27. The Past Hits The Present
The Past Hits The Present
~WILLA~
T he feed store smells like home—hay dust and molasses, cracked corn and the earthy sweetness of alfalfa that makes my nose itch.
I breathe it in anyway, letting the familiar scents ground me as I flip through the invoices spread across the scarred wooden counter. My thighs protest when I shift my weight, muscles still tender from last night's activities with Austin, and I have to bite back a smile at the memory.
The soreness is a good reminder of what I can do as an Omega, that my body can still surprise me with what it wants and what it can take.
Validation. Confidence. Pride.
It confirms I’m not defective like Blake and the others always emphasized. I work properly, as an Omega and a woman.
They simply weren’t the puzzle pieces I needed to feel whole.
"These hay prices are criminal," I mutter, running my finger down the columns of numbers.
The morning sun slants through the dusty windows, turning Cole's profile golden where he leans against the counter beside me.
He smells like leather and pine soap, that particular Alpha scent that makes something in my hindbrain want to lean closer.
"We're paying thirty percent more than we should be, and that's before factoring in the gas to haul it from Billings. "
Cole shifts, his shoulder brushing mine as he examines the papers. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through me—static from the dry air, maybe, or just my body's continued hypersensitivity after last night.
"You sure about those numbers?"
"Positive." I tap the invoice with more confidence than I've felt in years about anything.
"See, they're charging us city prices for rural delivery.
But there's a supplier right here in Sweetwater Falls—Johnson's Feed Mill.
They're selling the same quality hay for twenty-two dollars a bale instead of thirty-one. "
His eyebrows rise, gray eyes sharp with interest.
"Johnson's doesn't usually deal in bulk orders."
"They would if we guaranteed them consistent business.
" The numbers dance in my head, patterns I've always been good at seeing.
"If we commit to buying our winter hay supply from them—say, eight hundred bales minimum—they'd probably drop the price another two dollars per bale.
That's over seven thousand in savings, not counting the reduced fuel costs. "
Cole straightens fully, studying me with an expression I can't quite read.
Pride, maybe? Surprise?
"You worked all that out just from looking at invoices?"
Heat creeps up my neck.
"I've always been good with numbers. Used to manage the books for—" I cut myself off before mentioning Iron Ridge. That life feels like a fever dream now, something that happened to someone else. "It's just basic cost analysis."
"Nothing basic about it." His voice carries a warmth that makes my stomach flip. "You've been here less than a week, and you're already finding ways to improve our bottom line. That's..."
He trails off as workers begin loading fifty-pound feed sacks into the truck bed, their rhythmic movements stirring up clouds of dust that dance in the morning light. I watch them work, trying to ignore the way Cole's still looking at me, like I'm some kind of puzzle he's trying to solve.
"That's what?" I prompt when the silence stretches too long.
"Impressive." The single word holds weight, and when I glance at him, his expression is soft in a way that makes my chest tight. "River handles most of our purchasing, but he tends to stick with what's familiar. Having fresh eyes on this stuff is good."
I duck my head, pleased and embarrassed in equal measure.
"Just trying to earn my keep."
"You don't have to earn anything." His hand comes up like he's going to touch my face, then drops. But his next words stop me cold. "You're looking a little flushed. Feeling alright?"
I blink, suddenly aware of the heat in my cheeks, the slight dizziness I've been ignoring all morning.
"I'm fine. Just didn't sleep well last night."
That's an understatement.
Between the adrenaline crash from the rodeo, the truck breaking down, and what happened with Austin against said truck, I maybe got three hours of restless sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt phantom hands on my skin, heard Austin's voice rough with want.
My body wouldn't settle, too keyed up and aching for something I couldn't name.
Cole frowns, and this time he does touch me, the back of his hand gentle against my forehead.
"You're warm. When's the last time you had a proper nest?"
The question catches me off guard.
"A what?"
His frown deepens.
"A nest. You know, for sleeping?"
Uh…
I shake my head, genuinely confused.
"I don't... I'm not sure what you mean."
Something flashes across his face— surprise, maybe anger, though not directed at me. When he speaks, his voice is carefully controlled. "Did Iron Ridge not let you nest?"
"I honestly don't know what that is," I admit, feeling young and stupid.
Another basic Omega thing I should know but don't, another way I'm deficient.
Cole's jaw works like he's biting back words, then he takes a breath, and his expression gentles.
"Nesting is... it's something Omegas do instinctively for comfort and security. You create a safe space—usually your bed—with soft things that smell like your pack. Blankets, pillows, clothes. The familiar scents help your body relax, especially when you're stressed or haven't been sleeping well."
I process this information, turning it over in my mind like a strange artifact.
"And it actually works?"
"Very well, usually." He's watching me closely now, like he's seeing me for the first time. "Most Omegas start nesting young, but if you were never taught or encouraged..."
"My parents thought omega behaviors were weakness," I say quietly. "Anything that marked me as different from an Alpha was discouraged."
The muscle in Cole's jaw jumps again, and when he speaks, his voice is rough.
"That's neglect, Willa. Criminal neglect."
I shrug, uncomfortable with his anger on my behalf.
"It is what it is."
"No, it's not." He moves closer, voice dropping so the workers can't hear. "You deserve to know your own body, to have comfort when you need it. We can help with that, if you'll let us."
"How?"
"Each of us can give you something with our scent—shirts, pillows, whatever you're comfortable with.
You can arrange them however feels right.
We've got this huge floor cushion Austin bought when Luna first came to us, didn't know her sleep routine so he went overboard with baby gear.
It's ridiculously comfortable, perfect for nesting. "
I picture it—surrounded by the scents of these men who've shown me more kindness in days than I received in years.
The thought makes something in my chest loosen and tighten simultaneously.
"That sounds..."
"Yeah?"
"Nice," I finish lamely, though nice doesn't cover the longing that wells up at the idea. "Really nice, actually."
Cole reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a blue bandana that's soft with age and use. Before I can ask what he's doing, he's dabbing gently at my forehead, wiping away perspiration I hadn't realized was there. The gesture is so tender, so careful, that my throat closes up.
"If you're feeling dizzy or overheated, you need to tell me," he says, still patting carefully at my temples. "We can sit for a bit, get you something cold to drink."
"Like ice cream?" The joke slips out before I can stop it, an attempt to lighten the moment before I do something embarrassing like cry over a simple kindness.
Cole's hand stills, and when I look up at him, his gray eyes have darkened to storm clouds. His gaze drops deliberately to my chest, lingering on the way my tank top clings in the heat, and his voice drops to a rumble that vibrates through me.
"I wouldn't mind ice cream. Especially if I could be a bit... explorative with it."
The image that flashes through my mind— Cole's mouth, ice cream, sensitive skin —makes heat flood my face and pool low in my belly.
"Cole!" I hiss, glancing around frantically to make sure no one heard. "You can't say things like that in public!"
His chuckle is dark chocolate and whiskey, smooth and intoxicating.
"So you did catch what I was implying. Interesting."
"Oh my god." I slap his chest, mortified but unable to stop the smile tugging at my lips. "Shh! People will hear!"
"Let them." But he's grinning now, boyish and pleased with himself for flustering me. "Not my fault you have a dirty mind, James."
"I do not have a—you're the one who—" I sputter, face burning hotter than the morning sun. "You're impossible."
"And you're adorable when you blush." He tucks the bandana back in his pocket, fingers lingering against the denim in a way that draws my attention to his hands.
Strong, capable hands that could probably ? —
"Of course, it wouldn't take you long to move on to some old rugged douche to get a roof over your head."
The voice cuts through our moment like a blade through silk, and every muscle in my body locks tight.
I know that voice.
Know it the way prey knows the sound of a predator's footfall—bone-deep, instinctive, wrong.
My spine goes rigid, every nerve ending screaming danger as I turn with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb.
Because that's what this moment feels like—something that could explode and take everything good I've built here with it.
Blake stands twenty feet away, positioned strategically in front of the Sweetwater Inn—the same hotel that turned me away that first night.
He looks exactly the same and completely different.
Same sandy brown hair styled with too much product, same calculating blue eyes that never quite warm even when he smiles.
But the suit is new, expensive in that understated way that screams money, and his shoes shine despite the dusty street.
He's lost weight too, honed himself into something sharper, more dangerous.