Chapter 5 Bathroom Encounters And Bad Decisions #2
The final hours arrive, and I've just finished what I can only describe as the best sundae I've ever had in my entire life.
Seriously. The thing is a masterpiece of dessert engineering: three types of chocolate, salted caramel sauce, candied hazelnuts, a swirl of fresh whipped cream, and a cherry on top that's been soaked in something alcoholic and amazing.
Each bite is a religious experience. I'm actually considering abandoning all dignity to ask where it came from before I leave, because this sundae has single-handedly made the entire evening worthwhile.
Forget finding a pack. I've found my true love. It's this dessert.
The other omegas at my table have all found conversation partners by now—paired off with Alphas who've pulled up chairs or invited them to the dance floor that's materialized in the center of the venue.
I'm alone at Table Seven, which should feel pathetic but actually feels peaceful.
No one demanding my attention. No one expecting me to perform interest or attraction.
Just me and the remnants of a spectacular dessert and the quiet satisfaction of having made it through the evening without incident.
Ruby's warning echoes in the back of my mind, but nothing unusual has happened. No suspicious strangers. No confrontations. No one trying to "shake me up" or drag me back to a family I want nothing to do with. Maybe the small-town anonymity is working. Maybe they haven't found me yet.
Or maybe this is the calm before the storm.
I set down my spoon with something approaching reverence and decide a bathroom break is in order. Touch up the lipstick. Check that my hair hasn't deflated. Have a moment alone before I make my final lap and escape into the night.
The restroom is just as over-decorated as the main space—velvet wallpaper in deep burgundy, ornate mirrors with gold frames, a sitting area complete with a tufted bench and fresh flowers.
I bypass the unnecessary opulence and head straight for the vanity, pulling my compact and lipstick from my clutch.
My reflection stares back at me, and for a moment, I just... look.
The woman in the mirror is beautiful—objectively, undeniably beautiful.
The makeup is still perfect. The hair is still immaculate.
The pearls gleam against my throat like captured moonlight.
I look exactly like what I was trying to project: an untouchable ice queen who wandered into the wrong event and couldn't be bothered to engage with the mere mortals around her.
But maybe that's the problem.
I frown at my reflection, something uncomfortable twisting in my chest. My whole strategy tonight was to project "minding my own business" energy so aggressively that no one would dare approach me.
And it worked. Spectacularly. Not a single pack came near my table.
Not a single Alpha attempted conversation.
Not a single person looked at me like I might be worth the risk of rejection.
Which is what I wanted. Right?
So why does it feel like failure?
I should be proud. My armor worked. My mask held. No one got close enough to see the cracks underneath, to sense the loneliness I've been drowning in since I left Chicago. I protected myself exactly the way I intended.
And yet.
And yet there's this hollow ache in my chest that won't quite go away. This whisper in the back of my mind that says maybe I took it too far. Maybe I'm so good at pushing people away that I've forgotten how to let anyone in.
I sigh, meeting my own eyes in the mirror. "Guess you're destined to be alone," I murmur, and the words sound more defeated than I intended. More true.
I'm just about to turn away—to pocket my compact and return to the event and make my graceful exit—when the bathroom door opens behind me.
My eyes flick to the mirror, catching the reflection of whoever just entered, and—
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no no.
The man standing in the doorway is familiar.
Not in the vague "have I seen you somewhere" way, but in the immediate, visceral, my body knows you way.
My heart stutters in my chest—actually skips a beat, which I thought was just a romance novel cliche until this exact moment—and something electric crackles down my spine.
I know him.
I know him from the self-defense class I took with Mila and Hazel a few weeks after I arrived in Oakridge Hollow.
The instructor—this massive mountain of a man who moved like water despite being built like a tank—had demonstrated techniques with the kind of calm competence that made you believe he could disable an attacker with his pinky finger if he felt like it.
He'd been patient with the beginners, encouraging with the nervous, and when he'd corrected my stance, his hands had been so careful. So controlled.
I remember thinking he was attractive. I remember filing that observation away under "not relevant" because I wasn't in Oakridge to notice attractive men. I remember his name, spoken casually by Mila when she'd recommended the class: Tank.
Tank. His name is Tank. And he's standing in the women's bathroom at a Valentine's mixer looking at me like...
Like I'm something worth looking at.
I turn slowly, abandoning my reflection to face the real thing. Take him in properly now, without the distraction of flying through defense maneuvers or trying to keep my guard up against practice attacks.
He's massive. That's the first coherent thought I manage.
At least 6'4", built like someone sculpted him from granite and then decided to add more granite just to be safe.
Broad shoulders that strain against the fabric of his suit jacket.
Arms that could probably bench press a small car.
Thighs like tree trunks. He's the kind of Alpha who makes other Alphas look like they need to spend more time at the gym.
And yet—despite the intimidating physicality—there's something almost gentle in the way he holds himself. Controlled power. Restrained strength. Like he knows exactly how much damage he could do and chooses, deliberately, not to.
His attire is all black. Sophisticated but simple—a well-cut suit that doesn't scream designer until you look closely enough to notice the quality of the fabric, the precision of the tailoring, the subtle details that mark it as bespoke rather than off-the-rack.
No tie. The top button of his dress shirt is undone, revealing just a hint of collarbone and the edge of what might be a tattoo.
His face is... God, his face. Strong jaw covered in dark stubble that's been carefully maintained rather than neglected.
High cheekbones. A nose that might have been broken once or twice but somehow looks better for it.
Eyes that are a deep, warm brown—almost black in this lighting—watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
His head is shaved close, the stubble there matching the shadow on his jaw, and it emphasizes the strong lines of his skull, the powerful column of his neck.
There's a scar on his temple—small, faded, the kind you get from combat rather than accident—and another one running along his forearm where his sleeve has ridden up slightly.
Military. The details scream military. The posture, the scars, the way he's positioned himself in the doorway like he's assessing for threats even in a bathroom.
But it's his scent that practically drowns me.
It hits my senses like a tidal wave—overwhelming, consuming, absolutely devastating in the best possible way. I inhale instinctively, trying to parse the individual notes, trying to make sense of what my body is telling me.
Smoked leather. That's the base—rich and dark and masculine, like a perfectly aged jacket that's been worn through a hundred adventures.
Layered over that, the deep green complexity of woods: cedar and sandalwood and something that might be vetiver, earthy and grounding.
And threading through everything, the warm golden spice of saffron, unexpectedly delicate against all that strength.
There's amber too. Soft and warm and inviting, rounding out the sharper edges of the leather and woods. It's the kind of scent that makes you want to bury your face in someone's neck and just breathe.
It's hard not to purr. Actually physically difficult. My omega is responding to this man in ways I haven't experienced since... ever, actually. I've never felt this instantaneous, this overwhelming, this completely undone by someone's presence alone.
I inhale the full bouquet of his scent—let it fill my lungs, my senses, my entire being—and when I exhale, the breath comes out shaky. Unsteady. Completely betraying the cool composure I've been projecting all evening.
My eyes had fluttered closed at some point—I don't remember deciding to close them, but apparently my body needed a moment to process—and when I open them again, he's closer.
Not close enough to touch. But close enough that his scent is even more intense, even more intoxicating. Close enough that I can see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Close enough that when our gazes lock, something in my chest cracks open like a fissure in ice.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I wonder if I'm tipsy. If somehow, despite limiting myself to two glasses of wine, I've managed to get drunk enough that I'm hallucinating.
Or maybe someone spiked my drink—that would explain the way my head is swimming, the way my knees feel slightly weak, the way my whole body is oriented toward this man like a compass finding north.
But no. I'm not drunk. I'm not drugged. I'm just... affected. Completely and utterly affected by a muscle god who seems to have descended from the heavens specifically to destroy every wall I've spent months building.
"Tank," I whisper, and his name feels like a secret on my lips. Like something I shouldn't be saying out loud.