Chapter 6 #2
Must not find it, because her shoulders drop slightly. "Okay. But let's be clear—this isn't a date."
"Wasn't planning on it being one."
"This is you not eating alone and me avoiding my parents for a while. That's it."
"Works for me." Even though everything in me is arguing that this should absolutely be a date.
Not helping, biology.
"And if you're expecting life story or why I'm back in town, you're gonna be disappointed."
"I wasn't planning to ask."
That catches her off guard. Her eyes narrow again. "Everyone asks."
"I'm not everyone." I start walking. "Come on. I'm starving, and I haven't had real food in two days."
She falls into step beside me. Close enough that I catch her scent fully now—that cinnamon-apple with winter air wrapping around me, making my mouth water and my cock take notice.
Shit. This is not the time.
I focus very hard on walking and not thinking about how good she smells. Or how the cold's putting color in her cheeks. Or how her defensive posture somehow makes her more attractive instead of less—all that fire and wariness packaged in curves I absolutely should not be noticing.
This is just dinner. Two people. No big deal.
My body laughs at me.
"So," she says as we walk, "on a scale of serial killer to normal person, where would you rate yourself?"
I glance at her. She's smirking slightly.
"Solid six," I say.
"Out of ten?"
"Out of five."
She snorts. Actually snorts. "Well, at least you're honest about it."
She almost smiles. Almost.
We reach Millie's. Warm light, smell of home cooking, condensation on the windows. Through the glass I can see locals in booths, and I know the second we walk in together, everyone's going to notice.
Small town. Gossip central. New alpha having dinner with Bea Wilson.
Part of me wants that. Wants people to see us together.
Wants what? A not-date?
Bea must be thinking the same thing because she pauses at the door.
"You sure about this?" she asks. "Whole town's gonna talk."
"They're gonna talk anyway. I'm the new tattoo artist. You're the omega who kissed a deputy at a festival." I raise an eyebrow. "Might as well give them something real to gossip about."
She stares at me. "You haven't even been here a full day and you already know about that?"
"Levi's informative."
"Apparently." Then she laughs—short, surprised, but genuine. "Okay. I like you." She pulls open the door. "Let's see if that lasts through dinner."
"No promises."
"Good. I don't trust people who make promises on a not-date."
I can't help it—I grin. This omega is killing me. Funny, snarky, and apparently allergic to bullshit.
Yeah. I'm in trouble.
We walk into Millie's together. Warm air, coffee and pie, and yeah—every head turns. I catch at least three people whispering, two more pulling out phones.
This town works fast.
Bea slides into a booth near the back, and I take the seat across from her.
Up close in better light, she's even prettier than I thought.
Sharp features that would be intimidating if not for that full mouth.
Green eyes with gold flecks, currently assessing me like she's cataloging threats.
Dark hair falling out of that ponytail frames her face, and I have the stupidest urge to tuck it behind her ear just to see if she'd let me.
And that scent—cinnamon and apple surrounding me in the small booth—makes it hard to think straight.
"So," she says, leaning back and studying me. "You always ask strangers to dinner?"
"Only when I don't want to eat alone and they look like they could use a break."
"How noble." But her mouth twitches. "And what makes you think I needed a break?"
"You said yes."
She snorts. "Fair point." She picks up a menu. "So what brings a tattoo artist to Honeyridge Falls? We're not exactly a hotbed of body art enthusiasm."
"Fresh start. Friend recommended it."
"Friend have a name?"
"Elijah Smith."
Something shifts in her expression. "Elijah's good people. If he sent you here, you're probably not a serial killer after all."
"Told you. Solid six out of five."
She laughs - actually laughs this time. "Okay, maybe this won't be completely awful."
A waitress appears—older woman with kind eyes and a name tag that says Millie. "Well, well. Bea Wilson." Her gaze flicks between us, interest sharp. "And with the new tattoo artist. That didn't take long."
"Hi, Millie. This is Grayson."
"Welcome to Honeyridge Falls, honey." Millie grins. "What can I get you two?"
"Water," Bea says. "And the bacon cheeseburger. Extra pickles. Fries. Onion rings. And a side of mac and cheese."
I stare at her. She's maybe five feet tall, and she just ordered enough food for two people.
She catches my look. "What?"
"Nothing."
"You're judging my food choices."
"I'm impressed by your food choices." And I am. Tiny omega with zero fucks to give about ordering what she wants. "I'll have the same."
Millie laughs outright. "Two of everything. You got it, honey."
The second she's gone, Bea leans forward. "So, just so you know, by tomorrow the entire town will think we're dating."
"Even though this isn't a date."
"Especially because this isn't a date." She shakes her head. "That's how it works here."
"Good to know."
"You don't seem bothered."
I meet her eyes. "Should I be?"
She blinks. Then sits back, something flickering across her face. "You're weird."
"So I've been told."
"I mean it as a compliment."
"I know."
Yeah. Disappearing in this town is definitely not happening.
But looking at Bea across the table—still guarded but smiling, with her cinnamon-apple scent wrapping around me and that spark of humor in her eyes—I find I don't mind as much as I thought I would.