13. Small Town Gossip #3
Cole's driving has shifted from the focused intensity of earlier to something more relaxed, one hand draped over the wheel while the other rests on the center console.
Close enough that I could touch if I were brave.
Just a few centimeters that every breath brings his scent—pine and leather and something indefinably male that makes my inner Omega self want to purr despite my best efforts to silence her.
When was the last time I even purred for an Alpha. ?
I can’t even remember making the sound for the Iron Ridge Pack…let alone Blake himself, the orchestrator of that relationship.
Main Street unfolds before us like a postcard that's trying too hard.
Storefronts painted in jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, amethyst—catch the afternoon light, their windows gleaming with small-town pride.
Hanging baskets overflow with chrysanthemums and ornamental kale, defying October's chill with bursts of copper and purple.
Wrought-iron benches line the sidewalks, each bearing a brass plaque: "In Memory of.
.." "Donated by..." "For Our Beloved..."
It's aggressively charming, this main street, like the whole town got together and decided to cosplay as a Hallmark movie.
But underneath the fresh paint and careful maintenance, I catch glimpses of what it costs to keep up appearances.
A crack in the sidewalk hastily patched.
A storefront with a "Coming Soon!" sign that's faded from seasons of false promises.
The way people's waves at Cole's truck carry a weight of expectation, like they're cataloging who he's with and why.
"There it is!" Wendolyn practically bounces as we pull up to a Victorian house converted into commercial space. "Wildflower they're investments, dreams made tangible.
"Of course!" She places it in my hands with the care of a mother passing over a newborn. "Anyone who handles books like that knows their value."
The leather is soft under my fingers, pages gilt-edged and whispering with age. I open it carefully, breathing in the scent of centuries-old paper, and for a moment I'm transported. Not to Regency England, but to my grandmother's library, learning to love stories before I learned to fear the world.
A bell chimes as the door opens, bringing a gust of October air and two women who immediately zero in on our corner. Their eyes skip over Wendolyn, pause on me with the calculating look of locals sizing up a stranger, then stick on Cole with an interest that makes my hackles rise.
He shifts closer without seeming to move, his body angling to put himself between me and the newcomers.
The movement is subtle but unmistakable—a claiming that has no words but speaks volumes.
His scent intensifies, pine and leather wrapped around something more primal, and my body responds with embarrassing eagerness.
"Ladies," he acknowledges with a nod that manages to be polite while clearly communicating a lack of interest.
They titter— actually titter —and whisper to each other as they move deeper into the shop.
But I catch their backward glances, the way they catalog my proximity to Cole, the defensive angle of his shoulders.
By tomorrow, I'm certain, half the town will know Cole Montgomery brought the new ranch owner to Wendolyn's shop and stood guard like she was precious cargo.
"Popular with the locals?" I ask, trying for casual and missing by miles.
Wendolyn snorts. "Single Alpha under sixty who looks like that? He could be a serial killer and half the unmated Omegas in town would still throw themselves at him." She pauses, eyes dancing with mischief. "Good thing he only seems to have eyes for one particular Omega these days."
Heat floods my face, and I busy myself returning the book to its case.
Cole's hand finds my back again as we move through the narrow aisle, steadying me when I stumble over nothing but my own awareness of him.
His touch burns through my sweater, each point of contact sending signals my body receives far too eagerly.
"We should get going," he says, voice pitched low enough that it feels intimate despite Wendolyn's presence. "Still have a few stops before the hardware store."
But he doesn't move away, doesn't remove his hand from where it rests against my spine.
We stand there in the classic literature section, surrounded by stories of love and loss and second chances, while my body catalogues every point where we almost touch.
His heat radiates across the scant inches between us, and I have the wild urge to step back into his chest, to find out if he'd wrap those strong arms around me or maintain this careful distance that's driving me slowly insane.
"Right," I manage, proud when my voice doesn't shake. "Thank you for showing us your collection, Wendolyn. It's really incredible."
She beams, clearly pleased, and walks us to the door. "Come back anytime. And I mean it about helping with the horses—if River's willing to teach, I'm eager to learn."
The October air hits like a relief and disappointment combined.
Cole's hand falls away as we reach the truck, and I tell myself I'm glad.
Tell myself the absence doesn't feel like a loss.
Tell myself a lot of lies as we prepare to continue this tour of my maybe-future hometown, with an Alpha who makes me want things I shouldn't want and a growing certainty that I'm in way over my head.
Wendolyn follows us out, eager to bid us farewell.
"Thanks for the ride. And the tour. And the..." She gestures vaguely. "Everything."
"You sure you don't want to come back to the ranch for dinner?" I offer, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "Austin's making his famous chili apparently."
"Tempting, but you're staying the night, right? I don't want to intrude on?—"
"She's coming back tonight," Cole interrupts, and something in his tone makes my stomach flip. "Evening training. Can't skip the first day."
"Training." Wendolyn draws out the word, eyes dancing between us. "Right. Of course. Lots of... training to do."
"Wendolyn," I protest, heat flooding my face.
"What?" She's all innocence, but her grin is pure mischief. "I'm just saying, ranching requires lots of hands-on instruction. Very physical work. Probably gets sweaty."
"Oh my God."
"I'm going now," she announces, climbing out with her purchases. But before closing the door, she leans back in with a stage whisper. "Just remember—tension like this needs resolution, or everyone suffers. Don't make those poor men suffer, Willa."
"Wendolyn!"
She's already gone, practically skipping to her shop door with a wave over her shoulder. I sink into my seat, face burning, steadfastly not looking at Cole.
"She's not subtle," he observes, voice carefully neutral.
"She's a menace," I correct, then immediately worry it sounds too harsh. "I mean, she's great, but?—"
"Willa." The way he says my name stops my rambling. "Breathe."
I do, filling my lungs with air that tastes too much like him. Pine and leather, and possibility I'm not ready to examine.
"For what it's worth," he continues, pulling away from the curb, "she's not wrong about the training. River's got the horses ready, and Austin wants to go over Luna's routines in detail. Mavi's probably already run seventeen background checks on everyone you met today."
SEVENTEEN?!
"Just seventeen?"
"He's showing restraint." There's humor in his voice now, the tension easing. "Usually it's at least twenty."
The town fades behind us as we head back toward the ranch.
Back toward four Alphas and a baby and a future I can't quite envision. But for the first time, the uncertainty doesn't feel like drowning.
It feels like a possibility.
That I’m actually worthy of starting anew…starting with this potentially opportunity I can no longer ignore.
"Cole?" I say as we turn onto the ranch road.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For today. For..." I gesture helplessly. "Everything."
His hand leaves the wheel just long enough to squeeze mine, there and gone before I can react.
But the warmth lingers all the way home.