Chapter 10
River
Monday morning, and I'm already fucking this up.
She's late. Only by five minutes, but Bea Wilson has been exactly on time every single day since she started last Wednesday. Three days of working together, and she's never been late—not once.
I'm attracted to you.
What kind of employer says that to someone on their first day?
The kind who ignores Milo's advice, apparently.
Milo told me to take it slow, not rush things, and what did I do?
Blurted out my feelings on day one like an idiot who's been alone too long and forgot how to act like a professional human being when a beautiful omega walks into his hardware store smelling like cinnamon and apples and making every instinct I have sit up and beg.
The door chimes. I look up from where I'm definitely not anxiously reorganizing paint samples for the third time.
Bea steps inside, cheeks flushed from the cold December air, dark hair escaping from her ponytail. She's wearing jeans and a cream sweater under her jacket, and the sight of her makes warmth spread through my chest. My instincts practically purr.
Down, boy.
"Morning." I aim for casual. Sound almost normal. "Coffee's fresh if you want some."
"Thanks." She's not quite meeting my eyes as she hangs up her coat. Her scent reaches me—that sweet omega combination with a sharp winter-cold edge underneath—and I have to resist the urge to inhale deeper.
She pours herself coffee, and the silence stretches. Awkward. Uncomfortable.
"So." She takes a sip, finally glancing at me over the rim of her mug. "What's the plan today, boss?"
There it is. That teasing lilt on the word "boss" that she's been using since day one just to get a rise out of me.
"Don't call me that," I say automatically, but I'm smiling despite the tension.
"Why not?" She's grinning now too, some of that wariness fading. "You literally are my boss."
"Partner. Collaborator." I shake my head. "Not boss."
"You're so weird about that."
"Because it makes me sound like I'm seventy and yelling at people to get off my lawn."
"You kind of do yell at kids who lean on the paint display."
"That's different. The paint display is—" I stop, realizing she's messing with me. "You're doing it on purpose."
"Maybe." She's fully smiling now, and just like that, the awkwardness breaks. "So what's the actual plan, River?"
Professional. I need to be professional.
We've been dancing around each other since Wednesday. Since I made that confession and then immediately gave her space like a coward. Two shifts of careful politeness at work, both of us pretending there isn't this current running between us every time we're in the same room.
And then Saturday night happened. The Tree Lighting. I was looking for her—wanted to ask for that dance she'd promised to save for me. Found Ben instead.
"She left," he'd said, giving me a look. "Overwhelmed. Just let her be."
But not before I saw her. Coming out of that alley behind the general store, flustered and wild-eyed. And Grayson Cole following behind her, that intense look on his face.
I know something happened. Don't know what. Not my business unless she wants to tell me.
But it's been eating at me all weekend.
Now it's Monday morning, and we both have to be here, and we've already broken the ice with her teasing. Back to work.
"Thought we could tackle more social media content," I say, pulling out my phone. "Those posts you did for the toy drive got crazy engagement. I was thinking we could do something similar for the Christmas sale coming up."
"Sure." She nods, already thinking. "What did you have in mind?"
For a second, I forget what we're talking about. Those green eyes, sharp and intelligent and still slightly wary, looking at me like she's trying to figure something out.
Then my brain catches up. "Holiday decorating? Show people how to hang lights safely, build those wooden reindeer lawn ornaments, that kind of thing?"
"That could work." She's already pulling out her own phone, scrolling through the store's Instagram. "We should do video content. Short tutorials. Maybe some before-and-after transformations."
And just like that, we're back. Not awkward coworkers dancing around an uncomfortable confession. Just two people who work well together, bouncing ideas back and forth.
This is why I hired her. Why I offered her the job in the first place. Because she's brilliant at this—sees opportunities I'd never think of, understands the marketing side of business in a way I never will.
And yeah, okay, also because I'm attracted to her. But that's not why she's good at her job.
"We could do a series," she's saying now, warming to the topic. "Different projects each day this week. Build anticipation for the weekend sale."
"I like it." I lean against the counter, watching her face light up as she talks. "What do you need from me?"
"Mostly just to be the hands." She's grinning now, some of that wariness fading. "You do the actual work, I'll film and edit. People love watching capable alphas build things."
My face heats. "Capable, huh?"
"It's basic marketing." But there's color in her cheeks too. "Play to your strengths."
"And my strengths are...?"
"The whole rugged hardware store owner thing you've got going." She waves her hand vaguely. "It works for the demographic."
I'm definitely blushing now. "Right. Demographics."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Don't let it go to your head, Brooks."
The morning passes easier after that. We film a quick tutorial on hanging outdoor lights—me on a ladder demonstrating proper technique while Bea narrates and asks questions.
She makes me do it three times until she gets the perfect clip, and I'm reminded that underneath the snark and walls, she's genuinely good at what she does.
Customers come and go. Mrs. Larson wants advice on her granddaughter's Pinterest board again. I help her while Bea rings up old Mr. Patterson's monthly lumber order. We move around each other in the space easily now, a few shifts of working together creating a comfortable rhythm.
Comfortable. Professional.
Except I can't stop noticing her.
The way she tucks hair behind her ear when she's concentrating.
How she drums her fingers on the counter while thinking.
The little smile she gets when a customer compliments her organizational system—because of course she reorganized my entire front display in under a week and made it actually functional.
Around noon, I catch myself watching her explain router bits to a contractor with complete confidence, and the realization hits me like a hammer to the chest.
This isn't just attraction anymore.
I'm falling for her.
For the way she lights up when she solves a problem. For how she remembers every customer's name after meeting them once. For the fierce intelligence she brings to everything she does, even something as simple as managing social media for a small-town hardware store.
She's brilliant. Capable. Funny. Everything I didn't know I was looking for.
And I'm her employer who made things weird by confessing feelings on her first day of work.
Fuck.
"River?"
I blink. She's watching me with her head tilted, concerned. "You okay? You've been staring at that paint can for like two minutes."
"Yeah. Sorry." I set down the can I don't even remember picking up. "Just thinking."
"About paint?"
"Sure. Let's go with that."
She studies me for a moment longer, like she knows I'm lying but decides to let it slide. "Lunch break?"
"Good idea."
We grab sandwiches from Maeve's bakery, and by the time we're done eating and laughing over small-town stories, the tension from this morning is completely gone.
The afternoon passes quickly. We film two more tutorial videos, and between customers, Bea edits on her phone with impressive focus.
By four-thirty, the light's fading and the store's quiet. Last customer left ten minutes ago.
"So," Bea says, looking up from her phone. "I had one more idea for content."
"Yeah?"
"Mistletoe." She's got that scheming look. "We hang it near the register with a cute Brooks Hardware sign. Customers can take photos under it and post them. Free marketing."
It's brilliant. "Where are we getting mistletoe?"
"Already ordered it." She grins. "Should be in that delivery box from this morning." I head to the stockroom, find the small box she's talking about. Sure enough—fake mistletoe, surprisingly realistic, with a red velvet ribbon already attached.
When I come back, she's standing on the counter stool, hammer in hand. "I'll hold it, you secure it?"
"You know how to use that?"
"I'm not completely helpless." She brandishes it. "Dad taught Ben and me basic repairs when we were kids. Family tradition."
There's warmth in her voice when she mentions her family, that soft pride that comes from growing up loved and supported.
I climb up on the stool next to her, reach for the mistletoe. Our hands brush and electricity shoots up my arm. She feels it too—I can tell by the way her breath catches, the way her scent spikes with awareness.
"Here." I take the mistletoe from her, try to focus on the task instead of how close she is. How good she smells. How easy it would be to just—
No. Professional.
I hammer in the hook, hang the mistletoe carefully. It dangles beside the register, looking festive and exactly like the kind of photo op that will probably actually work for bringing in customers.
"Perfect." Bea hops down from her stool. "Now we just need to hang the sign."
She's already pulling out a handmade Brooks Hardware sign she must have made earlier—cute lettering with little holly leaves drawn around the edges.
"When did you make that?"
"During lunch. Took five minutes." She's moving her stool, positioning it beside the mistletoe. "Can you help?"
I step closer as she climbs up. Suddenly we're eye to eye—her on the stool, me standing beside it—and way too close. She's never been at my height before, and the shift is disorienting. Intimate.