Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rett
The SUV glides through downtown Sweetwater, Dane’s hands loose on the wheel as he navigates the morning traffic. I watch Zoe in the rearview mirror, her eyes bright with animation as she argues with Tristan about cereal.
“That brand is just a dessert masquerading as breakfast,” she insists, counting off on her fingers. “Sugar, artificial colors, more sugar, and those marshmallows are basically candy.”
“That’s exactly why they’re superior,” Tristan counters, his dimple making an appearance as he grins. “Breakfast should be fun. Life is too short for bran flakes.”
“I’m not saying we need to eat cardboard,” Zoe laughs, “but there’s a middle ground between ‘sad diet food’ and ‘rainbow sugar bombs.’“
The sound of her laughter does something to my chest. Makes something inside me warm and tighten. A feeling that’s not entirely unpleasant.
It’s been less than twelve hours since her scream tore through the penthouse. Less than eight since Dane’s quiet revelation in the darkness: “You were calling for Rett. In your dream.” The words have been circling in my head ever since, stoking a possessive heat that refuses to die down.
Me. She called for me.
I shift in my seat, grateful for the concealing bulk of the center console. My body’s reaction to that knowledge is immediate and inconvenient.
“—right, Rett?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at her reflection while lost in thought. Three pairs of eyes are now watching me expectantly.
“Sorry, what?” I ask.
“I was just telling Zoe more about your infamous blue French toast incident,” Tristan says, grinning.
I scowl at him. “I was hoping we’d agreed never to mention that again.”
“No, you commanded us never to mention it again,” Tristan corrects cheerfully. “But see, the thing about trauma is that talking about it is therapeutic.”
“Your trauma?” I ask dryly.
“Mine, Diego’s, the bathroom’s. We were all victims that night.”
Zoe’s laughter fills the car again, and something in me eases at the sound. She’s relaxed now, completely different from the tense, mortified woman who emerged from the bathroom this morning.
“You’re almost making me grateful for the burnt pancake,” she says to Diego. “At least it didn’t turn anyone’s vomit neon blue.”
Diego groans. “Please stop. I’m still in mourning for my reputation.”
“Your reputation is safe,” Zoe assures him. “I blame the stove. It’s clearly possessed by the spirit of your vengeful chef.”
She chuckles, and I find myself studying her more carefully. The claiming marks on her neck are visible now that her hair is pulled back in a casual ponytail. They’re not fading. If anything, they look more…there. The sight sends another possessive pulse through me.
“This is it,” Zoe announces as we approach a sprawling parking lot. “Sweetwater Market. Home of reasonable prices and an entire aisle dedicated to breakfast cereal.”
I peer through the window at the bustling store. It’s... ordinary. Fluorescent lighting, faded signage, shopping carts with squeaky wheels. Nothing like the carefully curated organic markets or specialty shops where I usually get groceries delivered from.
“This is where you shop?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, a challenge in them. “Yes, Rett. This is where regular people buy food. You know, the kind that doesn’t require a second mortgage.”
Dane pulls into a parking space, and I try to recalibrate my expectations. This isn’t just a grocery run. This is a chance to connect with Zoe on her terms, in her territory. To be normal. Human. Just men, not alphas.
“Lead the way,” I tell her, swallowing my reservations. “We’re in your hands.”
The hint of surprise in her eyes is worth any discomfort I might feel.
Inside, the market is a sensory assault. Bright lights, competing scents, the squeak of cart wheels, and the constant murmur of dozens of conversations. I feel my shoulders tense instinctively.
“Grab a cart,” Zoe instructs, completely in her element. “Actually, better make it two. We have a lot of ground to cover.”
Dane and I each take a cart while Diego hovers near Zoe, already taking the list from her.
“I can follow the list,” he offers. “Maybe we go by aisle?”
Zoe laughs, gently pushing his hand down. “That’s not how this works. Grocery shopping is an art, not a science. You have to feel it.”
“Feel... groceries?” Dane asks, looking genuinely confused.
“Exactly,” she says, as if that explains everything. “Now, produce first. Always produce first.”
She leads us into a maze of fruits and vegetables, weaving through the crowded aisles without a single misstep. I hang back, watching as she fills a bag with apples, testing each one in her palm before placing it carefully in the bag.
Her familiarity with this mundane task is oddly captivating, and I realize I’m used to seeing women in carefully constructed settings—galas, restaurants, exclusive clubs.
Places designed to impress, to create an illusion.
But there’s something deeply authentic about Zoe weighing a cantaloupe in her hands, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“You’re staring,” Dane murmurs, suddenly beside me.
I blink, not looking away. “Aren’t you?”
The sight of her explaining the intricacies of avocado ripeness to Diego, who is listening with the intense concentration of a man receiving a divine revelation, makes the corner of my own mouth twitch upward in a smile I don’t even try to fight.
“This is good,” Dane says quietly.
I glance at him. “What?”
He nods toward Zoe.
Before I can respond, a wave of omega scent drifts past as a young couple moves through the produce section. The omega leans into her alpha as they shop. The alpha’s hand rests possessively on the small of her back, guiding her through the crowded aisle.
The scent is sweet, floral. Textbook omega. My gaze slides back to Zoe. A faint, clean fragrance drifts from her as she moves. It’s not a perfume. It’s just… her.
I inhale deeply, trying to identify it. The soap from our bathroom? Something else? The memory of her emerging from the bathroom this morning, her skin pink from the hot water, surfaces immediately. Did she use the sandalwood body wash? The citrus shampoo?
My cock stirs, hardening against my pants at the mental image of her in the shower, water cascading over her bare skin, her hands moving over her body, touching where I want to touch...
“Rett? You with us?” Zoe’s voice snaps me back to reality. She’s standing in front of me, holding a bunch of bananas, her head tilted in question.
“Sorry,” I manage, grateful for the cart partially concealing my growing problem. “Just... thinking.”
“About produce?” she asks skeptically.
Not even close. “About the list,” I lie. “Making sure we don’t forget anything.”
“Well, come on then,” she says, turning back to the cart. “We still have the entire store to get through, and I promised Tristan a tour of the cereal aisle.”
I follow, pushing my cart and trying to force my mind away from shower fantasies and back to the task at hand. Focus. Control. This is about making Zoe comfortable, not indulging in inappropriate thoughts about our temporary housemate.
The store is getting more crowded as we move through the aisles. It’s primarily beta couples and families, with the occasional alpha-omega pair whose scents announce their status before they even round the corner.
Zoe seems oblivious to the subtle dynamics at play. The way beta and omega eyes linger on our group with undisguised curiosity, the way other alphas instinctively give us a wider berth. She’s too busy explaining the critical differences between store-brand and name-brand pasta to Diego.
“Trust me, for basic spaghetti, you will never taste the difference,” she insists, tossing a blue box into the cart. “Save the fancy stuff for special occasions.”
“But the fancy Italian one has the better packaging,” Tristan argues, holding up a more expensive option. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Only if you’re planning to frame it,” Zoe laughs, tossing the simpler, sturdier box of spaghetti into the cart with a decisive thump. “This one’s better for actually eating.” She turns, already scanning the overhead signs. “Okay, now for the most important food group.”
“Which is?” Diego asks, a smile in his voice.
“Ice cream,” she declares, and without waiting for a response, she pivots and heads for the frozen section. We all just fall into step behind her, a clumsy, oversized honor guard in the service of our new queen.
She comes to a stop in front of the wall of glass doors, her head tilted as she surveys the options. She finds what she’s looking for on the top shelf, stretching up on her toes to reach it. The hem of her t-shirt rides up, exposing a pale, perfect strip of skin at the small of her back.
My brain short-circuits.
Every instinct I have screams at me to close the distance. To put my hands on her waist, to press myself against her, to bury my face in the curve of her neck and breathe her in.
Before I can stop myself, I’m moving.
“Here,” I say, my voice coming out as a low, rough growl. “Let me.”
I’m behind her in an instant, my body caging hers against the cold air of the freezer door. She startles, a small gasp escaping her as my chest brushes her back. I reach over her, my arm bracketing her head, and easily grab the carton she was struggling for.
For a beat, neither of us moves. The world narrows to this single, charged space.
Her heat. The clean, cherry blossom scent of her shampoo.
The way the fine hairs at her nape curl slightly.
My alpha is roaring like a possessive, triumphant beast, and it takes every ounce of my control not to lean down and taste the skin she so innocently exposed.
I pull back, putting a crucial inch of air between us, and hold the carton out. “Mint chocolate chip?” I manage to say, the question sounding strangled even to my own ears.