Chapter 24 Modeling Opportunities And Lunch Dates
Modeling Opportunities And Lunch Dates
~HAZEL~
In the haze of sleep, everything blurs into heat and need.
Rowan's hands are on me first, strong and sure, sliding between my thighs with a possessiveness that makes my pulse thunder.
His fingers press deep, curling just right, sending sparks through my core as I arch into him.
"That's it, Hazel," he murmurs against my ear, his voice low and gravelly, like he's been waiting forever to say my name like this. "You're so perfect for us."
Then Luca's mouth claims mine, his kiss fierce and consuming, tasting of dark coffee and restrained storm.
His tongue teases, demands, while his hands hold my face like I'm something precious.
I moan into him, the sound muffled but desperate, as Levi's touch joins in—his palms cupping my breasts, thumbs circling with playful reverence.
"Look at you, sunshine," Levi whispers, his breath hot on my skin, fingers kneading gently. "So beautiful, so ours. We've got you."
The pleasure builds, wave after wave, their scents mingling—Rowan's cedar and smoke, Luca's gingerbread warmth, Levi's sweet honey butter—wrapping around me like a nest I never want to leave. I gasp their names, one after another, body trembling on the edge.
"Rowan... Luca... Levi..." They praise me in unison, words like "good girl" and "just like that" pushing me higher, until—
I jolt awake, heart slamming against my ribs, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints.
My skin is fever-hot, slick with sweat, and between my thighs, I'm drenched, aching with unfulfilled want.
Panting, I sit up in the dim light of my bedroom, the fairy lights from the window casting soft glows across the walls. The dream lingers, vivid and embarrassing, making my cheeks burn as I press a hand to my chest to steady my breathing.
Did I make noise? Moan out loud?
The apartment is quiet, but the guys are just in the living room—Luca on the pull-out couch last night, Rowan and Levi sprawled on the new cloud one. If they heard... oh god, the mortification would kill me.
I can already imagine Levi's teasing grin, Rowan's quiet intensity, Luca's knowing look. No, better not to think about it.
A shower. Early. Cold, maybe, to wash away the evidence of my subconscious betrayal.
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can, the floorboards creaking under my feet like they're conspiring against me.
The air in my apartment smells faintly of last night's takeout—spicy Thai from that little place on Maple Street—and the lingering traces of their combined scents, which only make my flush deepen.
Grabbing fresh clothes from my dresser, I tiptoe to the bathroom, easing the door shut before turning on the water.
The steam fills the small space quickly, fogging the mirror as I step under the spray.
It's not cold—I'm not that masochistic—but warm enough to soothe the tension in my muscles.
I lather up with my vanilla body wash, trying to scrub away the dream's remnants, but my mind wanders back to it anyway.
Rowan's fingers, so commanding; Luca's kiss, all controlled fire; Levi's touch, playful and adoring.
It's not the first time I've dreamed of them, but this one felt. .. real.
Too real….
My heat could be approaching…but maybe the stress is messing with me. Or maybe it's just them, being here every day, filling my space with their protectiveness and that cozy pack energy that's starting to feel far too comforting.
By the time I dry off and dress in my usual cozy baker getup—an oversized cream knit sweater over leggings, my pumpkin apron waiting downstairs, and my round blue-light glasses perched on my nose—I'm feeling more like myself.
The clock says 5:30 AM, early even for me, but the bakery calls.
I creep past the living room, where the guys are still asleep: Luca's arm dangling off the pull-out, Rowan's massive form taking up most of the cloud couch, Levi curled like a cat beside him.
Ember's sprawled at their feet, her golden fur rising and falling with soft snores, while Muffin, Biscuit, and Whiskey have claimed various high perches, eyeing the dog with wary disdain.
The sight tugs at something in my chest—warm, almost painful.
They're here for me, crashing in my tiny space to keep me safe from shadows like Korrin.
I pause just long enough to pull a throw blanket over Levi's shoulders, my fingers brushing his hair. He stirs but doesn't wake, murmuring something unintelligible that sounds suspiciously like "sunshine."
Downstairs in the bakery, the familiar scents of yeast and sugar ground me. Hazel's Hearth & Home is quiet in the pre-dawn, the pumpkin-colored shutters closed against the autumn chill, fairy lights strung along the counters casting a mischievous glow.
I flip on the ovens, the hum filling the air as I start on the day's batches: cinnamon soul cookies first, their spicy dough yielding under my kneading hands.
The rhythm soothes me, pushing the dream to the back of my mind. By 6 AM, Mila and Rosemarie arrive, yawning but enthusiastic, and we dive into the morning prep. Mila's on savory pies today, her black curls bouncing as she chops mushrooms with expert flair.
"Boss, these are gonna be epic—think flaky crust with a thyme kick. Your Alphas will beg for samples."
Rosemarie snorts from the espresso machine, her platinum bun impeccable as always.
"As if they need to beg. They just show up and flash those dimples, and Hazel's a goner."
I roll my eyes, piping frosting onto pumpkin crème br?lée tarts.
"I am not a goner. And they're not here for freebies."
"Sure," Mila teases, winking. "That's why Levi 'accidentally' painted himself green last week. Total coincidence."
Their banter is cozy, light, making the kitchen feel alive. Reverie pops in around 7, her energy already at full throttle despite the hour. She's set up her corner table with laptops and notebooks, planning her holiday vlog series while managing my fledgling social media.
"Hazel, that photo of you in the burgundy dress from Vintage Honey? It's blowing up on Insta. Comments are all 'Omega goals' and heart eyes. You should model more!"
I blush, remembering the private fashion show that followed—Levi directing poses, Rowan trying not to stare, Luca taking "artistic" shots that were mostly just excuses to look. "It was just for fun. Besides, who has time?"
"You do," she insists, typing furiously. "Especially after this rush dies down."
Tuesday mornings at the bakery are supposed to be predictable. Supposed to be.
The morning rush is in full swing now—Mrs. Chen arguing about the proper way to frost cupcakes while buying six dozen, Tommy from the construction crew flirting unsuccessfully with Rosemarie who's making latte art that belongs in a museum, and Mila singing off-key while she preps tomorrow's savory pies.
My phone buzzes on the counter, flour-dusted because everything I own is flour-dusted.
Rowan: Free after morning rush?
Me: Should be. What are you planning?
Rowan: Surprise. Good surprise, promise.
Surprises from my Alphas have ranged from life-changing kitchen renovations to Levi setting things on fire, so this could go either way.
"Boss, stop texting your boyfriends and help me!" Mila calls from the kitchen. "This dough is fighting back!"
"Dough doesn't fight!"
"This dough has opinions!"
I pocket my phone and wade into the kitchen battle, where Mila is indeed wrestling with sourdough that's apparently achieved sentience.
"You overworked it," I diagnose, taking over. "It's gone tough."
"Like my ex's heart."
"Darker than your coffee, Mila."
"My coffee is the void, so probably accurate."
We're laughing when the bell chimes, and Reverie—who's developed a sixth sense for Important Visitors—immediately perks up like a meerkat sensing drama.
"Professional alert," she hisses. "Twelve o'clock. Power suit. Definitely not here for cookies."
The woman who enters looks like she stepped out of a magazine about successful people who have their lives together.
Charcoal gray suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent, heels that could kill a man, blonde hair in one of those buns that looks effortless but probably took forty-five minutes.
"I'm looking for Hazel Holloway?" Her voice is professional, warm—the kind that makes you feel special while maintaining distance.
"That's me," I say, wiping flour from my hands, probably just spreading it around. "Can I help you?"
She extends a business card with manicured fingers. "Sabrina Cross, Ethereal Agency. I represent clothing brands looking for authentic models."
Models. She said models. Like I'm model material and not a flour-covered disaster in yesterday's jeans.
"I think there's been a mistake—"
"No mistake." She pulls out her phone, shows me a photo.
It's me from the Vintage Honey shop, laughing in that burgundy dress while Levi makes bunny ears behind my head.
"This went viral on our scouting network.
The genuine joy, the natural beauty, the way the clothes move with you—exactly what our client wants. "
"Your client?"
"Midnight & Moon, the clothing brand. They have a limited Halloween collection launching this weekend. The shoot is last-minute—this Saturday—but you'd be compensated, plus tickets to the festival that evening for you and your pack, food vouchers, and a shopping spree for Halloween costumes."
This is insane. This is completely insane. I bake cookies. I don't model.
Reverie is behind the agent, making frantic hand signals that either mean "take the job" or "I'm having a stroke."
"I—Can I ask my Alphas first?" The words tumble out, nervous and probably wrong, but—
"Of course!" Sabrina smiles. "It's wonderful that you communicate with your pack. Take your time."
I fumble for my phone, dial Rowan because he's the steadiest, least likely to get overexcited and agree to anything involving costumes.
"Hey sunshine," he answers on the second ring, and his voice through the phone makes my stomach flutter. "Everything okay?"
"There's a modeling agent here. She wants me to do a photoshoot. This weekend. For Halloween clothes. Is that…should I…is it a good idea?"
There's a pause, then…
"Do you want to do it?"
"I don't know? Maybe? It's scary but also kind of exciting…?”
"Then, why are you questioning?” his voice suddenly sounds like it’s echoing from the speaker and behind me. “Of course you should do it."
I spin around to find Rowan standing in my bakery doorway, phone still pressed to his ear, looking unfairly attractive in his uniform.
"How are you—"
"Was coming for the surprise. Heard modeling agent, came faster." He pockets his phone, crosses to me in three strides, and suddenly I'm very aware that everyone's watching. "You don't need to ask permission, Hazel. Your decisions are yours."
"I wasn't asking permission," I protest. "I wanted your opinion."
"My opinion is you'd be beautiful in their clothes and they're lucky to have you." He turns to Sabrina, extends his hand. "Rowan Cambridge. One of Hazel's Alphas."
Sabrina shakes his hand, and her professional smile warms into something genuine.
"It's refreshing to see Alphas who support their Omega's independence."
"Obviously," Rowan says simply. "She's not a pet or toy. She has free will with us and does whatever makes her happy."
Free will. With them. Not despite them, but with them.
My chest goes tight with something that feels dangerously like love.
"Wonderful!" Sabrina produces paperwork from her designer bag. "If you could sign these to secure the slot? And if you're interested, we have positions opening for holiday shoots. The pay goes directly to the Omega, not through pack accounts."
Directly to me. My money? Holy wow…
"I'll think about it," I manage, signing papers with hands that only shake a little.
Sabrina takes the contracts, professional smile back in place.
"Perfect! Someone will contact you with details by tomorrow. Saturday, 9 AM sharp."
"Let me get you some treats for the road," I say, because feeding people is my default setting.
I pack a box—apple turnovers, Mila's savory hand pies, Rosemarie's experimental coffee cookies that have enough caffeine to power a small city.
"These look incredible," Sabrina says, then lower, "You know, food styling is also something we're branching into. If you're interested."
Food styling. Getting paid to make food look pretty. That's literally what I do every day for free.
After she leaves, the bakery explodes.
"BOSS IS GONNA BE A MODEL!" Mila shrieks.
"The Ethereal Agency!" Reverie is actually bouncing. "Do you know who they are? They're the top 1% for Omega modeling! They have protection clauses! Fair pay! No creepy Alpha photographers!"
"It's just one shoot—"
"It's the beginning of your empire!" Rosemarie declares. "First modeling, then food styling, then your own cookbook, then a TV show—"
"Let's start with one photoshoot," I interrupt, but I'm laughing.
"Lunch," Rowan says firmly. "We're celebrating. Ladies, hold the fort?"
"GO!" They practically shove us out the door. "Be romantic! Take pictures! Make good choices!"
"Or bad ones!" Mila adds. "Bad ones make better stories!"
Rowan takes my hand as we walk, and it takes me half a block to realize we're holding hands. In public. Where everyone can see.
"This is nice," I say, tightening my grip.
"What, me kidnapping you for lunch?"
"You holding my hand. Like we're... something."
"We are something." He squeezes back. "We're a pack, Firefly."
Pack. The word that used to mean prison now feels like home.
"Where are we going?"
"That's the surprise."
He leads me to his truck, opens my door like this is a real date and not just lunch on a Tuesday. The drive is short—everything in Oakridge is short—but he won't tell me where we're going even when I threaten to throw myself from the moving vehicle.
"That seems extreme," he says mildly.
"I'm an extreme person."
"You're a dramatic person."
"Dramatically extreme."
"Extremely dramatic."
We pull up to Riverside Park, which is optimistic naming since the river dried up in the 1800s, but the trees are beautiful in October, all gold and crimson and that particular shade of orange that only exists for about three days.
"Picnic?" I guess.
"Even better, but you just have to wait for the grand surprise.”