Chapter 14 #2
Jake’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his smile free of the tension that had haunted him for months. “Apparently the owner’s a perfectionist. Everything has to be exactly right.”
“Sounds intense,” Penny observed.
“When does he get back?” Dominic asked.
“Next week, maybe? The head chef wasn’t specific.” Jake shrugged. “But I start Monday either way. I have to learn the greenhouse first before I can even touch the pastry kitchen.” He paused. “Feels like maybe my luck is finally changing.”
“It is,” I said. He deserved this happiness. Deserved this fresh start.
“Penny said you made sure his moms had a room at La Papillon,” I said to Dominic, attempting to redirect the conversation. “That was sweet of you.”
A faint pink crept across my alpha’s cheeks, his gaze dropping momentarily as though my words had caught him off guard.
“Abigail handled the reservation and picked them up at the airport,” he said, clearing his throat. “I just made a couple of phone calls.”
I found myself fighting the urge to continue showering him with praise just to watch the color deepen.
“Gentlemen,” Blake’s voice cut through our moment. “While I appreciate the beanbag testing, we do have approximately twelve more furniture pieces to arrange. Perhaps you could continue your testing after we’ve finished unloading the truck?”
“He’s right,” Dominic said, though his smile was indulgent. “Come on. Let’s get this apartment put together so you three can test all the furniture properly later.”
We reluctantly extracted ourselves from the beanbag’s embrace—which took more effort than it should have, the thing was designed to never let you leave—and watched as the movers continued their carefully orchestrated dance of furniture placement.
The sectional sofa went against the west wall. The coffee table centered perfectly in front of it. The dining table positioned to catch morning light. The bedroom furniture arranged according to Blake’s color-coded floor plan.
With each piece that found its place, the apartment transformed from empty space into the beginnings of home.
“We still need to get groceries,” I said, suddenly overwhelmed by all the domestic details. “And kitchen supplies. And bathroom stuff. And—”
“Already ordered,” Dominic said, pulling me against his side. “Delivery tomorrow morning.”
“But I didn’t make a list—”
“I did.” He flashed a smile that telegraphed perfect confidence, retrieving his phone from his jacket pocket and placing it in my palm. “If I missed anything, just add it to another delivery.”
I leaned into his warmth, my fingers curling against the firm muscle beneath his sleeve. Through our bond, I felt his satisfaction—alpha contentment at providing, at preparing our nest, at taking care of his pregnant omega.
“The nursery furniture arrives next week,” Dominic added quietly, his hand settling over mine. “But for now, we have the essentials. Bed, couch, that ridiculous beanbag.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” Penny protested from across the room where he and Jake were examining the view from our windows. “It’s ergonomically perfect.”
“Sure it is,” Dominic said, but he was smiling.
Blake appeared with his tablet, satisfaction evident. He’d succeeded in retrieving the gadget while Dominic was preoccupied with the movers in the kitchen. “Everything’s placed according to plan. The movers will finish with the boxes, and then you’ll be officially moved in.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “For everything. The apartment, the security, helping Jake break his terrible apartment lease—”
“It was a terrible lease,” Blake interrupted. “The landlord was a borderline slumlord. Jake deserves better.” He glanced at Jake, something almost fond flickering across his features.
“Group hug?” Penny suggested.
“Absolutely not,” Blake said immediately.
“Come on,” Penny teased. “Where’s the love?”
“In my well-organized filing system where it belongs,” Blake replied, but there was warmth beneath the dry delivery. “Now, if you will excuse me… I have a conference call in twenty minutes.”
After Blake left—taking Marcus with him to “review security protocols”—the four of us stood in the living room, surrounded by boxes and furniture and the promise of new beginnings.
“So,” Penny said, breaking the silence. “Should we test the couch next? Or save the best for last and end with another beanbag session?”
“Definitely ending with the beanbag,” Jake decided. “That thing is magic.”
“It’s just a very expensive bean-filled pillow,” I said.
“It’s a nest,” Penny corrected. “And you love it. Admit it.”
I did love it. Loved this whole space. Loved that Dominic and I would make our home here, raise our baby here, build our life here.
“Okay, yes, I love the ridiculous beanbag,” I admitted. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Penny said, grinning.
The drive to Henderson’s Flower Shop took us through the Historical District at its most festive.
Christmas lights were still strung up between lamp posts, wreaths remained on every door, and shop windows continued to glitter with garlands and artificial snow.
Everything sparkled with holiday cheer, beautiful and welcoming.
It was hard to believe that fifty years ago, someone had murdered a pregnant omega and hidden his body beneath concrete. Hard to reconcile the picturesque charm with the darkness that still lurked, unsolved and unpunished.
“You okay?” Penny asked quietly from the passenger seat.
“Just thinking,” I said. “About Thomas. About the memorial speech.”
“You’ll find the right words,” Penny assured me.
Marcus eased the car to a stop along the curb near Henderson’s, where a steady stream of customers flowed in and out beneath the festive garlands framing the entrance.
“We’ll just be a few minutes,” I told Marcus, reaching for the door handle.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Want me to come in?”
“That is a pretty long list of supplies,” Jake said, fidgeting with his sleeve. “And you shouldn’t carry any heavy stuff.”
I nodded gratefully at Marcus as I pushed my door open, the cold winter air rushing in. “We’d appreciate the help,” I said. “Thank you.”
When we entered Henderson’s Flower Shop, Mrs. Henderson looked more frazzled than usual, her normally neat bun coming loose as she helped multiple customers simultaneously.
“Ah! Perfect timing.” She spotted us immediately despite the chaos. “Let me just finish with here, and I’ll get you those supplies.”
We waited while she rang up an elaborate carnation ands snowdrop arrangement, then moved to where she’d already prepared several boxes overflowing with spools of satin ribbon, frosted pinecones, preserved eucalyptus branches, delicate silver wire garlands, metallic silver vases, and commemorative bouquet wraps with the centennial logo.
Penny’s eyes danced with amusement as he gestured at the mountain of supplies. “Do you think it’s gonna be enough?”
Mrs. Henderson’s eyebrows arched skeptically as Marcus hefted the largest box.
“I think it should be fine,” I said.
The shop bell chimed, and I glanced over to see Paula Winslow entering. She looked lighter somehow than the last time I’d seen her—less burdened, despite being in her early seventies and having just lost the family business.
“Paula!” Mrs. Henderson called warmly. “Your centerpieces for the senior center party are ready. Let me just finish with Leo here.”
“Take your time, Judy,” Paula said, examining the flower arrangements with obvious pleasure.
Mrs. Henderson had me sign for the items and moved to help Paula with several boxes of elaborate floral bouquets—white flowers, silver accents, winter greenery.
“These are beautiful,” Paula said, examining them with delight. “Perfect for the cookie exchange.”
“Your bourbon balls are legendary,” Mrs. Henderson said, wrapping the arrangements carefully. “Last year, half of them disappeared before the exchange even started.”
“That’s because they’re delicious,” Paula laughed.
She turned and noticed us.
“Hi, Paula,” I said. “How are you?”
“Much better, actually.” Her lips curved into a genuine smile as her gaze drifted down to the gentle swell beneath my sweater. “I heard the happy news. Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”
I shook my head, my hand drifting to rest on the curve of my belly. “We decided to be surprised.”
“You will send me an invitation to the baby shower?” Her eyes lit up with hopeful anticipation.
“Of course,” I nodded, my lips curving into a warm smile.
Mrs. Henderson glanced up from the register as she tallied Paula’s items, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I must say, there’s a glow about you since retirement,” she remarked as the cash register pinged softly.
Paula’s voice was quiet but firm. “That building was a burden I never wanted. My father expected me to take over, to continue his legacy. But I never wanted to be a pharmacist.”
She glanced around, checking that no other customers were close enough to overhear, then continued.
“I wanted to be a teacher. But my father’s expectations were everything, and when he died…
” She shook her head. “Every day in that pharmacy felt like wearing someone else’s life.
Now, with the sale money, I have time to be a substitute teacher or maybe volunteer full-time at the elementary school. Actually do what I always wanted.”
“I’m glad,” I said sincerely. “You deserve to do what makes you happy.”
“Thank you, dear.” Paula squeezed my hand.
Then her expression shifted, becoming more guarded. “I’ve heard the talk around town, though. About my father… and Thomas.”
An uncomfortable silence fell.
“People always need someone to blame, honey.” Mrs. Henderson’s lips pursed sympathetically as her weathered fingers tapped the counter. “It’s just ugly gossip.”
Paula’s hands tightened on her purse. “I know how it looks. But my father wasn’t involved. He couldn’t have been.”
“Paula—” I started.
“I knew him,” she said firmly. “Better than anyone. And I know he wasn’t capable of…
that.” Her voice caught slightly. “My father never remarried after my mother died. Never even dated. He talked about her constantly—her favorite flowers, the songs she liked, how she laughed. Some people only love once. He was one of them.”
The conviction in her voice was absolute.
“The construction site was chaotic,” Paula continued, more controlled now.
“Multiple contractors, workers coming and going, materials everywhere. My father managed the pharmacy business, but Vicente Antonelli’s crew did the actual renovation work.
Anyone could have…” She stopped herself, clearly not wanting to make accusations without proof.
“You’re right,” I said gently.
“I just hope,” Paula said, her eyes meeting mine, “when you speak at the memorial service—and I know you will, Adelaide mentioned you’d agreed—that people remember Thomas Wong deserves justice. But so does my father’s memory. He spent thirty years serving this community. He wasn’t a killer.”
My mouth opened, then closed, words caught somewhere in my throat.
“I—I’ll keep that in mind,” I finally said. What else could I say?
“That’s all I can ask.” Paula gathered her centerpieces, her composure fully returned. “Thank you, Leo. For listening.”
After she left, Mrs. Henderson began straightening up her countertop, sweeping off plant debris and ribbon pieces into a small trash bin.
“Paula’s had a hard time these past few weeks,” she said quietly. “The rumors haven’t been kind. People forget that Robert was a good man who worked hard his whole life.”
She shook her head. “I knew Robert. He wasn’t capable of murder.”