Chapter 3
Tessa
Ben Wilson’s truck is a disaster.
I’ve been driving for exactly four minutes, and I’ve already counted three empty coffee cups, a stack of receipts shoved into the cup holder, what appears to be an entire toolbox worth of loose wrenches rolling around the back seat, and a flannel shirt balled up on the passenger side like it personally offended him.
The man runs a business. How does he function like this?
I white-knuckle the steering wheel—which pulls left, because of course it does—and try to focus on the road instead of the chaos surrounding me.
His scent is everywhere. Leather and musk, soaked into the seats, the headrest, the fabric of that crumpled flannel.
It wraps around me every time I breathe, which is unfortunately something I have to keep doing if I want to stay alive.
I don’t have time for this.
My phone buzzes in my purse. Then again.
And again. I can’t check it while driving, which means three separate emergencies are piling up while I navigate this oversized vehicle through town, surrounded by the scent of an alpha who literally fled the building rather than answer a simple question about community involvement.
The audacity. The absolute audacity of that man, blasting his radio like a child, shouting about acoustics that were perfectly fine, and then just... handing me his keys. Like it was nothing. Like lending someone your truck for days is a completely normal thing to do.
I don’t understand him.
On Maple Street, snow lines the yards in thick white blankets, and I spot a familiar figure up a ladder in Mrs. Patterson’s front yard—Theo Holt, trimming back the dead branches on her old apple tree. His breath fogs in the cold January air as he works.
I slow the truck and roll down the window, letting in a blast of cold. “Theo!”
He looks down, saw in hand. His eyes land on the truck and a grin spreads across his face. “Tessa. Nice ride.”
I choose to ignore that. He climbs down and walks over, tucking his work gloves into his back pocket. “You missed the town hall meeting.”
“Had a job in Pine Valley.” He leans against the ladder. “What’d I miss?”
“Bachelor auction. Valentine’s fundraiser. I need volunteers, and you were great last time.”
Theo laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Even though Mrs. Henderson won?”
“She had a lovely time. Told everyone at the Honey Crumb for weeks.”
“She made me fix her fence. And her gutters. And that loose step on her porch.” He’s still grinning. “Woman got her money’s worth.”
“Community service at its finest.” I tap the window frame. “You in?”
“Count me in, Tessa.”
“Perfect. I’ll email you the details.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Three bachelors confirmed. Milo, Elijah, Theo. Five more to go. I roll up the window and pull away, already mentally composing the follow-up email.
Elijah’s place is on Cedar Lane—a converted barn behind his house that he uses for his furniture business. Snow crunches under the tires as I pull into the gravel driveway and park next to his pickup. For a moment I just sit there, staring at the chaos inside Ben’s truck.
I can’t. I physically cannot leave it like this.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m gathering the empty coffee cups and stacking them neatly in the cup holder.
The receipts go into a pile, sorted by date.
The wrenches get corralled into a plastic bag I find under the seat.
It’s not perfect—nothing about this truck is perfect—but at least it’s not actively offensive anymore.
The flannel shirt sits on the passenger seat, watching me.
It smells like him. Even from here, I can tell. Leather and musk and something warm underneath, like sun on skin.
I shove it into the back seat and get out of the truck.
Elijah’s workshop doors are open, golden light spilling out. Even from here I can smell sawdust and something warmer—honey and cedarwood, rich and grounding. That’s him. That’s Elijah.
I grab my tablet and head inside.
The interior is bigger than I expected. High ceilings with exposed beams, natural light through skylights, workbenches lining every wall.
Everything is covered in a fine layer of sawdust, but there’s an order to it—tools on pegboards, lumber sorted by type, projects arranged in what looks like stages of completion.
And Elijah’s scent fills the whole space. Cedarwood and honey, warm and steady, like a cabin in the mountains where someone’s been baking.
“Tessa?”
He comes around from behind a large bandsaw, rag in hand, sawdust caught in his dark blonde hair. Worn jeans, a gray henley pushed up past his elbows.
I have a specific weakness for forearms. Always have. This is inconvenient.
“Hi.” I hold up my tablet. “I’m here to check on the centerpieces. The heart vases?”
He nods and gestures toward the back. “This way.”
The workbench near the back wall is covered in wooden hearts. About eight inches tall, hollow centers, some still rough and others gleaming with a smooth finish that catches the light.
“Oh, wow.” I pick one up without thinking. The wood is silky under my fingers, warm like it’s been sitting in the sun. “These are beautiful.”
“Maple.” Elijah moves closer, and his scent gets stronger. He points to a swirling pattern in the grain. “See the figuring here?”
I make myself focus on the wood instead of how close he’s standing.
“This piece had exceptional figure,” he continues, and his voice changes. Warmer. More animated. “Curly maple. The grain shifts in the light—watch.”
He tilts the heart gently in my hands, and the pattern ripples across the surface like sunlight on water.
“That’s why I chose maple for these. It’s a softer wood, easier to carve, but the figure makes it look alive.
” He traces a finger along one of the whorls, his touch careful and reverent.
“Three coats of oil finish, cured overnight between each one. If you rush it, it clouds. But when you do it right...”
He picks up one of the completed hearts and turns it so the light catches.
“See how it pulls the warmth out of the grain? The oil doesn’t just protect the wood. It shows you what the wood wanted to be all along.”
I stare at him.
This is more words than I’ve heard Elijah Smith say in three years. His whole face has changed—lit up from the inside, animated in a way I’ve never seen. He’s not looking at me; he’s looking at his work, and there’s a quiet joy in his expression that makes something in my chest go soft.
I don’t have time for soft.
“They’re beautiful,” I say, pulling up my spreadsheet. “Sadie’s going to lose her mind. How many are finished?”
“Twenty done. Fifteen more to go. Should be ready by the tenth.”
“That’s ahead of schedule.” I tap the screen harder than necessary. Focus. “I have you down for thirty-five.”
“Thirty-six. Made an extra.”
“In case of what?”
He shrugs. “Things break.”
I add the extra to my count. “Sadie’s coming tomorrow to check the sizes for the flower inserts?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll follow up with her after.” I scroll through my checklist, then set the tablet down. “Elijah, I wanted to ask you something. About the auction.”
His shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.
“When Levi volunteered you at the meeting, you looked like you wanted to murder him. I don’t want anyone participating who isn’t comfortable. I recruited Theo on the way over, so I have options. If you want out, tell me.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “My face always looks like that.”
I blink. “What?”
“Like I want to murder someone.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “It’s just my face.”
A surprised laugh escapes me. “Okay, fair point.”
“I don’t mind doing it.” He picks up a piece of sandpaper and starts working on one of the unfinished hearts. “I just don’t think I’ll bring in much.”
“Why not?”
Another shrug. “I’m not good at...” He gestures vaguely with the sandpaper. “People.”
I think about the last ten minutes. The way he lit up talking about wood grain and oil finishes. The quiet passion in his voice when he described what the maple wanted to become.
“You’re good at people when you care about the subject.”
He looks up, and our eyes meet, and for a second I forget what I was going to say next.
He has nice eyes. Warm and steady, the same golden-brown as the honey in his scent. How have I never noticed that before?
“Trust me,” I manage. “I’ve organized three of these auctions. The quiet types with creative talents always do well. You’ll be fine.”
He holds my gaze for another beat, then nods and goes back to his sanding.
I should leave. I have emails piling up and a venue walkthrough and catering numbers to confirm. I should leave right now.
Instead, my eyes drift to the corner of the workshop, where something large sits partially hidden beneath a canvas drop cloth. Dark wood, curved edges. A shape that makes my omega instincts sit up and take notice.
“What’s that?”
I’m walking toward it before I finish asking. Elijah follows.
“Commission,” he says. “Custom piece.”
Even mostly covered, I can tell this is something special. The visible portion shows dark walnut, rich and warm, with a curved edge that sweeps upward like it’s waiting to embrace someone.
“Can I see it?”
A pause. Then: “Go ahead.”
I pull the drop cloth back, and the breath leaves my lungs.
It’s a nesting bench.
I’ve seen pictures in magazines—those high-end omega lifestyle spreads I always flip past because there’s no point wanting things you’re never going to have. Custom furniture with curved walls and soft interiors, designed to make an omega feel safe and held.
But this one is something else entirely.
The frame is black walnut, curved like a cocoon, with sides that sweep up and inward to create a protected hollow.
Cream cushioning lines the interior, thick and inviting, with compartments built into the sides at perfect reaching height.
The whole piece looks like it’s waiting for someone.
Ready to wrap them up and keep them safe.