Chapter 5 Tessa #2
“Tessa.” My name in his mouth sounds different than when other people say it. Lower. Rougher. Like he’s tasting it. “Take the damn jacket.”
“Why do you care if I’m cold?”
The question seems to throw him. He stands there, jacket extended, jaw working like he’s chewing on words he won’t say.
“Because you’re in my garage,” he finally says. “And I’m not gonna let you freeze to death in my garage. There’d be paperwork.”
“Paperwork.”
“Mountains of it. Not worth the hassle.”
“So this is about avoiding inconvenience.”
“Exactly.” He shakes the jacket at me. “Now take it before I throw it at you like I did with the truck keys. Which, for the record, was a gentle toss.”
“It was not a gentle toss.”
“You have no proof.”
“I have a bruise.”
“You do not have a bruise.”
“I might have a bruise. You don’t know my life.”
“Tessa.” He steps closer, and suddenly the jacket isn’t between us—it’s around me, and he’s wrapping it over my shoulders, and his hands are right there, adjusting the collar, and I can feel the heat of him through my clothes.
I forget how to breathe.
“There,” he says, voice rough. “Was that so hard?”
Yes. Yes, it was. Because now I’m wrapped in Ben Wilson and I can feel my scent sweetening, blooming with something I can’t control. I can smell him on every inhale and his hands are still on the jacket collar, not quite touching me but close enough that I can feel the warmth.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I’m not losing my mind over a jacket.
He seems to realize it at the same moment I do. His hands drop like he’s been burned, and he takes a step back, running one hand through his hair.
“Better?” he asks, and there’s something strained in his voice that makes me think he knows exactly what he just did.
“I was perfectly fine before.”
“Sure you were.”
“I was.”
Neither of us sounds convincing.
I want to keep arguing. Arguing with Ben is strangely satisfying, like scratching an itch I didn’t know I had.
Which is weird, because I don’t do this. I don’t banter. I don’t tease. I’m the woman with the clipboard, the one who runs meetings and keeps everyone on track. I don’t joke about bruises or make comments about sentimental french fries.
But something about Ben Wilson makes me want to poke at him just to see what he’ll do.
I don’t know what to do with that.
“Show me the car.”
He leads me to the other side of the garage, where my Honda is parked looking cleaner than it has in months. He must have washed it too, which is definitely not standard mechanic service. The cold is sharper over here, away from the space heater, and I pull his jacket tighter without thinking.
“Replaced the timing belt, fixed the oil leak, rotated the tires.” He pops the hood, propping it open to show me.
His hands move with easy confidence as he points things out, and I’m watching his fingers instead of the engine.
“Brake pads were getting low so I swapped those too. Didn’t charge you for those since I had extras. ”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He’s not looking at me, focused on the engine, and it gives me a moment to study him. The curl of hair at the back of his neck. The grease still smudged on his forearm. The way his throat moves when he swallows.
“Why did you?”
Ben closes the hood with a solid thunk, the sound echoing in the cold garage. His eyes meet mine, then skitter away. “Customer service.”
“Right. Your famous customer service.” I circle the car, running my hand along the hood.
The metal is cold, but the garage is warm, and I’m still wearing his jacket, and everything smells like him.
“The same customer service that made you throw keys at my head and blast your radio to avoid talking to me?”
“The keys were gently tossed. And the radio was already on.”
“It was not already on. You lunged for it like a lifeline.”
“I don’t lunge.”
“You lunged.”
He’s almost smiling now, fighting it but losing. I like this version of Ben—the one that bickers with me, that matches my energy, that doesn’t run away.
“Fine,” he says. “Maybe the radio wasn’t already on. But I had a good reason.”
“Which was?”
“None of your business.” He leans against my car, arms crossed, watching me with those annoyingly pretty brown eyes. “Why do you care so much anyway? About the auction. About getting me specifically.”
“Because you’re the last bachelor I need.”
“There are other single alphas in this town.”
“Most of them are either married, too old, or don’t live here full-time.” I tick them off on my fingers. “Trust me, I’ve been through the list. Twice.”
“So I’m your last resort.”
“You’re my only option.”
Because you’re infuriating. Because you make me feel things I don’t want to feel. Because every time I’m near you, my entire body lights up like I’m standing too close to a fire.
“Because you’re local, single, and reasonably attractive,” I say instead. “And Mrs. Henderson would bid good money on you.”
“Did you just call me reasonably attractive?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” He’s definitely smiling now, a real one that reaches his eyes, and—nope. Not thinking about how that makes him look. “Reasonably attractive. I’ll put that on my business cards. Ben Wilson, Mechanic. Reasonably attractive. Terrible at answering simple questions.”
“I’m not wrong.”
I stop circling and face him. I could keep going like this all day—trading jabs, watching him fight that smile—but I need an answer, and we both know I’m not leaving without one.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Avoid me. Make jokes. Run away every time I try to have a normal conversation with you.”
His face changes. For a second, he looks almost vulnerable, and my chest does a painful little twist.
“I don’t run away,” he says quietly.
“You literally fled a town meeting.”
“That was... strategic retreat.”
“It was running away.”
“Fine.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it worse. “Maybe I run away. So what?”
“So why? What did I ever do to you?”
Ben is quiet for a long moment. The space heater clicks and hums. Somewhere outside, a truck rumbles past on the main road, tires crunching over ice. He’s looking at me, really looking, and there’s something raw in his expression that makes my chest ache.
“You didn’t do anything, Tessa.” His voice is rough, like the words are costing him something. “That’s not—” He stops. Runs a hand over his face, and I notice the way his fingers tremble slightly. “It’s not about you.”
“Then what’s it about?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets now like he doesn’t trust them. The silence stretches, filled with everything he won’t say.
I should let it go. I should take the out he’s offering and move on to safer ground. But I’ve never been good at letting things go, and there’s something in his eyes that looks almost like pain.
“Ben—”
“The auction.” He cuts me off, voice flat. “That’s what you came here to talk about, right? So let’s talk about the auction.”
Right. The auction. I take a breath, trying to find my footing again.
“Please,” I say softly. “I need you.”
The words hang in the air between us. I meant the auction. Obviously I meant the auction. But his expression changes, his nostrils flaring once, twice. His pupils go darker, and I realize with a start that he’s scenting me. Smelling whatever my traitorous omega body is putting out right now.
“Are you gonna bid?” he asks.
I wasn’t expecting that. “What?”
“On Milo. At the auction.” His voice is carefully controlled. “Are you gonna bid on him?”
I blink. “Why would I—no. I never bid. Conflict of interest. I’m the organizer.”
“You never bid.”
“Never.”
His face goes blank. Just like that, the vulnerability is gone, replaced by that frustrating wall he throws up every time we get close to something real.
“Then no,” he says flatly. “I’m not doing it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“How? How does my not bidding have anything to do with you participating?”
“It just does.”
“That’s not an answer!”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I want to scream. I want to shake him. I want to grab his stupid handsome face and demand he explain why he’s being so impossible.
What I actually do is step closer, close enough that I’m breathing him in with every inhale, and jab my finger into his chest.
“Ben Wilson, you are the most infuriating man I have ever met.”
“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you.” His hand comes up to wrap around my wrist, not hard, just... holding. My pulse kicks up under his fingers. “You really don’t quit, do you?”
“I told you. Never.”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushes over my pulse point, and my breath catches. “I’m starting to figure that out.”
We’re too close. Way too close. I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the day-old stubble on his jaw, the way his chest is rising and falling just a little too fast. My heart is hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
The space heater clicks off in the silence, and the garage feels suddenly, achingly quiet.
His scent is everywhere—leather and musk and want. I can feel my own scent responding, the lavender getting sweeter, stronger, and I know he can smell it too because his grip on my wrist tightens.
“Tessa.” His voice is a warning.
“What?”
“You should go.”
“I’m not going until you say yes.”
“Then you’re gonna be here a while.” But he doesn’t let go of my wrist. Doesn’t step back. Just stands there, looking at me like he’s fighting a war with himself.
I should step back. I should leave and forget about the auction. But my feet won’t move, and my body is doing things I can’t control, and—
His eyes drop to my mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to notice, for my lips to part on instinct, for the air between us to go electric.
Oh.
Oh no.
I think he’s going to kiss me.
I think I want him to.
And that’s when my body decides to betray me completely.
The slick comes without warning—a rush of wet heat between my thighs that has nothing to do with cold weather and everything to do with the alpha standing three inches away from me.
My scent spikes so hard I can smell it myself, lavender flooding the air, and Ben makes a sound that’s almost a growl.
His whole body goes rigid. His hand tightens on my wrist—not painful, but firm, like he’s holding onto his control by a thread.
“Tessa.” His voice is wrecked. “You need to go. Now.”
The mortification hits me like a truck. I just slicked. In his garage. Because he looked at my mouth.
Fucking hell.
“I—”
“Now.” He releases my wrist like it’s burning him, taking a sharp step back, and I can see the war on his face. The way his nostrils flare. The way his hands are clenched at his sides. “Please.”
The please is what breaks me.
I go.
I practically throw his truck keys at him and I’m out the door before I can even process what just happened. The January air hits my flushed face like a slap, sharp enough to make my eyes water. I fumble with my car door, fingers clumsy from cold and adrenaline and whatever the hell that was.
I don’t look back. I can’t look back. If I look back and see him standing there, I’ll do something I can’t take back.
The drive home is a blur. My hands are shaking on the steering wheel, and I’m still wearing his jacket, still wrapped in his scent, still feeling the ghost of his thumb against my pulse.
The heater blasts but I can’t get warm. Every inhale brings more of him—leather, musk, that hint of motor oil that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.
I slicked. In his garage. Because he looked at me.
I need more suppressants. I need a cold shower. I need to never see Ben Wilson again.
I pull into my parking spot and sit there, engine off, staring at nothing.
Eight bachelors. I needed eight bachelors. I have seven.
And Ben Wilson said no.
Because I don’t bid.
What the hell does that even mean?
I press my forehead to the steering wheel and groan. The jacket shifts around my shoulders, and I get another wave of his scent, and my body responds all over again despite the fact that he’s not even here.
His jacket. I’m still wearing his jacket.
Which means I now have his jacket AND his flannel, which is still folded on my couch where I definitely didn’t sleep with it last night.
I’m collecting Ben Wilson’s clothes like some kind of deranged scent hoarder.
“This is a disaster,” I whisper to no one.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, half expecting it to be Ben with some sarcastic follow-up, but it’s Milo.
Got confirmations from Lucas and Sam. Jake and Asher are in too. You’re welcome ;)
Four bachelors. Milo got me four.
I stare at the phone, then type back: You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.
Anything for you, Tessa. Still need that last one?
I think about Ben’s face when he asked if I was going to bid on Milo. The way he closed off the second I said no.
Working on it, I reply.
Then I go inside, take the coldest shower of my life, and call my doctor about increasing my suppressant dosage.
Because whatever just happened in that garage cannot happen again.
It absolutely, definitely, under no circumstances can happen again.
No matter how much I want it to.
God, I’m so screwed.