Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Emily
Whoops fill the air as the water taxi bumps up to the Pinecrest docks. My crew spills out first, already in weekend mode, voices rising with jokes and boasts over who hung more drywall, and who carried the heaviest load.
Construction dust clings to all of us like a second skin, but my crew wears it as a badge of honor while I just itch under it. They peel off toward the parking lot, calling out my name with grins that dare me to follow.
“C’mon, Boss, first round’s on us at the Rusty Gull,” one of them hollers.
“You’ve been running us ragged all week, least you can do is celebrate with us,” another adds, already swinging his tool belt from one hand.
I force a smile and shake my head. “Not tonight. My paperwork pile’s taller than the new cabinets.”
It’s not a lie. The invoices and project reports are waiting on my desk.
But that’s not why I won’t go. The last three weeks have been sensory overload, and I’ve hit my limit.
I need the peace and quiet of my own home.
There’s a sprouted sourdough recipe I want to try, and a blanket that needs a minimum of forty-five rows added to it.
I’d like to get further into the project if possible, but even with a simple pattern, crocheting isn’t a fast hobby. I’m already not sure that I’ll reach my donation goal for the year, unless I move to a chunkier yarn to speed things up.
I raise my hand to rub my tired eyes but freeze at the sight of drywall dust caked into the seams of my joints, cemented there by sweat.
My arm drops back to my side, mind itemizing the order of what I need to do to get everything done, starting with a shower.
No, wait, laundry first. A load could be halfway done by the time I wash up.
The end-of-week sun beats down on my shoulders as I cross the weathered dock boards toward the parking lot. The salty breeze carries traces of fish and diesel, familiar reminders that home’s only fifteen minutes away.
I reach the asphalt of the parking lot, and the temp increases, baking through the soles of my shoes. It doesn’t get hot in this region often, but when it does, it burns with a vengeance.
As I head toward my truck, I check that all of my crew made it off the boat okay, and I spot Leif hanging back to speak to Kyle.
Leif grips the strap of his messenger bag, and though he nods at whatever Kyle says, his shoulders curl inward, compressing his considerable height in a way that makes my heart ache.
From talking to Nathaniel and Blake, I know that Leif’s a good person. Everyone who made him think shrinking was safer than standing tall has a reckoning coming.
I slow my pace, debating whether to offer him an escort to his car.
Until we build the cabins meant for permanent residents, he’s staying at the Fairwind Hotel, a nice place with an Omega-only floor and security that checks credentials.
He’ll be safe there, but the walk from the docks to the parking lot has turned into a gauntlet for him every day this week.
As if he senses my stare, Leif’s eyes flick up, find me, and slide away. His body shifts, angling away as if to become a smaller target. The motion is so slight most would miss it, but I recognize it from who I was by the time Auren left me.
I, too, was made to be small, and I never want to be the cause of that for someone else, so I continue toward my truck.
“Big Omegas like that one are always fun to break in.”
The voice carries from the stack of crates to my right, and my fist clenches.
“Making them cry is so satisfying,” another agrees, the words riding on a nasty chuckle.
My blood goes cold, then hot. Two dockworkers lean against the shipping containers, their coveralls stained with sweat and grease. One tips a paper-bag-covered bottle to his lips while the other nudges him with an elbow, both watching Leif.
They haven’t noticed me yet, standing half-hidden by the shadow of the harbormaster’s office.
I could walk past. Could pretend not to hear them. Leif hasn’t reacted, which means either he hasn’t heard or he’s gotten so used to this bullshit that he’s learned to ignore it.
The thought curls in my stomach like a snake. Alphas are supposed to be protectors, not predators.
My boots plant on the asphalt, and I turn my head to fix both men with a flat, unblinking stare.
Time stretches while I say nothing, just let my pheromones carry the weight of my silence. The scent of clover and flannel carries on the breeze, wrapping around them in a silent warning.
The effect comes faster than I expect.
The taller one lowers his bottle, and the shorter one stops laughing. Their boots scuff the boards, the earlier amusement collapsing into uneasy quiet.
I hold the stare until the shorter one mumbles to his friend, and they push away from the crates, heading in the opposite direction.
I’d like to think I’m above the petty satisfaction of watching them scurry away, but I’m not. Some people only understand power. When they meet a tall, broad Omega, capable of defending himself, they want to knock him down to prove who’s stronger.
Alphas like that deserve to squirm.
Across the dock, Leif finishes his conversation with Kyle, giving a brief handshake before turning toward the parking lot. His eyes find mine for a fraction of a second, enough to register he knows what I did. He gives a small dip of his head and continues on his way.
He doesn’t want me to walk him to his car. The message is clear in the way he quickens his pace, in how he scans the area ahead, mapping out his route. He’s been handling himself for years without my help.
And yet, my feet want to follow. The need to protect scratches under my skin, a reflex I’ve spent the past several months trying to suppress after Auren used it against me, turning my instincts into weapons of my own destruction.
But Leif isn’t Auren. He isn’t trying to manipulate me. He isn’t asking for anything. He’s an Omega who wants to be left alone, to do his job without harassment, to walk to his car without Alpha posturing from any side, including mine.
I stay to ensure no one else tries to stop him. The sun hits his hair, bringing out hints of violet in the brown, and I wonder what his natural scent might be, beneath the blockers he wears all the time.
Not that it matters. I have no business wondering.
A vibration from my pocket signals a text, most likely from Clint, letting me know he’ll keep the crew from getting too rowdy tonight.
I should head out. There’s laundry to start, and bread sponge to prep, and if I’m fast enough, I can crochet ten rows on the blanket before bed.
Yet I linger, watching until Leif reaches his car, climbs in, and pulls away, his taillights disappearing around the corner, reassuring myself that nothing bad happened on my watch.
The encounter with the other Alphas leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth and a tightness in my chest. Not because of what I did, but because nothing really changed.
Leif will face the same garbage come Monday, and the day after, and I can’t stare down every idiot who thinks an Omega’s value lies in how fast they can be broken.
But I can try.
Pulling out my phone, I thumb out a quick note to the dock office.
Two men harassing Omegas again by the containers tonight.
Short and to the point. I don’t add names. Leif doesn’t need to be dragged into paperwork that will only complicate his life. But at least I’ve filed a report, so if things escalate, there’s a paper trail.
As I start walking again, a flurry of movement at the far end of the dock catches my attention.
Jared stands beside the water taxi, muscles straining under his work shirt as he hoists a wooden crate from the dock into the boat.
Sweat darkens the fabric clinging to his back, despite the cool evening breeze coming off the water.
Exertion flushes his face, hair sticking to his forehead as he adjusts his grip on the heavy load.
The young Alpha works with the determined focus of someone trying to prove their worth. He braces his feet on the dock’s edge, balancing the crate before lowering it into place. No wasted motion, no showing off. The efficiency surprises me, given his clumsiness.
His head lifts, whipping toward me. The instant he spots me, his entire body goes on alert, and the crate wobbles in his hands.
Emotions flicker across his face, recognition followed by the unmistakable heat of interest that Alphas broadcast when they spot someone they’re attracted to. His pheromones don’t reach me from this distance, but I don’t need them to read the story his body tells.
Jared snaps his focus back to his task, a flush creeping up his neck and spreading to the tips of his ears. He adjusts the crate with more force than necessary, his movements becoming jerky as awareness of me throws off his rhythm.
He straightens his posture, broadening his shoulders in a universal Alpha display I’ve seen a thousand times. It’s almost endearing, this attempt to appear more confident, more capable. More mature. Young Alphas all do it, preening like peacocks when they want to catch someone’s eye.
Hell, I used to do it, until I caught Auren’s eye and thought I’d won the lottery.
The bitterness of that betrayal still returns whenever someone shows interest. But with Jared, there’s no calculation behind the display, no agenda I can detect. The rawness of it feels almost innocent.
A month ago, I would have walked right past without a second thought. Now, I find my feet rooted to the dock, caught by the steady flex of his forearms as he reaches for another crate.
I drag my eyes away. He can’t be more than twenty-three, a whole lifetime of experiences away from my thirty-five years. A kid with a crush, nothing more. And I’ve got no business encouraging it.
Nope. Not happening. Not with someone so young, not with someone connected to the job site, and certainly not with someone who might want more than I’m capable of giving.
Kyle appears beside Jared, clapping him on the shoulder and pointing toward another stack of supplies. His cousin says something that draws a laugh from Jared, the bright, unguarded sound carrying across the water, and it stirs an ache in my chest I thought had calcified months ago.
I twist my keys in my hand, the metal biting into my palm as a reminder to stay grounded. Jared lifts his head again, catching me still watching, and this time, instead of turning away, he raises a hand in a wave.
The gesture is so simple, so hopeful. My hand rises before I can think better of it, returning the wave.
Jared’s face breaks into a grin that transforms him from awkward kid to an adult with depth I’ve been resisting seeing.
I turn toward my truck, cursing myself for the small encouragement.
The last thing I need is a workplace complication.
The resort project is going well after the fire setbacks.
I can’t afford distractions, especially ones with sea-glass eyes and a smile that makes my stomach flip as if I’m twenty again.
Pebbles crunch under my boots with every step, widening the space between us. I’m too old, too scarred, and too focused on rebuilding my career to entertain this. Young Alphas catch fixations all the time. He’ll find someone nearer his age without all the baggage I bring.
A splash comes from the dock, and despite everything I just told myself, I turn back again. Jared has dropped something in the water and leans over the edge to retrieve it. Kyle shouts a warning, but Jared stretches farther, arm submerged to the shoulder.
I pause, hand on my truck door, watching as he fishes out a tool belt, holding it up in triumph despite being soaked to the skin. He grins at his cousin, shaking water from his hair like a puppy.
The comparison brings an unwilling smile to my lips. Maybe his interest will pass on its own. Maybe it won’t. Either way, I can’t deny the way it warms a cold spot inside me, even as I recognize the danger.
I climb into my truck, the leather seat creaking under my weight as I settle behind the wheel. Through the windshield, the harbor spreads out in shades of blue and gray, boats bobbing in the gentle chop.
I slide my key into the ignition, but don’t turn it yet.
I adjust my rearview mirror and catch my own reflection, the furrow between my brows, the tight set of my jaw, the silver hair that frames a tired face.
What does Jared see when he looks at me? What draws him to someone who carries so many scars, literal and otherwise?
My fingers drum once on the steering wheel. I don’t have time for this complication. The Wright Pack is counting on me to finish the Homestead so they can stop living cramped in that one-room cabin. Then there’s the service cabins and Phase Two to start.
I rub my temple, where a headache threatens. This is why I hate guessing games, especially when feelings get tangled up in them. Give me a blueprint with precise measurements any day over the murky waters of attraction and interest.
Options tick through my brain, organized like a punch list. I could ignore it and hope his interest fades. I could confront it head-on and tell him nothing will happen. I could ask Kyle to not bring him in the crew pick-up times, keeping our paths from crossing.
None of these solutions feel right. The first seems cowardly, the second cruel, and the third unfair to a young man who’s done nothing wrong except develop an ill-advised crush.
The pragmatic path would be to keep our interactions professional but kind, to maintain clear boundaries while treating him with the respect his work deserves. To let him know through actions rather than words that, while I value him as part of Misty Pines, anything more isn’t on the table.
I settle on the plan that aligns most with who I am and how I operate. No drama, no confrontation, no avoidance, just clear boundaries maintained with quiet consistency.
So why does a small part of me feel disappointed?