Chapter 10 #2
Her scent hits me like a wall. Cinnamon and apples and something sweet that makes my hindbrain sit up and take immediate notice.
"Here." I take the sign from her hands, our fingers brushing. "Hold this side, I'll—"
"No, if you hold that side, it'll be crooked."
"It won't be crooked."
"River." She gives me a look. "I've seen you hang the 'Open' sign. It's always tilted."
"That's character."
"That's not knowing how to eyeball a straight line."
I'm laughing despite myself. "Fine. You hold this side."
We fumble with the sign, both reaching at the same time, her elbow bumping my shoulder, my hand landing on her waist to steady her on the stool. She's pressed close now, and every point of contact feels electric.
Finally, the sign's up. Crooked, despite her best efforts.
"See?" I grin at her. "Character."
"You're impossible." But she's smiling too, that real smile that makes her whole face light up.
She's still standing there. On the stool. Right at my eye level. Close enough that I can count the gold flecks in her green eyes.
The realization hits us at the same time.
I glance up at the mistletoe hanging just above us. Look back at her.
"Bea," I say quietly. "We're under mistletoe."
"I know." Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't move away. "This is extremely unprofessional."
"Very unprofessional."
"Bad idea."
"Terrible idea."
Neither of us moves.
Her eyes drop to my mouth. Back up. "We should get down."
"Probably."
"Go back to work."
"Definitely."
The air between us is electric. Charged. Impossible to ignore.
"River?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Fuck it."
And she closes the distance and kisses me.
For a second, I'm too shocked to react. Then every instinct I've been suppressing since she walked into my store roars to life.
I cup her face with both hands, kissing her back like I'm starving and she's the only sustenance I'll ever need. She makes a sound in the back of her throat—needy and desperate—and wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer.
I help her down from the stool, pulling her against me, never breaking the kiss. She comes willingly, melting against me, and god, she fits perfectly. Like she was made for this. Made for me.
Her taste is sweet, intoxicating. Her scent blooms around us, hot and aroused, and my instincts are screaming mine mine mine.
I walk her backward until she hits the counter. Lift her onto it without thinking. She gasps against my mouth, wraps her legs around my waist, and pulls me between her thighs.
"Fuck," I groan, rocking against her. "Bea—"
"Don't stop." Her hands are in my hair, tugging, demanding. "Please don't stop."
I kiss her harder, deeper, one hand tangling in her dark hair while the other grips her hip. She tastes like coffee and something uniquely her, and I never want to stop tasting her.
My hand slides from her hip to her waist, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through her sweater. She arches into the touch, moaning, and I'm so hard it's painful.
"You're so responsive," I murmur against her throat. "So perfect."
She's making these little desperate sounds, grinding against me, and I'm so hard it hurts. My scent is everywhere now—pine and sawdust mixing with her sweetness until the whole store smells like sex and arousal and mine mine mine.
I thumb her nipple through the fabric and she gasps, nails digging into my shoulders.
"We should stop." I don't mean it. Can't mean it. Not when she feels like this in my arms.
"Don't you dare." Her hand slides between us, palming me through my jeans, and I see stars. "Don't you dare stop."
Fuck. Fuck.
I kiss her again—hard and claiming and desperate. My hand slides from her breast down her side, her hip, around to grip her ass and pull her harder against me. She makes this perfect keening sound and I want to hear it again. Want to make her come apart in my arms.
Her hand is still on me, rubbing through the denim, and it's too much and not enough and—
"Bea." Her name comes out strangled. "If you keep doing that, I'm going to—"
"Good." She squeezes gently and I have to grab the counter to stay upright. "I want you to."
I capture her mouth again, swallowing her gasp as I rock into her hand. She's so warm, so eager, and the scent of her arousal is driving me insane. I can smell how wet she is, even through her jeans. My mouth waters thinking about getting my face between her thighs, making her scream my name.
My hand slides to the button of her jeans—
The clock on the wall behind us chimes. Five o'clock.
We both freeze.
Bea pulls back first, eyes wide and wild. "Oh my god." She's panting, flushed from her chest to her hairline. "Oh my god, I need to—I have to go."
I can barely think past the blood pounding in my ears. "Bea—"
"I'm sorry. I just—" She scrambles to get her legs unwrapped from my waist. "I need to go. Now."
Reality crashes back in like a bucket of ice water.
She's scrambling off the counter, smoothing down her sweater, trying to fix her hair. I step back to give her space, trying to get my body under control. Trying to think about literally anything other than how she felt in my arms.
"You want a ride?" The words come out before I can stop them. "I can drive you—"
"No!" It comes out too sharp. She winces. "I mean—thank you, but I need to grab dinner at Millie's. Ben's picking me up there. And I need—air. Space. To think."
"Right. Yeah. Of course."
She grabs her coat and bag with jerky movements. At the door, she finally looks back at me. Her expression is complicated—want and confusion and something that might be fear all mixed together.
"River—"
"I know." I lean against the counter, hands gripping the edge to keep from reaching for her again. "We don't have to talk about it now. Just—get to your brother. We'll figure this out."
She nods. Hesitates. Then she's gone, the bell chiming as the door swings shut behind her.
I stand there in the empty store, surrounded by her scent. Sweet arousal still clinging to my clothes, my skin, the air itself.
My phone is in my hand before I fully register moving. I need to tell someone. Need to process what just happened. Need—
I stop.
Who exactly am I planning to call? Milo, so he can say "I told you so" about taking it slow? Ben, her overprotective brother who will absolutely lose his mind?
No.
I pocket my phone. Lock up the store. Walk to my truck in the December cold.
The drive home is quiet. Too quiet. Gives me too much time to think.
About the way she kissed me. Like she was drowning and I was air. Like she'd been thinking about it just as much as I had. Like it meant something.
But also about the way she ran. The look on her face when she realized what we'd done—not quite regret, but something close. Fear, maybe. Or just the reality of the situation crashing down.
Because this isn't simple. I'm her employer. She just moved back to town after a bad breakup. She's clearly still figuring out what she wants from life.
And I just complicated everything by kissing her.
Well. By kissing her back. She kissed me first.
That matters, right? That she initiated? That she wrapped her legs around me and pulled me closer and made those sounds that will be burned into my brain forever?
I pull into my driveway, sit in the truck for a moment.
My instincts are still riding high on satisfaction—on the taste of her, the feel of her, the way her scent changed when I touched her. Every possessive urge I have wants to track her down at Millie's, claim her properly, make sure every alpha in town knows she's spoken for.
But I'm not that guy. Never have been.
I want her, yes. Want her so badly it's making me stupid.
But I also want her happy. Want her to choose this—choose me—without pressure or confusion or fear that she's making another mistake like whatever happened in college.
So I'll give her space. Let her think. Let her come to me when she's ready.
If she's ever ready.
The thought shouldn't hurt as much as it does.
Inside, I shower and change, trying to wash away her scent. It doesn't work.
My phone buzzes. The hardware store Instagram. Bea posted one of today's videos.
The caption reads: Stay safe out there, Honeyridge Falls! Your neighborhood hardware guy's got you covered.
She posted this after everything. After she ran. She still did her job.
I stare at the post for a long moment. At the video we filmed this morning when everything was still careful and professional.
She suggested the mistletoe. She ordered it. She made the sign. And when we ended up under it together, she kissed me.
She wants this too.
I close the app and grab my laptop.
If I'm going to fight for this, I need a plan. Tomorrow: professional but warm at work. Show her I'm not going to make it weird. Help her build her own marketing business—prove I want her to succeed, not just work for me. Give her time, but not so much that she talks herself out of this.
And figure out what the hell I'm going to do about Seth and Grayson.
Because I saw her at the Tree Lighting. Saw how she looked at all three of us. The way her scent changed. The way she ran from the whole situation. I saw her come out of that alley with Grayson.
I'm not the only one falling for Bea Wilson.
The thought should make me jealous. Possessive. Every alpha instinct I have should be raging at the competition.
But it doesn't. Instead, I keep thinking about that moment—the four of us in the square. The way the air felt charged with possibility.
What if this isn't about competition at all?
I type two names: Talk to Seth. Talk to Grayson.
Then I close the laptop and let myself remember. The way she felt in my arms. The sounds she made. The way she kissed me like she was starving.
She wants this too. I know she does.
Now I just have to convince her it's worth the risk.
And maybe—maybe—figure out if there's room in this story for more than just the two of us.