Chapter 17 Bea
Bea
Walking into Bella Notte feels like stepping onto a stage where everyone already knows my lines.
The restaurant is beautiful—warm lighting, exposed brick, white tablecloths that scream "romantic occasion." And here I am, walking in with three alphas whose combined scents are already making heads turn.
Every conversation in the place stutters. I catch a woman elbowing her date, nodding toward us. An older couple openly stares. The hostess's professional smile falters for just a second before she smooths it back into place.
Right. Because this is normal. Four people on a date. Nothing to see here.
"Relax," Grayson murmurs against my ear, his hand finding the small of my back. His touch burns through the thin fabric of my wrap top. "Let them look."
Easy for him to say. He's not the omega walking into a fancy restaurant with three alphas broadcasting their interest like a neon sign.
River steps forward, all easy charm as he gives our name to the hostess. She leads us through the restaurant, and I'm hyperaware of every eye tracking our progress. The whispers start before we even reach our table.
The booth she shows us to is tucked in a corner—intimate, private, and definitely meant for romance. River slides in first, his blue eyes locked on me with unmistakable intent.
"Where do you want to sit, sweetheart?" Seth asks, and there's something in his voice that makes it clear this matters. That where I choose says something.
I look between them—Seth standing close enough that I can feel his warmth, Grayson still at my back with his hand on my spine, River already seated and watching me like I'm dessert.
"I'll sit in the middle," I say, which is either the best or worst decision I could make.
Seth slides in beside River. I follow, and Grayson boxes me in on the other side. The booth is cozy—intimate—which means I'm pressed between two alphas while a third sits close enough that our knees touch under the table.
Grayson's thigh is against mine, solid and warm. Seth's arm brushes my shoulder as he settles. River's knee presses between both of mine from across the table, a deliberate claim of space that makes my breath catch.
I can smell all three of them. River's pine and sawdust mixing with Seth's clean rain and cedar, Grayson's ink and leather and spice wrapping around me from behind. My cinnamon-apple scent responds without permission, going warm and sweet with interest.
"Wine?" the waiter asks, appearing with perfect timing.
"Please. Red. The biggest glass you have."
River's mouth twitches. "Peroni for me."
"Same," Seth says.
"Three," Grayson adds, and his hand lands on my thigh under the table.
I nearly jump out of my skin.
His thumb starts tracing patterns just above my knee—slow, deliberate circles that shouldn't feel as intimate as they do. When I glance at him, he's studying the menu like he's not currently driving me insane.
The waiter leaves. Silence settles over the table, but it's not comfortable. It's charged. Waiting.
"So," River says finally, leaning back with that easy grin that doesn't quite hide the intensity in his eyes. "We should probably address the elephant in the room."
My stomach drops. "What elephant?"
"The fact that you let Grayson—"
"Nope." I grab my water glass. "We're not talking about that."
"—taste you," River finishes, and heat floods my face so fast I might actually combust. "And now you're sitting here with all three of us, smelling like you want a repeat performance."
"I do not—"
"You do," Grayson says quietly, his thumb pressing harder against my thigh. "Your scent spiked the second we sat down. You're aroused, Bea. We can all smell it."
I want to argue. To tell them they're wrong, that I'm perfectly composed, that I'm not sitting here thinking about Grayson's mouth between my thighs while wondering what Seth and River would feel like.
But my scent is already betraying me, going sweeter by the second.
"This isn't fair," I manage.
"What isn't?" Seth asks, and his voice is strained. Like he's affected by this conversation too but doesn't quite know how to navigate it.
"You three, ganging up on me—"
"We're not ganging up," River interrupts. "We're being honest. You said you wanted honesty, remember?"
Our drinks arrive. I take a gulp of wine that's definitely too large and nearly choke.
Grayson's hand moves higher on my thigh. Not far enough to be inappropriate, but enough that I'm suddenly very aware of every inch between his palm and where I'm already aching for touch.
"Here's some honesty," River continues, his voice dropping lower. "I've been thinking about you all day. About what Grayson got to do. About how you tasted, whether you made sounds, if you pulled his hair."
"River—"
"About whether you'd let me do the same thing. Whether you'd let all of us learn what makes you fall apart."
My thighs clench involuntarily. Seth's scent thickens beside me, going darker with want, but when I glance at him his neck is flushed red and he's staring very hard at his water glass.
"You can't just—we're in public," I hiss, but my voice comes out breathy instead of firm.
"Then tell us to stop," Grayson murmurs against my ear. His lips brush the sensitive spot just below it, and I shiver. "Tell us you're not thinking about it too."
I can't. Because I am thinking about it. Have been thinking about it since I woke up this morning with Grayson's scent all over my sheets.
"That's what I thought," he says, satisfied.
The waiter returns for our order. I can barely focus enough to say "ravioli," and I don't miss the knowing look on his face when he leaves. Great. Even the staff knows I'm dying here.
"Okay," Seth says, his ears going pink as he glances between me and the other two. "Maybe we should ease up before Bea actually melts into the booth."
His voice is gentle but there's an edge of protectiveness there—like he's worried they're pushing too hard, but he's not quite confident enough to actually order them to stop.
"Where's the fun in that?" River asks, but he pulls his knee back slightly. The loss of pressure makes me want to whimper.
Grayson's hand stays on my thigh, though. A constant reminder that he's right there, that he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
"Fine," River says. "Regular date conversation. I can do that." He pauses. "So, Bea. On a scale of one to ten, how good was Grayson?"
"I'm going to kill you," I say flatly.
"That's not a number."
"Twelve," Grayson supplies helpfully. "She came twice."
"Oh my god." I bury my face in my hands. "I hate all of you."
"Liar," all three say in unison.
Despite everything—despite the mortification and the arousal and the fact that we're having this conversation in public—I laugh. It bursts out of me, surprised and genuine, and suddenly the tension breaks into something different. Still charged, but playful now.
"You're all terrible," I inform them.
"Terrible but charming?" River suggests.
"Terrible but memorable?" Seth tries.
"Terrible but skilled with his tongue," Grayson says, and I kick him under the table.
He catches my ankle before I can pull back, his hand wrapping around it and holding it against his leg. The position forces me to shift closer, and suddenly I'm pressed even tighter against his side.
"Careful, sweetheart," he says, low enough that only I can hear. "Keep squirming like that and I'll have you in my lap before dessert."
The image that puts in my head doesn't help anything.
"Okay, okay," Seth says, clearly trying to rescue me again, though his neck is flushed. "Real question. Worst job you've ever had?"
I latch onto the change of subject gratefully. "Call center. Selling timeshares. Lasted two weeks before I rage-quit."
"I worked at a haunted house when I was sixteen," Seth offers. "They fired me because I kept apologizing to people I scared."
The image of sweet, anxious Seth trying to be intimidating while wielding a chainsaw is so absurd I actually snort wine.
"That's adorable," I say.
"It was pathetic," he corrects, but he's smiling. "River, tell her about the hammers."
"No."
"Tell me about the hammers," I demand.
River sighs. "When my parents retired to Arizona last year and left me the store, I was trying to learn everything at once while keeping the business running. I was exhausted, barely sleeping, and one day I accidentally ordered fifteen hundred hammers instead of fifty."
I choke. "Fifteen hundred?"
"Every person in Honeyridge Falls owns at least three hammers because of me," he admits. "Mrs. Patterson still brings it up at town meetings."
"That's actually kind of amazing," I say. "In a disaster-success kind of way."
"Julian called it 'failing upward.'" River's watching me with warmth now, the teasing intensity banked but not gone. "You would've figured out something better, though. Marketing genius that you are."
Something flutters in my chest at the casual confidence in his voice.
Our food arrives, and we eat and talk, the conversation flowing between teasing and genuine.
Grayson tells us about tattooing a full back piece of someone's cat—Sir Fluffington the Third, complete with crown and throne.
River explains his dream of teaching woodworking classes.
Seth describes breaking up a fifteen-year feud between neighbors over a stolen pie recipe.
But underneath the normalcy, the tension never quite disappears.
Grayson's hand stays on my thigh, occasionally squeezing.
River's knee finds mine again under the table.
Seth's arm drapes along the back of the booth behind me, his fingers occasionally brushing my shoulder in a way that feels deliberate.
They're not competing. That's what strikes me. They're coordinating.
Taking turns keeping me aware of them, building the anticipation higher with every casual touch, every heated look, every double-meaning comment.
By the time dessert arrives—tiramisu they ordered without asking—I'm wound so tight I might shatter.