Chapter 8 Xavier #2
She follows me up the stairs, her vanilla bourbon scent mixing with the familiar smells of home: the leather conditioner Logan uses on his furniture, the wood polish Griffin insists on for his custom cabinets, the subtle cedar undertones from the planks he milled himself.
The guest room sits at the end of the hallway, separated from our bedrooms by the common bathroom and linen closet. Private enough for comfort, close enough that she'll be integrated into our daily routines whether we plan for it or not.
I set her suitcase on the luggage rack Griffin built into the closet and turn to find her examining the space with obvious pleasure, her fingers trailing along the window frame.
The room is simple but comfortable: queen bed with a custom headboard Griffin made from reclaimed barn wood, dresser and nightstand to match, reading chair by the window that overlooks the back garden.
"This is really nice," she says, running her fingers along the smooth wood of the headboard with reverent appreciation. "Griffin's handiwork again?"
"All custom. He insisted on building furniture instead of buying it. Said store-bought stuff doesn't fit right in custom spaces." I lean against the doorframe, watching her explore.
"He's not wrong. This is beautiful craftsmanship." She moves to the dresser, opening and closing a drawer to test the smoothness.
I watch Savannah move to the window, and everything in me wants to follow.
She pushes aside the curtains to look out at the garden, and sunlight catches the auburn highlights in her hair that I'd forgotten existed.
Eight fucking years since I've been in the same room with her, and my body remembers everything my mind tried to forget.
She's exactly as beautiful as I remembered, maybe more so. The years have given her a confidence she didn't have before, a self-possession that makes her more attractive instead of less. It also makes her more dangerous to my peace of mind.
"You can see the mountains from here," she says, and her voice is soft with wonder.
I step closer, close enough to catch her scent properly. Vanilla and bourbon, just like before. "Griffin positioned all the windows for the best views. He's got an eye for that kind of thing."
She turns from the window to face me, and there's a teasing glint in her brown eyes that hits me like a punch to the gut. "And you? What's your specialty in this pack arrangement?"
I cross my arms, grinning at her skeptical expression. "I keep everyone from killing each other. And dying.”
“There are hospitals for that. I’m surprised you said that considering you work in one?” She raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.
"Logan's job involves running into burning buildings. Griffin's job involves power tools and heavy machinery," I explain, counting off on my fingers. "When accidents happen, having a doctor in the house comes in handy."
"Emergency room visits must be expensive," she observes, and there's that familiar mischief in her eyes.
"Not when you can handle most of it at home. Logan came back last month with second-degree burns on his forearms. Griffin nearly lost a finger to his table saw two weeks ago." I shake my head ruefully. "Sometimes I feel more like a trauma surgeon than a family doctor."
"You always did like the adrenaline cases," she says, and something in her voice tells me she remembers more about my work than I expected.
"Still do. Though the ER rotation gets old when you're dealing with actual pack injuries on top of human medicine." I lean against the dresser, watching her face carefully. "What about you? Apart from weddings, what do you do in your spare time?”
“There isn’t any,” she says, crossing her arms with mock defensiveness. "Three-day destination weddings with guest lists of four hundred and dietary restrictions require their own spreadsheet."
“I can imagine,” I say.
“One time, I had to organize a wedding on a working cattle ranch where the bride insisted on wearing a white ballgown and wanted the ceremony to take place in the middle of the herd," she says without missing a beat.
"The groom was convinced the cattle would be 'atmospheric.
And the pack wasn't helpful either. They did nothing to support anything I suggested.”
"Please tell me that you managed to talk them out of it."
"I did not. I bought industrial-strength stain remover, and prayed to every deity I could think of." She grins wickedly. "The photos were actually beautiful once we edited out the cow patties."
"You're insane," I say, shaking my head in admiration.
"I'm thorough," she corrects. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" I ask.
Her expression shifts slightly, becoming more guarded. "There is when you're being paid to make someone's dream day perfect."
The reminder that she's here for work, not for us, hits harder than it should. "Right. Of course."
"How is your sister doing?" she asks, and the question stops my heart.
The words hit me like ice water. Of course she'd ask. The last time we saw each other, I let her believe Rebecca was my girlfriend rather than admit I was terrified of us being together.
"She's good," I manage, my voice rougher than I intend. "Four kids now. Two cats and a dog. She's part of a pack up in Silvercrest."
"Four kids," Savannah repeats, and there's something careful in her tone. "That's wonderful."
"Yeah, she got her wish. The oldest just turned seven, and the youngest is barely walking. Her mate's good with them." I run a hand through my hair. "It's nice there. Silvercrest. Good territory, strong pack bonds."
"I'm glad she found what she was looking for," Savannah says.
"Savannah, I need you to know that I…” I start, then stop. How do you apologize for being a coward?
"That you what?" she asks when I don't continue.
"That I realize now I have commitment issues," I say finally, the words feeling clumsy and inadequate. "Back then, I was too much of a coward to admit what I was feeling."
"What do you mean?” Her voice is carefully neutral.
"Having a human mate, it felt like too much.” I take a deep breath, forcing myself to meet her eyes. "I was terrified that loving you meant I was betraying everything I was supposed to be."
"And now?" she asks quietly.
"Now I know I was an idiot. Now I know that I should have given us a try.”
She's quiet for a long moment, and I can see her processing, weighing my words against eight years of hurt.
"It's in the past, Xavier," she says finally, but her voice is tight. Professional. The same tone she probably uses with difficult clients. "Tomorrow I'd like to concentrate on planning this wedding. We don't have much time, and Emma deserves to have everything perfect."
The dismissal stings, but I deserve it. I nod, backing toward the door. "Right. Of course. You're here for Dax and Emma."
"I'm here to do my job," she clarifies, and the words cut deeper than they should.
"Fair enough." I hover in the doorway, every instinct screaming at me not to leave. "I should let you get settled."
"That would be good," she says, turning toward her suitcase with brisk efficiency.
I want to bend down and get on my knees and grovel to her, so that she knows that I'm not the same man who was too afraid to commit to an omega.
But she's already shutting down, already putting walls back up, and I can see in the set of her shoulders that pushing now would be a mistake.
"Dinner's usually around seven,” I say instead, hating how formal I sound. "But we're flexible if you have other plans."
"I don't have other plans. Dinner sounds good." She doesn't turn around.
"Good. I'll see you downstairs then later. I’m heading out now. You’ll have the place to yourself to do what you like.”
Four hours and twenty minutes to be precise.
I leave her there, closing the door softly behind me, and lean against the hallway wall. My hands are shaking. It's torture. Sweet, exquisite torture that makes me want to tear apart everything that kept us apart the first time.