Chapter 7 Tessa
Tessa
My phone buzzes for the fourteenth time since I got in the car.
I know because I’ve been counting. Fourteen calls, twenty-two texts, and at least six emails—all in the twenty minutes since I left my office.
The caterer wants to confirm the Valentine’s menu.
The venue coordinator has “concerns” about the table layout.
Mrs. Patterson needs to know if her nephew can still get a ticket even though sales closed last week.
My brain automatically starts triaging. Caterer is urgent, venue can wait until tomorrow, Mrs. Patterson’s nephew can have ticket number forty-seven from the reserve list I keep for exactly this kind of situation.
The answer is yes. It’s always yes. Because I’m Tessa Lang, and I don’t say no to anyone.
Except today.
Today, I reach over and turn my phone off.
The silence is immediate. Startling. Like the whole world just went quiet.
I wait for the panic to set in. For the familiar clench in my chest that comes whenever I’m not immediately available.
It doesn’t come.
Instead—just quiet. The hum of my engine. Snow starting to fall outside my windshield. The distant gray of mountains through the trees.
And relief. Actual, honest-to-god relief.
When did answering my phone start feeling like a punishment?
The road to Pine Valley winds through the mountains, all sharp curves and pine trees heavy with white. I take the turns slow, watching the flakes drift down in the beam of my headlights.
Forty minutes each way. That’s what it costs me to live in Honeyridge instead of Pine Valley, where most of my clients are. Forty minutes of mountain roads and questionable weather and gas money I probably shouldn’t spend.
Worth it. Every single time.
I didn’t grow up with community. Didn’t grow up with much of anything—just a rotating cast of foster families and the hard lesson that the only person you could count on was yourself.
By the time I aged out at eighteen, I had a garbage bag of clothes, a chip on my shoulder, and zero expectations that anyone would ever have my back.
But Honeyridge snuck past my defenses. Maeve sliding me an extra scone when I look tired. Sadie saving the best flowers for my events. Everyone waving on Main Street like I belong there, like I’ve always belonged there.
First time Maeve called me “sweetheart” and meant it, I almost cried into my coffee.
These people adopted me without asking permission. Just decided I was theirs, and that was that.
I’ve never had that before.
The snow falls thicker now, coating the road in a thin white layer. I ease off the gas, feel the tires grip. The wipers sweep back and forth, a steady rhythm.
And I do something I haven’t done in years.
I turn on music.
Not talk radio. Not productivity podcasts. Actual music—Taylor Swift and Kacey Musgraves and that Fleetwood Mac album I played on repeat the summer before senior year.
When the first notes hit, I sing along. Badly, off-key, missing half the words.
My voice cracks on the chorus and I laugh—actually laugh, out loud, alone in my car—and try again. Still terrible, but I don’t care.
My shoulders drop away from my ears. My grip loosens on the wheel. The tight thing in my chest that’s been there for weeks—months, maybe—starts to unwind.
This. I remember this. Singing in my car like no one’s listening, because no one is. Feeling light and free and young again.
When did I stop letting myself be free?
Don’t answer that, Lang. You know exactly when. Somewhere between the third foster home and the second job and the desperate need to prove you didn’t need anyone.
I turn the volume up. Belt the next verse. The snow swirls outside my windows and I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
The song fades. Another one starts—slower, sadder. I skip ahead.
And that’s when my body reminds me why I couldn’t sleep last night.
It starts low. A pulse of heat between my legs, sudden and insistent. I shift in my seat, pressing my thighs together, and the friction only makes it worse.
What the hell?
My skin feels too tight. Flushed. I crack the window an inch and cold air rushes in, hitting my cheeks, but the heat doesn’t go away. It spreads—up through my belly, across my chest, settling in my breasts until my nipples ache against my bra.
This isn’t normal. None of this is anywhere close to normal.
I’ve been on suppressants for seven years—seven years of nothing, no heats, no slick, no inconvenient biological responses getting in the way of my carefully organized life.
I’m not supposed to feel like this, not supposed to be squirming in my seat on the way to a business meeting, wet and wanting for no reason at all.
Except there is a reason. Elijah, yesterday.
Because it’s you.
Just the memory of his voice—rough and low and honest—and fresh heat floods through me. I grip the steering wheel, breathing through it.
He caught me on the ice. Arms around me before I even registered I was falling. Solid chest, strong hands, his scent filling my lungs—cedar and sawdust and alpha—and I went slick so fast it soaked through my underwear right there on Main Street.
That’s not supposed to happen. Not on suppressants. Not from being held.
But my body didn’t care about supposed to. My body wanted.
And then after. The bakery. You needed something. I could give it. That’s enough. Like it was simple. Like I was worth inconveniencing himself for.
No one’s ever talked to me like that.
The heat pulses again, low and deep. I press my hand against my lower belly, feeling the ache there, insistent and growing.
This has been happening more and more lately. Little flashes of want, moments where my body responds to things it shouldn’t. It started maybe a month ago—just occasional warmth, heightened awareness of scents. But it’s getting stronger. More frequent.
What is happening to me?
And then—the snow. Walking back to my office, flakes drifting down around us. I looked up to catch one on my tongue, feeling like a kid, feeling happy, and when I looked back at him he was staring at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my cheek. And I forgot how to breathe.
Elijah Smith. Quiet, steady Elijah who barely strings two sentences together, who’s apparently been paying attention for three years while I was too busy color-coding my calendar to notice.
I noticed yesterday. And I’m noticing right now, alone in my car, wet and aching just from the memory of his hands on me. So much for my carefully compartmentalized life.
The road curves sharply. I slow down, focus on the pavement. The snow is accumulating now—an inch, maybe more. I should probably be thinking about road conditions.
I’m thinking about Milo instead.
Milo Stone. That ridiculous, flirty, impossible man.
A smile tugs at my mouth. It always does with Milo. That’s his superpower—making people smile even when they don’t want to.
Last week at the bar, he slid a drink across the counter before I even ordered.
“Figured you could use this. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re about three spreadsheets away from a breakdown.” He winked—that devastating, stupid wink—and my stomach actually flipped. “Drink up, sweetheart. The world won’t end if you relax for five minutes.”
Sweetheart. He calls everyone sweetheart. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it means something anyway.
“You know what I think?” He leaned on the bar, close enough that his scent hit me—honey and vanilla and warm cinnamon—and my mouth watered. Actually watered, like I wanted to taste him.
My thighs clench together now, just remembering. God.
“I think you’re so busy taking care of everyone else that you forgot people are allowed to take care of you too.” His smile went soft. Real. “Let someone help once in a while, Tessa. You might like it.”
I stayed for an hour. Watched him work the bar, charming everyone, remembering everyone’s orders and their kids’ names and the little details of their lives. He asked about my week. Actually listened to the answer. Remembered things I’d told him months ago.
Under all that flirting, Milo actually sees people.
He sees me.
And when I left, I felt lighter than I had in months. Like maybe I was allowed to laugh. To play. To be more than the woman with the clipboard and the contingency plans.
The ache between my legs pulses again. Milo’s scent in my memory, Elijah’s hands on my skin, and my body doesn’t care that I’m supposed to be thinking about appetizer menus.
My body wants.
And then there’s Ben.
My jaw clenches automatically.
Ben Wilson. That infuriating, joke-making, commitment-phobic—
Heat floods between my legs. Not anger—want.
Damn it.
He still hasn’t said yes to the auction. Seven times I’ve asked. Eight. Every single time, he makes a joke and disappears.
“Sorry, Tessa, my truck’s on fire. Gotta go.”
“Can’t talk, I’m allergic to clipboards. Deadly allergy. Very serious.”
He thinks that crooked smile is charming enough to get away with anything.
The worst part? It is.
His jacket is in my backseat right now. His flannel too. From when I picked up my car last week. I keep meaning to return them. I keep not.
I breathe in and there it is—leather and engine grease and woods. His scent is everywhere, in my car, on my skin. I’ve been marinating in it for a week.
My hips shift against the seat, restless and wanting.
A few days ago I spotted him ducking into the hardware store to talk to River—his sister’s alpha—and I saw my chance. Cornered him in the plumbing aisle before he even knew I was there.
“Ben Wilson.”
He spun around, saw me, and actually looked for an exit. In a dead-end aisle. Surrounded by PVC pipes.
“Tessa! Hey! I was just—I have to—there’s a thing—”
“There’s no thing. You’re trapped.” I crossed my arms. “Bachelor auction.”
“That’s a lot of pressure for a man surrounded by toilet parts.”
“I’m not leaving until you give me an answer.”
He ran a hand through his hair, that crooked smile appearing. “What if I said I’m allergic to stages?”
“I’d say you karaoke’d at Millie’s last month.”
“What if I said I’m morally opposed to being auctioned off like livestock?”
“I’d say you entered a hot dog eating contest.”
“That was for charity!”
“So is this!”
We stood there, glaring at each other, and something shifted. His smile faded. His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a second—so fast I almost missed it—and then back up.
The air went thick. His scent hit me, leather and woods, and I forgot what I was even arguing about.
“Tessa...” His voice was rougher now.
River appeared at the end of the aisle. “You two need help finding anything, or...?”
Ben practically vaulted over a display of faucets to escape. “Gotta go! Nice talk! I’ll think about it!”
He was out the door before I could blink.
River looked at me with obvious amusement. “So that went well.”
I’m still thinking about the way he said my name. The way his eyes dropped to my mouth.
I breathe in his scent again, here in my car, and the ache between my legs pulses so hard I gasp.
This is bad. This is really bad.
Seven years of suppressants and now I’m soaking wet thinking about Ben Wilson on my way to a business meeting.
What is wrong with me?
Pine Valley appears through the snow. Strip malls and office buildings, the kind of generic development you find on the outskirts of any growing town.
This is where the money is—corporate clients, big venues, the events that actually pay my bills.
The streets are quieter than usual, the snow keeping people inside.
I pull into the parking lot and turn off the engine.
For a moment I just sit there. Snow falling around the car in a white curtain. My breath fogging the glass. The ache in my body pulsing steady and insistent.
Three alphas. Three scents tangled in my memory. And my body humming with want for all of them.
I press my palm flat against my lower belly. Feel the warmth there, the emptiness, the need I’ve been ignoring for years.
This is what happens when suppressants start to lose their grip.
I’ve read about it—pre-heat symptoms, the body slowly waking up after years of being suppressed.
It doesn’t mean I’m going into heat. Not yet.
But it means my biology is stirring, noticing alphas, responding to scents and touches in ways it hasn’t for seven years.
I remember what heat felt like before the suppressants. Sixteen years old in my fourth foster home, burning up and desperate and completely alone. No pack. No alpha. Just me, locked in my room for three days, riding it out by myself because no one was coming to help.
I went on suppressants the day I turned eighteen and could sign my own medical forms. Swore I’d never be that vulnerable again.
And now my body is waking up.
No. No, no, no. Not now. Not in the middle of the biggest event of my career.
I dig through my purse with shaking hands, pushing past receipts and lip balm and the emergency granola bar I never eat. There. The little orange bottle I keep with me everywhere, just in case.
Suppressants. My safety net. My control.
I’m supposed to take one a day. I took one this morning.
I shake two into my palm anyway.
My hands are trembling as I grab the water bottle from my cupholder. The pills go down easy, familiar. I’ve been taking these for years. They’ve never failed me before.
They can’t fail me now.
I set the bottle on the passenger seat and take a deep breath. Then another. The ache between my legs is still there, but knowing I’ve done something—taken action, made a plan—helps settle the panic in my chest.
This is fine. I’m fine. It’s just my body being stupid. The extra dose will kick in soon and I’ll be back to normal and I can get through this meeting and figure out the rest later.
I check my reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, slightly wild expression.
Not great. But manageable.
I grab my bag and push open the car door. Cold air hits my face, sharp and bracing. Good. I need that.
Focus, Tessa. You have a meeting. Appetizer menus. Seating charts. Normal, controllable things that don’t make you want to crawl out of your skin.
And after that, you’re going to find Ben Wilson and make him say yes to this auction if it’s the last thing you do.
One problem at a time.
Ben first. My traitorous body later.