Chapter 27
27
LILY
Months Later
T he soft golden glow of string lights illuminates our new bakery name and sign—Wild Flour & Fables—hanging proudly above the entrance. The name, a fusion of my original bakery and our new literary addition, was Archer’s idea. Hunter hand carved the wooden sign himself, and James designed the logo—a whimsical cupcake with an open book as its base.
Through the gleaming front windows, I spot the line of customers stretching down the block, a colorful queue of eager faces in the crisp October morning. Orange and black bunting frames the windows, and artfully arranged pumpkins flank the entrance. Inside, paper bats hang from the ceiling, dancing slightly in the warm air circulating from the ovens.
“Five minutes to opening,” Hunter announces, checking his watch.
I smooth down my apron—black with orange trim, our seasonal uniform—and take a deep breath that does little to calm my fluttering nerves. Three months of renovation, planning, and preparation have led to this moment—the grand opening of Wild Flour & Fables, just in time for Halloween. It took us longer to transition, to buy a new house, to have all my Alphas move in with us as they sold their houses. Well, except the cabin in the woods. We love that place and use it as our getaway. Besides, we had to do a world trip holiday, then we finally started to expand the bakery.
“We’re going to crush it,” James assures me, sliding a tray of pumpkin-shaped cookies into the display case. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, our orange logo emblazoned across his chest. Every time I look at him—at any of them—in our matching shirts, I feel a ridiculous flutter in my stomach.
Archer emerges from the bookstore section, adjusting the display of vintage gothic novels he’s curated especially for the season. “First editions of Dracula and Frankenstein on prominent display,” he reports with a satisfied grin. “Plus, all the modern Halloween favorites. The reading nook is ready with those ridiculous pumpkin-shaped pillows you insisted on.”
“They’re adorable, and you know it,” I counter, nudging him with my hip as I pass.
He catches me around the waist, pulling me against him for a quick kiss. “They’re gauche, and I adore them because you do.”
“Less kissing, more prep,” Hannah calls, emerging from the kitchen with a tray of her signature caramel apple tarts. She’s taken time away from her own thriving wedding planner business to help with our opening day, a gesture that means more than she knows.
The bakery itself is unrecognizable from its former incarnation. Where once stood a charming but cramped space, we now have an expansive, open-concept establishment. Hunter used part of his inheritance to purchase the building next door, and we knocked down walls to create something truly special.
The front section houses the bakery counter and café tables, warm wood and soft lighting creating an inviting atmosphere. A gorgeous stone archway—Hunter and James built it themselves over two sweat-soaked weekends—leads to Archer’s bookstore, where comfortable reading nooks and carefully curated shelves invite customers to linger.
“Your adoring public awaits,” my father announces, emerging from the back office. With salt-and-pepper hair and laugh lines that deepen when he smiles, he’s embraced his role as our cashier with unexpected enthusiasm. “And may I say, the register system is remarkably intuitive for an old dinosaur like me.”
“That’s because Hunter spent three hours programming it to be dad-proof,” I tease, earning a mock-offended look from my father.
“I’ll have you know I was using computers while you were still in diapers, young lady,” he retorts, but his eyes dance with humor.
One of the most surprising developments of the past few months has been how seamlessly my father has embraced my relationship. When I nervously introduced him to all three men, explaining our situation with halting words and flushed cheeks, he’d simply looked them over carefully and said, “Well, you always did have a big heart, Lily-girl. Guess you needed more than one man to match it.”
Now, he treats them all like the sons he never had, especially Archer, who shares his passion for obscure historical facts and terrible puns.
“Two minutes,” Hunter calls, adjusting a Halloween display of skeleton-shaped cookies. His ice-blue eyes scan the space with characteristic thoroughness, looking for any imperfection that might have escaped our notice.
“We’re ready,” James says confidently, coming to stand beside me. “More than ready.”
I lean into his solid warmth, drawing strength from his certainty. “I can’t believe we pulled this off.”
“I can,” Hunter says, joining us. “You’re a force of nature when you set your mind to something.”
Archer completes our circle, his arm sliding around my waist. “Our very own hurricane in baker’s clothing.”
My chest tightens with emotion as I look at them—my three Alphas, dressed in matching black t-shirts and orange aprons, ready to help launch my dream into reality. Hunter, solid and steady, the backbone of our operation. James, passionate and precise, whose baking rivals even my own. Archer, charming and creative, whose book café has already generated buzz in literary circles across three counties.
How did I get so lucky?
“Five minutes,” Hannah announces, adjusting a display of miniature pumpkin pies. “Places, everyone!”
I dart into the back for one final check, making sure the first batch of cinnamon rolls is ready to bring out once the initial rush begins. The kitchen gleams with new equipment.
Steel racks hold trays of Halloween-themed treats—ghost-shaped meringues, bat-winged cupcakes, pumpkin spice everything, and our signature item Spellbinding Spirals, cinnamon rolls with orange-tinted icing and edible black spiders made of chocolate.
As I grab a tray, I hear a soft whimpering from outside the back door. Frowning, I set down the pastries and move toward the sound, unlocking the heavy door and peering outside, expecting to find the family of raccoons who have been coming often for food. I always feed them, even if the guys tell me not to encourage them. Then Hunter goes and builds them a little hutch in the alleyway if they need protection.
Cindy stands in our back alley, hugging herself tightly despite the mild October morning. Her mousey blonde hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, her normally bright almond eyes wide with what looks unmistakably like fear.
“Cindy?” I step outside, concerned. “Everything okay?”
She glances over her shoulder nervously. “I just need to come inside, please. Quickly.”
I usher her in, shutting and locking the door behind us. “What’s going on?”
“Just someone I’ve been trying to avoid. I think he’s in town.” She hugs herself tighter, shoulders hunched. “I swear I saw him on Main Street earlier.”
“Let me call Garrett,” I offer, reaching for my phone. “He might know?—”
“No, please.” She places a hand on my arm, stopping me. “He already does so much for me, and as my boss at the brewery, I hate to drag him into my troubles. I just need to lie low, that’s all.”
Something in her expression reminds me powerfully of Ruby, my best friend who runs the bar across the road, during the months she was trying to escape her asshole uncle. The same hunted look, the same false bravado covering genuine fear.
“Well, you’re welcome here or to stay upstairs at my old place,” I tell her firmly. “Whatever you need if you’re in trouble, okay?”
Relief loosens the tight lines around her eyes. “Maybe just here for a bit, and I’ll slip out soon.”
“You’re safe here, I promise.” I guide her to a stool in the corner of the kitchen. “Stay for as long as you need.”
“Thank you,” she says softly. “You’re always so kind.”
I bring her a plate of cookies—chocolate chip, still warm from the oven—and a glass of milk. “I’ve got to get out there. We’re about to open the shop. But make yourself comfortable, okay?”
With one last concerned glance, I grab my tray and head back to the front, nearly colliding with James as I enter the shop.
“There you are,” he says, catching me by the shoulders. He presses a quick kiss on my forehead. “Hunter’s about to open the doors.”
“Sorry, Cindy from the brewery is in the back. She seems upset about something.”
James’s brow furrows with concern. “Is she okay?”
“I think so, just hiding from someone. I told her she could stay as long as she needs.”
He nods, understanding without needing further explanation. “Good. She can stay as long as she needs. Now come on, your adoring public awaits.”
Just then, Hunter unlocks the front door. He stands tall and imposing in his black t-shirt, the muscles in his arms clearly defined as he welcomes the first customers with a smile warmer than most people ever get to see.
The Halloween playlist Archer curated begins playing through hidden speakers — a mixture of spooky classics and ambient music that creates the perfect festive atmosphere. The scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and pumpkin spice fills the air, mingling with the comforting smell of old books from the adjoining room.
People pour in like a river, excited voices rising to fill the space. I catch snippets of conversation — “So beautiful!” “Look at those cupcakes!” “Did you see his muscles?” — as I move behind the counter to help with the initial rush, giggling to myself.
What I also notice is the effect my Alphas have on our predominantly female customer base. Women pretend to study the menu while stealing glances at Hunter’s impressive body. They linger over James’ pastry recommendations, entranced by his storm-gray eyes and gentle smile. They ask Archer increasingly specific questions about obscure authors, clearly delighting in his enthusiastic responses and charming grin.
Sure, a tinge of jealousy rises in me, but I also know they are all mine.
Hannah catches my attention from across the shop and makes an exaggerated fanning motion, nodding toward a group of women openly admiring Hunter as he carries a box of books through to the other room. I stifle a laugh and shake my head.
“Looking good, sis,” she says, sidling up to me during a momentary lull. “This place is going to be the talk of Whispering Grove.”
“Thanks to you for helping,” I reply, squeezing her hand.
By noon, we’ve sold out of three signature items and are running low on almost everything else. The Spellbinding Spirals were gone within the first two hours, prompting James to start a second batch that’s now filling the air with its mouthwatering aroma.
During a rare quiet moment, I find myself standing behind the counter near my dad, both of us taking a breather. I take in the scene before me. Customers chat over coffee and pastries at our café tables. A young woman curls up in one of the reading nooks with a half-eaten ghost meringue on the plate beside her. My father moves to serve a group of elderly ladies with stories from his youth, their laughter mingling with the background music.
And my men—my heart be still.
I place a hand on my stomach, still flat beneath my apron but harboring the secret I’ve been keeping for the past two weeks. The pregnancy test tucked in my bedside drawer confirmed what my body had been telling me—our family is about to grow.
Tonight, after we close up shop and celebrate our successful opening, I’ll tell them. I’ve already planned how—three tiny cupcakes, each with a letter: D, A, D. Simple but effective.
I wonder how they’ll react. Hunter will probably be stoic at first, then break into that rare, brilliant smile that transforms his entire face. James might cry—he’s the most openly emotional of the three. And Archer will undoubtedly make some joke about his virility before bombarding me with questions about how I’m feeling.
“Penny for your thoughts,” James interrupts, appearing beside me with a fresh tray of pumpkin scones.
I smile up at him, my heart so full, it feels like it might burst. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”
“That’s funny,” he replies, pressing a quick kiss on my temple. “I was thinking the exact same thing.”
Hunter stares at us from across the room, raising an eyebrow in silent question: Everything okay? I nod, and he returns to helping a customer, satisfied.
A moment later, Archer slides behind the counter, snagging a cinnamon cookie from a display. “I’ve got a long waiting list for the book club starting next month.”
“Amazing. And no eating the merchandise,” I tease but can’t help smiling at his enthusiasm.
“Baker’s privilege,” he counters, offering me a bite, which I accept despite my own rule.
The afternoon continues at a steady pace, the initial rush giving way to a constant stream of curious locals and word-of-mouth visitors. By four o’clock, we’re nearly sold out of everything.
As the afternoon sun slants through our windows, casting long shadows across our nearly empty display cases, I can’t help but think that sometimes the worst wrong turns—like crashing your car in a snowstorm—lead to exactly where you’re supposed to be.
And I wouldn’t change a single step of the journey that brought me here.