Chapter 10 #2
"Oh thank god," I mutter, and Rowan makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be choking. It's hard to tell.
We work through five more pies—pumpkin, pecan, something green that no one wants to identify, a decent apple crumble, and what I'm pretty sure is just Cool Whip in a crust.
The crowd watches our every move, phones recording, commentary running like a sports broadcast.
"Look how Rowan watches her take each bite!" "Levi's practically feeding her!" "Luca hasn't taken his eyes off her once!" "Place your bets on who makes the first move!"
I'm in hell. This is hell. Hell has pies and Alphas and an audience.
"Next up," Bea announces with unholy glee, "is our special entry! A collaborative effort!"
Collaborative. Why does that sound ominous?
Three teenagers approach with matching grins that spell trouble. They're carrying something that might generously be called a pie but looks more like what would happen if you gave raccoons access to a kitchen.
They set it down with ceremony.
It's... purple. Violently purple. Aggressively purple. The kind of purple that suggests food coloring was buy-one-get-ten-free.
"What kind of pie is this?" Rowan asks carefully.
"Mystery pie!" the kids chorus.
"Mystery is right," Luca says, poking it with his fork. It jiggles. The whole thing jiggles like sentient Jell-O.
"Is it supposed to move?" I ask.
"It's alive," Levi whispers with genuine fear.
We all lean back slightly.
"Someone has to try it," Rowan says.
"Age before beauty," Levi suggests.
"I'm only two years older than you."
"Two years of wisdom. Two years of experience. Two years closer to death, might as well risk it."
"Your logic is flawed and you know it."
"Your face is flawed."
"That's literally the opposite of true and everyone here knows it."
They're bickering. Like actual children. Over who has to eat the purple monstrosity.
"I'll do it," Luca says suddenly, and before anyone can stop him, he takes a bite.
His face goes through approximately seventeen different expressions in three seconds. His eyes water. His jaw locks. A small, strangled sound escapes his throat.
"Hospital," he manages. "I need a hospital."
But the teenagers are already cheering, interpreting his medical distress as enthusiasm.
"Water," Luca gasps.
I shove my glass at him, and he drinks it desperately, then makes the mistake of looking at me with those storm-gray eyes full of gratitude and pain, and something in my chest does a stupid little flip.
Do not develop feelings because he sacrificed himself to the pie. That's Stockholm syndrome or something adjacent.
"My turn," I say, because I'm an idiot who makes bad decisions.
I take the tiniest possible bite.
It tastes like someone mixed grape cough syrup with mayonnaise and regret. My entire soul leaves my body. I see the afterlife. It's disappointing.
"Jesus Christ," I wheeze.
"Language," Bea scolds, but she's grinning.
Rowan and Levi, in a moment of synchronized stupidity, both take bites at the same time.
Their faces are a Renaissance painting of regret.
"What," Rowan says slowly, "the fuck."
"Did someone," Levi pauses to suppress a gag, "did someone put FISH in this?"
"It's grape and tuna!" the teenagers announce proudly. "We call it Gruna!"
"You should call it a war crime," Luca mutters, still drinking water.
The crowd is loving this. Phones flash, videos record, and I'm pretty sure I hear someone taking bets on which Alpha will vomit first.
"We need milk," Rowan declares.
"I need an exorcist," Levi counters.
"I need a new tongue," Luca adds.
"I need witness protection," I say, and all three of them look at me with something that might be solidarity or might be trauma bonding.
Probably both.
More pies arrive—thank god, normal pies—and we soldier through them with the determination of people who've seen the worst and lived to tell about it. But the damage is done. The Gruna has united us in suffering.
"Almost done!" Bea announces cheerfully. "Just one more!"
The last pie arrives, carried by none other than my mortal enemy: Korrin's new girlfriend, Alexis.
Of fucking course.
She saunters up in a dress that costs more than my monthly rent, her perfect blonde hair catching the light like she's got a personal lighting crew. Her apple pie looks like it was made by angels and blessed by Martha Stewart.
"Well, well," she says, eyes sliding over our group with calculating coldness. "How cozy. The town's newest... whatever this is."
"Alexis," Rowan says flatly.
She ignores him, focusing on me. "Hazel. Heard you're collecting Alphas now. How modern."
I will not throw pie at her. I will not throw pie at her. That would be assault and also a waste of what looks like excellent pie.
"Just judging," I say with a smile that could cut glass. "You know, being objective about quality. Recognizing real worth versus pretty facades."
Her eyes narrow. "Some of us don't have to compensate with quantity."
"And some of us don't have to compensate at all," Levi interjects smoothly. "We just appreciate quality when we find it."
Did he just—
"All natural talent here," Luca adds, his voice deceptively mild.
"Nothing artificial about Hazel," Rowan finishes, and there's something dangerous in his tone.
They're defending me. As a unit. Like a—
No. Don't think it.
Alexis's perfect composure cracks slightly. "Well. Enjoy the pie. I'm sure you'll find it... satisfying."
She stalks off, and we all stare at her pie like it might be poisoned.
"Ten bucks says she put laxatives in it," Levi whispers.
"Twenty says arsenic," Luca counters.
"You're both paranoid," Rowan says, then adds, "Fifty on salmonella."
I cut four pieces with the dedication of someone defusing a bomb. We all take synchronized bites, ready for death.
It's...
"Fuck, that's good," Levi groans.
"Really good," Rowan agrees, looking personally offended.
"Suspiciously good," Luca says darkly.
"She bought it," I realize. "That's store-bought filling. I can taste the preservatives."
All three Alphas turn to stare at me.
"You can taste preservatives?" Rowan asks.
"You can differentiate store-bought from homemade by taste alone?" Levi adds.
"That's... incredibly hot," Luca says, then looks surprised he said it out loud.
Did he just—did they all just—
My face goes nuclear. The crowd goes silent, waiting.
"It's just... I bake for a living... it's not..."
"Incredible," Rowan says firmly.
"Talented," Levi adds.
"Perfect," Luca finishes, and he's looking at me with those storm-gray eyes like he's seeing me for the first time.
This is too much. Too intense. Too public. Too—
I knock over my water glass.
It goes everywhere—across the score cards, into Levi's lap, somehow defying physics to also splash Rowan and drip onto Luca's boots.
"Shit! Sorry! I'm so sorry!"
We all jump up at once, which just makes things worse.
I grab napkins, trying to help, and manage to trip over my own chair.
Rowan catches me, but that throws him off balance, and we stumble into Levi, who grabs Luca for support, and suddenly we're a tangle of limbs and apologies and Alpha pheromones.
The crowd gasps, phones flash, and I hear Dottie scream, "IT'S HAPPENING! THE PROPHECY IS COMING TRUE!"
What prophecy? Why is there a prophecy? Who authorized a prophecy?
We untangle slowly, everyone slightly damp and thoroughly embarrassed. Except the crowd. The crowd is delighted. This is better than cable.
"Well," Bea says brightly, "I think we have our winners!"
"We haven't even finished scoring," I protest weakly.
"Oh, not the pies, dear. Though Mrs. Chen takes first place, obviously." She winks. "I meant you four. Definitely winners."
I'm going to start poisoning the town's water supply.
"We should go," Rowan says, his Captain voice cutting through the chaos.
"Yes," I agree immediately. "Going. Leaving. Exiting."
"We'll walk you back," Levi offers.
"All of us," Luca adds firmly.
And that's how I end up being escorted back to my bakery by three Alphas while the entire town watches and takes notes and probably starts a betting pool on everything from first kiss to wedding dates to baby names.
The walk is silent except for our footsteps and the distant sound of Dottie James having what sounds like a religious experience about "young love."
When we reach my door, they all stop, suddenly awkward.
"That was..." Rowan starts.
"Horrible," I finish.
"Memorable," Levi corrects.
"Traumatic," Luca says.
"All of the above," I agree, and somehow we're all smiling.
"The Gruna should be illegal," Rowan says.
"The Gruna should be weaponized," Levi counters.
"The Gruna should be forgotten," Luca says firmly. "Never spoken of again."
"Agreed," we all say in unison.
And then, because my life isn't complicated enough, all three of them step forward at the same time, like they're going to... something. Kiss me? Hug me? Pat my head? It's unclear.
They realize it at the same moment, freezing in a tableau of awkward Alpha energy.
"I was just—" "Didn't mean to—" "Should probably—"
They all stop. Look at each other. Look at me.
"Goodnight, Hazel," they say in perfect unison, which is creepy but also kind of sweet, and then they're walking away together, leaving me standing in my doorway with pie trauma and feelings I don't know what to do with.
My phone buzzes immediately: Reverie.
REVERIE: THE ENTIRE TOWN IS LOSING THEIR MINDS. GRUNA-GATE IS TRENDING.
ME: There's no way Gruna-gate is trending.
REVERIE: Check the Oakridge Facebook page.
I do. I immediately regret it.
There's a video of the purple pie disaster. Photos of us tangled together. A slow-motion replay of Luca saying I'm “incredibly hot."
The comments are... extensive.
ME: Kill me.
REVERIE: Can't. You have to live to see how this plays out. Also, dibs on maid of honor for ALL THREE WEDDINGS.
ME: I hate you.
REVERIE: You love me. Also, #TeamAllThree is winning the poll.
ME: What poll?
REVERIE: The one about which Alpha you should choose. Though there's a strong write-in vote for "why choose" that I definitely didn't start.
I lock my phone, lock my door, and sink to the floor.
Three Alphas. One traumatic pie contest. An entire town is watching.
And somehow, despite the chaos and embarrassment and purple pie trauma, I'm...
Happy?
Fuck.
I'm definitely in trouble.
But maybe—watching the sun set through my window, tasting grape and tuna in my traumatic sense memory, feeling phantom warmth where three different Alphas almost touched me—maybe trouble isn't always bad.
Maybe it's just another word for adventure.
Or disaster. Probably a disaster.
But I'm smiling anyway.