warn, but she's already in full attack mode, back arched, fur standing up like she's been electrocuted.
Levi, to his credit, doesn't flinch. Instead, he does something I don't expect.
He crouches down.
What the fuck is he doing?
"Hey there, beautiful," he says to my cat, voice dropping to something softer, warmer. "You protecting your mom? Good girl."
Muffin stops mid-hiss, confused by the lack of fear. Her head tilts, reassessing this Alpha who doesn't run from her theatrical display of violence.
"I get it," Levi continues, still crouched, making himself smaller. Less threatening. "Strange Alpha in your territory. You've got every right to be suspicious."
He extends his hand slowly, palm up, fingers relaxed. Not reaching for her, just...offering.
Don't do it, Muffin. Don't you dare—
She sniffs his fingers.
My attack cat, who once sent a delivery driver to the emergency room, who treats strangers like war criminals, who has the personality of a cactus wrapped in barbed wire—sniffs Levi Maddox's fingers like she's considering not murdering him.
"Traitor," I mutter.
"She knows quality when she sees it," Levi says, still focused on Muffin. "Don't you, gorgeous? You know I'm not here to hurt anyone."
Lies. All Alphas hurt. It's what they do.
But my traitorous cat is purring now—actually purring—as Levi scratches behind her ears with practiced ease. Like he's done this before. Like he understands cats and their particularly specific brand of insanity.
"How—" I start, then stop because admitting surprise gives him power.
"Ranch cats," he explains, still petting Muffin, who's now rubbing against his hand like a complete sellout. "We've got about fifteen. They keep the mice down, judge everyone who passes through. You learn their language or lose fingers."
From his pocket, he produces a treat—an actual cat treat, like he came prepared for this exact scenario.
"Can I?" he asks, looking up at me.
The morning light catches his eyes, turns them molten gold and forest green, and for a second, I forget why letting him near my life is a terrible idea.
"I—sure."
He holds the treat above Muffin's head, just out of reach.
"Sit pretty, beautiful."
Muffin, my twenty-pound disaster, my feline weapon of mass destruction, sits up on her hind legs like a trained circus performer. Her little paws wave in the air, reaching for the treat with determination that would be adorable if it weren't complete betrayal.
"Good girl," Levi praises, giving her the treat.
She takes it delicately, then does a little spin like she's showing off.
When did my cat become a pick-me girl?
The entire bakery is watching now. The morning rush has ground to a halt because everyone needs to witness my cat falling in love with Levi Maddox.
Someone's definitely recording this. It'll be on the Oakridge Community Facebook page within the hour with some title like "Local Alpha Tames Bakery Beast" or equally mortifying.
My scent shifts without permission—maple syrup warming on a stove, cinnamon going rich and deep, that honey note that says interested even when I'm not. Even when I can't be. Even when being interested in an Alpha again is like signing up for another round of emotional waterboarding.
Fuck. He can smell it. They can all smell it.
I grab a ball of dough from the counter, attacking it with the violence of someone trying to knead their feelings to death. Flour poofs around my hands, creating a small cloud that hopefully masks whatever pheromone disaster I'm broadcasting.
"Your cat's smart," Levi says, standing slowly. Muffin follows him up, purring like a diesel engine. "Gets it from her mom."
"Flattery will get you nowhere."
"But flowers might?" He gestures to the bouquet still sitting on my counter like evidence of a crime.
"The flowers are—" I punch the dough harder. "—completely unnecessary and probably overpriced and definitely trying too hard."
"Picked them myself," he says casually. "From the ranch. This morning. At dawn, actually, because I remembered you mentioning once that you liked wildflowers better than roses."
He…remembered?