Chapter 9
Bea
Honeyridge Falls looks like Christmas exploded all over it.
Tessa Lang has outdone herself. Garland wraps every lamppost, white lights dangle from bare tree branches, and that massive twenty-foot tree dominates the town square like some kind of evergreen monument to holiday excess.
The air smells like cinnamon, chocolate, and wood smoke.
Kids are already hyped on sugar. Adults clutch paper cups of hot cider.
Everyone's bundled up and rosy-cheeked and looking forward to the main event.
Meanwhile, I'm contemplating faking a sudden illness.
"You look nauseous," Mom observes, adjusting my scarf. Again. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Perfect. Never better."
"That's your lying voice," Ben adds. He's crunching through a candy cane with unnecessary aggression. "The flat, dead one that fools absolutely nobody."
I flip him off. Mom doesn't see because she's already waving at the Hendersons.
Here's my problem. I can see all three of them.
River's manning the hardware store booth—my boss, technically, though he hates when I call him that.
Dark green flannel, sleeves rolled up despite the cold, surrounded by the toy drive donations I've been promoting all week.
That golden retriever energy is out in full force as he helps some kid pick a toy truck, making everyone around him smile.
Seth's on patrol, all professional in his uniform.
Guiding traffic near the parking area with that careful, competent patience.
Every so often his eyes sweep the crowd—looking for trouble, looking for me, I'm not sure which anymore.
Not after Wednesday night. Not after sitting in the dark at that overlook, his confession hanging between us, the moment before the emergency call when we almost—
I shake my head. Not thinking about that.
And Grayson—fuck, Grayson's leaning against a lamppost near the coffee cart.
Dark coat, darker stare, watching everything with that intensity that made dinner at Millie's so unsettling.
He's not trying to blend in. Just observing, cataloging, existing in a way that makes my hindbrain sit up and take notice even though we've only talked once.
Three alphas. One town square. And me, standing here with my family, trying to pretend I'm not tracking all three like my life depends on it.
My scent's already betraying me—that telltale sweetness creeping into my usual cinnamon-apple.
Ben wrinkles his nose and takes a step back. "Oh god, no."
"What?"
"You." He gestures vaguely at all of me, looking genuinely pained. "Your scent. I'm your brother, Bea. I don't need to—" He shudders. "Just no."
My face floods with heat. "I don't know what you're—"
"Yes, you do. And I'm choosing to live in denial about it." He points across the square. "But for the record, you said you weren't into any of them."
"I'm not."
"Your biology is calling you a liar and I hate that I know that." He shoves his candy cane at me like a barrier. "Go. Get hot chocolate. Preferably in another zip code until you get that under control."
"You're the worst."
"And you smell like a romance novel. We're both suffering here."
I escape into the crowd before he can psychoanalyze me further. Families are everywhere—couples holding hands, packs clustered together, kids running wild.
That actress, Lila James, is here with her pack. She's visibly pregnant now, one hand resting on her rounded belly while Dean the firefighter hovers protectively at her side. They look happy. Settled. Like they have their whole lives figured out.
Everyone's paired up. Everyone's settled.
Everyone except me, spiraling at a tree lighting ceremony because I can't stop tracking three different alpha scents like my life depends on it.
"Bea! Hey!"
River's voice. I turn, and there he is—leaving the booth with that easy jog, dark green flannel rolled up despite the cold. His pine-and-sawdust scent hits me before he does, warm and familiar after a week of working side-by-side.
"Hey, boss." The nickname slips out, and he grins.
"Not your boss. Your collaborator." He's slightly breathless, cheeks flushed. "The toy drive's killing it. We hit goal an hour ago."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. Those Instagram stories you posted?" He pulls out his phone, shows me the numbers. "Fifteen hundred views. Hardware store hasn't seen this kind of traffic since the Fourth of July sale."
Pride sparks in my chest. This is mine—my work, my strategy. "Told you video content performs better than static posts."
"You were right. As usual." He pockets his phone, and there's something careful in the way he looks at me now. Different from before. "You're really good at this, you know that? Like, genuinely talented."
My face heats. "It's just social media."
"It's not 'just' anything. You're building a brand.
" He shifts his weight, and I can feel the unspoken thing between us.
The confession. The way he sent me home early after telling me he was attracted to me, giving us both space.
"Been thinking—after the holidays, maybe we should talk about making this official?
I know you said part-time while you figure things out, but I'd love to keep working with you. On your terms."
The offer catches me off guard. Not because it's pushy—River's never pushy.
Even after admitting his feelings, he's kept things professional.
But because he means it. Because he's offering me exactly what Terrance never did—respect for my work, space to build something, partnership instead of possession.
"Yeah," I manage. "I'd like that."
His smile widens—genuine, reaching his eyes, and for a second that careful distance drops. "Good. That's—that's really good, Bea."
Someone yells his name from the booth. He glances back, grimaces. "Duty calls. But hey—save me a dance later?"
"What?"
"The caroling. There's always dancing." He's already backing away, that confident grin breaking through. "Come find me, okay?"
He jogs off before I can respond, and I'm left standing there with my heart doing stupid things.
The way he moves through the crowd—confident but not cocky, stopping to help a mom wrangle her toddler, high-fiving some kid wearing reindeer antlers.
River Brooks makes everything look effortless, and I'm over here struggling to remember how to breathe around him.
Ever since he told me he was attracted to me, everything feels different. Charged. Like we're both trying to pretend there isn't this thing between us while also being hyperaware of every look, every accidental touch at the hardware store.
The hot chocolate line's wrapped around the booth. I join it, trying not to think about patrol cars and dark conversations and almost-kisses interrupted by emergency calls—
"Hey."
Seth. Right beside me. When did he get here?
"Shit!" I jump, nearly dropping my phone.
"Sorry." He's right there, steadying hand hovering near my elbow. His ears are bright red. "Didn't mean to—I keep doing that. Startling you."
Our eyes meet, and there it is—that electric spark. That clean rain-and-cedar scent. The memory of sitting in the dark at that overlook, his confession about first kisses, the moment before the emergency call when we almost—
"Thanks," I manage.
He straightens, shoving his hands in his pockets. Won't quite look at me. "So. Um. Busy night."
"Yeah."
Silence. But it's not comfortable anymore. It's loaded. Heavy with everything we didn't say, everything we didn't do when that emergency call came through.
"Seth—"
"I've been thinking—"
We both stop. He finally looks at me, and those warm brown eyes are so earnest it hurts.
"You first," I say.
"I just—" He clears his throat. "About the other night. In the car. I didn't mean to make things weird, telling you about—you know. The kiss thing." His voice drops. "Your kiss. Our kiss. The first—"
"You didn't make it weird."
"It felt weird after. Like I said too much or—"
"Seth." I need to stop this before he spirals. "You were honest. That was fine. We're fine."
"Yeah?" His expression does something complicated. Hope and fear and want all mixed together.
The line moves. Neither of us notices.
"I keep thinking about it," he admits quietly. "What would've happened if that call hadn't come through. If we'd just—if I'd just—"
My heart's pounding, but I force a light tone. "Probably would've been even more awkward. Your radio squawking while—" I stop myself, face heating.
"While what?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
"Bea—"
"Deputy Monroe!" Someone shouts from across the square. "We need you!"
Thank god.
He grimaces. "I should—"
"Go. Save the festival from whatever crisis Tessa's having."
"Right. Yeah." He hesitates, like he wants to say something else. Those brown eyes are so earnest it makes my chest ache. Then just, "Later?"
"Later."
He heads off, and I watch him go. Still gentle. Still careful. But there's something different now—acknowledgment of what's between us. What almost happened. What might still happen if we're brave enough.
He heads off, and I watch him go. The careful way he navigates the crowd, pausing to help someone struggling with packages, guiding an elderly couple toward the seating area.
Seth moves through the world like he's terrified of taking up too much space, but every gesture is gentle and capable and genuinely kind.
My heart's doing gymnastics.
I get my hot chocolate, but it doesn't help. My body's buzzing, my scent's spiraling, and I need space. Away from the crowd, the noise, the three sets of eyes I can feel tracking me through the square.
There's an alley between Millie's and the bookshop—dark, quiet, barely wide enough for two people. I slip into it, press my back against cold brick, and try to remember how to breathe.
The festival noise fades. Out here, it's just me and the cold air and the smell of cinnamon from my hot chocolate mixing with my own increasingly sweet scent.
I'm so fucked.