Chapter 3 #2
“Black walnut.” Elijah’s voice has gone warm again. “Locally sourced. See the figure here?”
He points to a section where the grain swirls in deep chocolate waves.
“This piece had exceptional figure, so I designed the whole bench to showcase it. The curve took three weeks to get right. Steam-bent, not cut.”
“Why steam?”
“Cutting would break the grain. Make it weaker.” He runs his palm along the curved arm. “Steam-bending follows the natural structure. Makes it stronger. And it feels different under your hands—warmer, somehow.”
I reach out before I can stop myself. My fingers brush the wood, and he’s right. It is warm. It feels almost alive under my touch.
“The compartments are cedar-lined.” He opens one to show me. “Holds scent better. Blankets, clothes, anything that carries pack scent.”
Pack scent.
I pull my hand back.
“It’s for a client,” I say. My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “Someone local?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re lucky.”
I cover the bench back up, keeping my movements steady.
I don’t nest. I haven’t nested in years, not since I learned that forever was just a word people used when they wanted something from you.
I keep my apartment bare for a reason. No soft blankets.
No extra pillows. Nothing that could make me weak.
Whatever that feeling was just now—that ache, that want—I don’t have time for it.
“I should go.” I grab my tablet from the workbench. “Venue walkthrough at three, and I’m already running behind.”
Elijah walks me to the door. “Six a.m. on the thirteenth for setup. River’s coordinating.”
“I know.” There’s that almost-smile again. “You mentioned it at the meeting. And in two emails.”
“Redundancy prevents miscommunication.”
“I’m not complaining.”
I make it halfway to the truck before his voice stops me.
“Tessa.”
I turn, breath fogging in the cold. He’s still in the doorway, afternoon light catching the sawdust in his hair.
“You should eat something. You smell like you skipped lunch.”
“I eat plenty.”
“Tessa.”
Just my name. Nothing else. But something about the way he says it—calm and sure and not pushing, just waiting—makes my defensive walls wobble.
“I have a granola bar in my bag,” I say, which isn’t the same as admitting he’s right.
“Eat it.”
I should argue. I don’t need alphas telling me when to eat. I don’t need anyone managing me.
But something about his quiet certainty makes me want to listen, and that’s annoying enough that I climb into Ben’s truck without another word.
The granola bar is at the bottom of my purse. I eat it while I drive, because apparently I’m taking orders from quiet woodworkers now.
Back at my apartment building, I park Ben’s truck and sit there for a moment, staring at the flannel shirt in the back seat. I’d shoved it there earlier, but it’s still visible in the rearview mirror. Still radiating leather and musk into the enclosed space.
I should leave it. It’s his shirt. It can stay in his truck.
Except the truck is a mess—less of a mess now, thanks to me—and that shirt has been balled up for God knows how long. It probably needs washing. And he did lend me his truck. Without asking for anything in return.
The least I can do is wash his shirt.
I grab it before I can overthink it and head upstairs.
My apartment is exactly how I left it this morning. Minimal, organized, everything in its place. White walls, gray furniture, no clutter. No soft blankets draped over the couch. No throw pillows in warm colors. Nothing that could trigger instincts I’ve spent seven years suppressing.
I set my bag on the kitchen counter and look at the flannel in my hands.
It’s soft. Worn from years of use, the fabric broken in until it feels like butter. Blue and gray plaid, a few threads loose at the cuffs. The kind of shirt someone wears when they’re not trying to impress anyone.
And it smells like him.
I should put it directly in the washing machine. That’s the plan. Wash it, dry it, fold it, return it Thursday when I pick up my car. Simple. Efficient.
Instead, I bring it to my face.
Just once. Just to see what the fuss is about. Why my omega biology has been losing its mind all day over leather and musk and—
Oh.
Oh, that’s...
I breathe deeper before I can stop myself. The scent fills my lungs, warm and grounding and something else I can’t name. Something that makes my shoulders drop and my jaw unclench and my whole body go loose in a way it hasn’t in months. Maybe years.
I yank the shirt away from my face.
What am I doing?
This is Ben Wilson’s shirt. Ben Wilson, who hides from my clipboard. Who blasted his radio to avoid a simple conversation. Who is infuriating and confusing and definitely not someone I should be sniffing like some kind of—
I march to the bathroom and shove the flannel into the laundry basket.
There. Done. I’ll wash it in the morning.
The rest of my evening passes in a blur of emails and spreadsheets and phone calls.
I confirm the catering numbers with Maeve, follow up with the venue coordinator, send Theo his information packet, and add six more items to tomorrow’s to-do list. By the time I crawl into bed, I’m exhausted in that bone-deep way that usually means I’ll fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow.
I do.
And then I wake up.
Gray morning light filters through my curtains. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, which means it’s early—too early. I’m warm and comfortable and wrapped around something soft, my face buried in fabric that smells like—
My eyes snap open.
Ben’s flannel is clutched against my chest. I’m curled around it like a comma, my nose pressed into the collar, breathing him in with every inhale.
I don’t remember getting up. I don’t remember going to the bathroom. I don’t remember pulling this shirt out of the laundry basket and bringing it to bed like some kind of—
Oh no.
No, no, no.
I sit up so fast the room spins. The flannel falls into my lap, and I stare at it like it’s personally betrayed me. Which it has. It definitely has.
My body did this. While I was sleeping, my omega instincts overrode every logical decision I’d made and went hunting for alpha scent to curl up with. Like I’m some kind of touch-starved disaster who can’t make it through one night without—
I need my suppressants.
I scramble out of bed, leaving the flannel tangled in my sheets, and dig through my purse for the pharmacy bag I picked up yesterday. The bottle is still sealed. I tear it open, shake out a pill, and swallow it dry.
Then I stand in my kitchen in my pajamas, breathing too fast, and try not to think about how good that shirt smelled. How warm I felt when I woke up. How some traitorous part of me had been genuinely happy, just for a second, before my brain came online and ruined everything.
I don’t nest. I don’t snuggle alpha clothing in my sleep. I don’t do any of this.
Except apparently, I do.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Calendar reminder: Venue walkthrough, 9 AM.
Right. Work. I have work to do.
I shower, dress, do my makeup with hands that are only slightly unsteady. The flannel is still on my bed when I leave, and I tell myself I’ll deal with it later.
I’ll wash it.
I’ll definitely wash it.