Chapter 10
Milo
I’ve spent six years behind a bar learning to read people.
My grandfather taught me that. Forty years he ran the Barn Bar before he handed me the keys, and every single one of those years he spent watching, listening, learning. “A good bartender,” he used to say, “is half therapist, half detective, and all heart.”
I thought he was being dramatic. Then I spent my first month behind that bar and realized he was underselling it.
The nervous first date who needs a confidence boost. The guy drowning his sorrows who needs someone to listen. The couple pretending everything’s fine when it’s clearly falling apart. The regulars who come in not for the drinks but for the company, the conversation, the feeling of being known.
You learn to notice the little things. The tells. The moments when someone’s mask slips and you see what’s underneath.
Right now, watching Tessa Lang wrapped in a blanket on Ben’s couch with firelight dancing across her face, I’m seeing a whole lot of mask slipping.
She’s exhausted. That much is obvious. Dark circles under her eyes, shoulders finally dropping from their usual position somewhere around her ears.
But it’s more than tired. It’s... soft. The sharp edges she usually keeps honed to a razor point are blunted tonight.
Whether it’s the cold or the shock or just the sheer relief of being warm and safe, Tessa’s walls are down. Maybe not all the way, but enough.
And Ben and Elijah have noticed too.
Ben hasn’t moved from her side since we got back. He’s pressed against her shoulder like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he stops touching her. Every few seconds his eyes drift to her face, checking, making sure she’s still there. Still okay.
Elijah’s crouched in front of her, her hands cradled in his.
He’s got a first aid kit open on the floor beside him, antiseptic and gauze spread out like a tiny triage unit.
The guy builds furniture with those hands.
I’ve seen him haul oak beams that would take two normal men to lift. He could crush walnuts without trying.
But right now he’s dabbing antiseptic on her scraped knuckles like she’s made of spun glass.
“This might sting,” he says, voice low.
Tessa watches him work, her expression unreadable. “It’s fine.”
“You tried to dig your car out with your bare hands.”
“I was motivated.”
“You were stubborn.” He doesn’t look up, just keeps cleaning the scrapes with careful, methodical strokes. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Motivation gets you out of a snowbank. Stubbornness gets you frostbite.”
I bite back a smile. Elijah with the unexpected sass. Tessa looks equally surprised.
“Did you just lecture me?”
“Stating facts.” He reaches for the gauze. “Hold still.”
She does. That’s the part that gets me. Tessa Lang, who argues with everyone about everything, just sits there and lets Elijah wrap her hands like she’s a child who skinned her knees on the playground. Her eyes follow his movements, watching him wind the gauze with practiced precision.
“Where did you learn to do this?” she asks.
“Woodworking.” He tucks the end of the gauze and reaches for her other hand. “You get cuts and splinters. You learn to patch yourself up.”
“Or you could wear gloves.”
“Could.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Don’t.”
His face has gone soft. Open. Completely unguarded in a way I’ve never seen from him before.
We’re all in trouble here. All three of us.
I head for the kitchen to give myself something to do besides stare at the three of them like a creep. Gramps always said idle hands make for obvious pining. The pot of leftover chili goes on the stove, and I busy myself stirring while I watch them through the pass-through window.
The Barn Bar taught me a lot of things. How to mix a perfect Old Fashioned. How to break up a fight without throwing a punch. How to listen when someone needs to talk and stay silent when they don’t.
But mostly it taught me that people are lonely. Even in a town like Honeyridge, where everyone knows everyone and you can’t walk down Main Street without stopping for three conversations, people are lonely. They come to my bar because they want connection. They want to feel seen.
I’ve always been good at that. Seeing people. Making them feel like they matter. It’s why I took over for Gramps without a second thought when his arthritis got too bad to keep working. Some people dread inheriting the family business. I couldn’t wait.
There’s a kind of sacredness in being the person people come to at the end of a hard day. The one they trust with their secrets, their fears, their stupid jokes. My grandfather built that trust over forty years. I’m trying to be worthy of it.
Tessa’s different, though. Tessa doesn’t want to be seen. She keeps herself so buttoned up, so controlled, that getting a glimpse of the real her feels like finding a twenty-dollar bill in an old coat pocket. Unexpected. Lucky.
Tonight I’ve seen more of the real Tessa than I have in three years of knowing her. And I want more. God, I want more.
The chili’s hot. I ladle out a big bowl—she needs it, even if she won’t admit it—and carry it over to the couch.
Elijah’s finished with her hands now, both of them neatly wrapped in white gauze. He’s packing up the first aid kit, but he hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor near her feet. Like he can’t bring himself to put distance between them.
Yeah. I know the feeling.
“Here.” I hold out the bowl. “Eat.”
Tessa looks at the chili like it might bite her. “I’m not hungry.”
“Tessa.”
“I’m really not—”
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Ben says. “Maybe lunch, but knowing you, you skipped that too.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I know you. You forget to eat when you’re stressed. And you’ve been organizing this fundraiser for weeks, which means you’ve probably been running on coffee and spite since January.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. “Spite is very nutritious.”
“Eat the chili.” I push the bowl into her hands. “It’s my grandfather’s recipe. Well, technically it’s from a cookbook he bought in 1987, but he made some modifications. Added more cumin. Secret ingredient.”
“Cumin isn’t a secret ingredient. Everyone uses cumin.”
“Not like this. Eat.”
She takes a bite. Then another. Then another. Her eyes close for a second, and she makes a soft sound that shoots straight down my spine.
I want to know what other sounds I could pull out of her. Want to know if she’d make that same noise with my mouth on her neck, my hands sliding under that blanket.
Down, boy.
“Okay,” she admits. “This is good.”
“I know.”
“Humble.”
“Accurate.” I settle into the armchair across from them and watch her eat. “I make great chili. That’s just a fact.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. A real one. Not the polished, professional smile she uses at town meetings. This one’s smaller, warmer, and it hits me right in the gut.
Gramps always said I’d know real trouble when it smiled at me. He wasn’t wrong.
“Your grandfather taught you to cook too?” she asks between bites.
“He taught me everything. How to cook, how to tend bar, how to talk to people.” I lean back in the chair, memories washing over me.
“He used to say the secret to a good life is making people feel welcome. Doesn’t matter if it’s in a bar or a kitchen or just passing someone on the street.
You make them feel like they belong, and you’ve done a good day’s work. ”
She’s watching me now, spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “You really loved him.”
“Love. Present tense. He’s still around, just retired. Spends most of his time fishing and complaining about my playlist at the bar.” I grin. “He thinks anything recorded after 1985 is noise.”
“Smart man.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll never shut up.”
Her scent drifts up to me as she eats.
Different.
I go still, nostrils flaring before I can stop myself. She smells like she always does—lavender and citrus—but there’s a richness underneath. A warmth that wasn’t there before. Sweeter. Deeper. Like honey left in the sun, thick and golden and warm.
Every alpha instinct I have sits up and pays attention. Something’s happening.
I don’t know what it means. But my body knows it means something, because my blood is suddenly running hotter and my teeth ache with the urge to—
No. Down.
I file it away. Keep my face neutral. But I catch Elijah’s eye across the room, and from the slight tension in his jaw, he’s noticed it too.
By the time she’s finished the bowl, the tension in her shoulders has eased even more. There’s actual color in her cheeks instead of the alarming blue-white she was sporting when we found her.
“More?” I ask.
“I couldn’t.”
“That’s not a no.”
She hesitates, then holds out the bowl. “Maybe a little.”
Ben laughs. Actually laughs, this surprised huff of sound that makes Tessa’s cheeks go pink.
“Shut up,” she mutters.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Thinking what? That it’s nice to see you actually eat for once? That you look better when you’re not running yourself into the ground?” He nudges her shoulder with his. “Guilty.”
I grab the bowl and head back to the kitchen, hiding my grin. Ben Wilson, smooth talker. Who knew.
When I come back with the refilled bowl, Tessa’s still pink-cheeked, but she takes it without argument. Elijah’s moved from the floor to the armchair, but his eyes keep drifting back to her. Taking stock. Making sure she’s okay.
This is pack. The real thing, not the formal bonding ceremonies or the legal paperwork. Just people taking care of each other. Paying attention. Showing up.
“You should change,” Ben says once she’s finished the second bowl. “Your clothes are still damp. I’ve got sweats and a t-shirt you can borrow.”
“I’m fine—”
“Tessa.” All three of us say it at the same time.
She blinks. “Did you rehearse that?”
“Didn’t have to,” I say. “You’re predictable.”
“I am not—”