Chapter 18 River
River
The fastener wall doesn't need reorganizing.
I've sorted the bins twice already this week—once by size, once by type—but here I am at seven-thirty on a Tuesday morning, arranging three-inch deck screws like my life depends on getting them in perfect ascending order from Phillips head to square drive.
She's been working here four days a week for exactly seven days now. I'm losing my goddamn mind.
Not that she's not great at the job—she is.
Quick learner, good with customers, doesn't flinch when old Joe Henderson tries to explain plumbing to her for the third time like she's never heard of a P-trap.
She just smiles that sharp smile and says, "Fascinating, Joe.
Tell me again about that drainage issue? "
But that's not why I'm losing it.
In one week, she's transformed my business. Tommy Peterson—the high school kid I hired last Wednesday because I literally couldn't keep up—texted me at six this morning asking for extra hours. On a Tuesday. We're never busy on Tuesdays.
Except now we are. Because Bea set up TikTok. Posted a video called "Satisfying hardware store sounds" featuring me cutting lumber and organizing fasteners. Fifty thousand views in two days.
My phone hasn't stopped buzzing with order notifications.
She calls it "multi-platform strategy." I call it witchcraft.
And when she's here, surrounded by sawdust and wood oil and paint fumes, smelling like cinnamon-apple pie that's getting richer, sweeter, more dangerous by the hour, I can barely focus on inventory counts.
The December morning light slants through the front windows, catching dust motes from the sawdust bins. Everything smells like wood and coffee from the pot I made at six and something else—something warm and sweet that shouldn't be making my mouth water this early in the morning.
But it is. It's her. It's always her.
I abandon the fastener wall—for the fourth time this week—and head toward Aisle 3.
"You know those are already sorted, right?" Bea calls without looking up from the paint cans she's arranging by color.
"Just making sure."
"Uh-huh." She glances over her shoulder, amusement dancing in her green eyes. "You reorganized the screws yesterday. And the nails the day before that."
"Customer service efficiency."
"That what we're calling it?" She straightens, turning to face me fully, and the movement sends her scent rolling toward me in a wave—warmer today, richer, like someone added brown sugar and melted butter to her usual cinnamon-apple.
My mouth waters. Instinct locks onto it immediately, cataloging the change.
Something's different. Sweeter. More intense.
My stomach does an uncomfortable flip. Is this—? Could she be—?
No. I'm probably imagining it. Reading too much into a scent change that could mean anything. Stress. Arousal. The fact that she's standing close to me.
But what if it's not nothing?
"What would you call it?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Hovering." A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "You've walked past this aisle six times in the last hour, River."
"Just checking on my employee."
"Your employee." She crosses her arms, which just pushes her breasts up in that V-neck shirt she's wearing. I'm trying real hard not to stare. Failing. "Is that what I am?"
"Among other things." I abandon my pretense and walk toward her, drawn like I've been all week. Every day it gets harder to keep my hands to myself. "How's the inventory looking?"
"Perfect, boss." The word comes out teasing, almost sultry, and despite myself I feel it shoot straight through me.
"Don't call me that," I say, but there's no heat in it. Not anymore.
"Why not?" Her eyes spark with mischief. "You literally are my boss."
"Partner. Collaborator." The protest is automatic at this point. "Not boss."
"Uh-huh." She knows exactly what she's doing—I can see it in the way she's biting back a smile. "Whatever you say... boss."
Fuck. The second time hits even harder, maybe because she draws it out slightly, makes it sound almost like an invitation. My jeans get tighter and I have to shift my weight.
She notices. Of course she notices. Her scent spikes sweeter, pleased with herself.
"You're doing that on purpose," I manage.
"Maybe." She tips her head back as I get closer, has to because I'm a foot taller. "You're hovering again."
"Maybe I just like looking at you."
Her cheeks flush pink. "We're at work, Brooks."
"And?" I reach out—can't stop myself—tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. The contact makes her breath catch, her scent spiking sweeter, and I have to bite back a growl. "I'm the boss. I'll look at whoever I want."
"That's a terrible abuse of power."
"You gonna report me?"
"Maybe." But she's leaning into my touch, just slightly, her body betraying what her mouth won't say. "Depends on whether you're going to be insufferable all day."
"Probably." I let my hand linger at the curve of her neck, my thumb finding her pulse point. It's racing, fluttering like a trapped bird. "But you like it when I'm insufferable."
"I really don't."
"Liar." I can smell the truth on her—the way her scent's sweetening, going thick and warm and interested. "You love it."
The bell above the front door chimes and we spring apart. Mrs. Patterson walks in, her sharp eyes immediately zeroing in on us in the aisle like a heat-seeking missile.
"River, dear! And Beatrice, how lovely to see you working here." She's already heading our direction, and I watch her nose twitch, scenting the air. Her eyes go wide with knowing delight. "My goodness, something smells wonderful. Like fresh apple pie right out of the oven."
Bea's blush deepens from pink to crimson. I step in front of her automatically, a protective instinct I don't even think about.
"What can I help you with today, Mrs. Patterson?"
"Oh, just some wood stain for Gerald's project. But Beatrice, dear—" She peers around me, absolutely shameless. "You smell absolutely lovely. So ripe and sweet, like autumn harvest. Like a perfectly ready—"
"Wood stain," I interrupt firmly, steering Mrs. Patterson toward Aisle 5 before she can finish that sentence. "Gerald doing that deck project?"
But Mrs. Patterson isn't deterred. She glances back at Bea, her expression going soft and knowing in that way that makes small-town gossips dangerous.
"You take care of yourself, sweetheart. Make sure you're eating properly.
Getting plenty of rest. And staying hydrated.
" The emphasis on that last word makes Bea look like she wants to melt into the floor.
After I help Mrs. Patterson find her wood stain and ring her up—enduring far too many meaningful looks—I find Bea in the stock room with her hands pressed to her burning cheeks.
"I hate this town," she mutters.
"She means well."
"She means to call every single busybody in Honeyridge Falls." Bea drops her hands, meeting my eyes. The embarrassment in her scent is almost sharp enough to cut through the sweetness. "God, is it that obvious?"
My heart kicks against my ribs. "That your scent's changing?" I lean against the doorframe, keeping my distance because every instinct I have is screaming at me to cross that room, to get closer. My hands are actually shaking. "Yeah, sweetheart. It's getting pretty obvious."
I don't tell her what I'm afraid it means. That it could be pre-heat. But I've never been around an omega going into heat before. What if I'm wrong?
"Great. Fantastic. Perfect."
"Hey." I cross to her, catching her hands in mine. "It's not a bad thing."
"It's embarrassing. Everyone can smell that I'm—" She cuts herself off, shaking her head.
"That you want us?" I tug her closer, until there's barely any space between us. "That you want all three of us. That your body's broadcasting it to anyone with a nose."
My instincts roar approval. My scent surges, going deeper, richer—pine and sawdust turning dark and possessive. She breathes it in and I watch her eyes go darker.
"That's nothing to be embarrassed about."
"Says the alpha who doesn't have to walk around smelling like a bakery."
"You really do, though. Like caramelized apples and brown sugar. Makes me want to lick you all over to see if you taste as good as you smell."
"River—"
"Not sorry." I brush my thumbs across her knuckles. "And for what it's worth? I like that everyone can smell how much you want us. Means they know you're taken."
"Possessive much, boss?" She's teasing again, that spark back in her eyes despite the flush in her cheeks.
There's that word again. A week ago I would've protested. But the way she says it now, breathy and teasing with us alone in here? It does something to me. Makes every possessive instinct I have snap to attention.
"Keep calling me that," I hear myself say, voice gone rough, "and we're not making it to that pack dinner tonight."
"Is that a threat or a promise?"
Her scent goes impossibly sweeter, and her eyes go darker—breathing shallow, pulse racing.
"You're doing it again," she whispers.
"Doing what?"
"Making it hard to think."
"Good." I step closer, crowding her against the desk, one hand bracing beside her hip.
Not touching her yet, but so close I can feel the heat radiating from her skin.
"Because I haven't been able to think straight since you started working here.
Since you walked in here smelling like pie and trouble and mine. "
Her breath hitches. "River—"
"And now you're calling me boss in that voice, looking at me with those eyes, and I can smell how much you want this." I lean in, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear. "How much you want me."
"We're at work," she manages, but her hands are fisting in my flannel shirt, pulling me closer even as she protests.
"I don't care."
"Someone could walk in—"