Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mia
The drive to Waterside Coffee takes twenty-three minutes, and I spend every one of them trying to figure out how to explain the last few days without sounding completely unhinged.
So I slept in their nest. No, not like that. Yes, with all four of them. Well, technically just Eli. But the nest smelled like all of them. And I slept in it. Because my house flooded. No, I don’t think that’s a normal neighborly response either.
Yeah, that’ll go great.
I park in the lot behind the brick building and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair is in a messy bun, I’m wearing my “I’m fine” outfit (jeans and a fitted blouse), and I look exactly like someone who’s about to unload on their best friend.
Perfect.
Waterside Coffee is one of those aggressively trendy places Sierra loves: exposed brick, large hanging bulbs, a chalkboard menu with at least four milk alternatives I’ve never heard of. It smells like cappuccino and people who have their lives together.
Sierra is already at a corner table, laptop open, a latte with some kind of foam art in front of her. She’s wearing a blazer over a silk camisole, her hair in a sleek ponytail, looking like she just stepped out of a “successful omega in the city” catalog.
When she sees me, her face lights up.
“Mia!” She stands, pulling me into a hug that smells like her signature honey and cherry syrup scent. It’s familiar and grounding and makes my chest hurt a little.
I’ve missed her.
“Hi,” I say, squeezing back before pulling away. “Sorry I’m—”
“You’re not late,” she interrupts, gesturing to the chair across from her. “Sit. I already ordered you a vanilla oat milk latte because I know you, and you were going to stand at the counter for ten minutes pretending to decide.”
I laugh despite myself. “Rude but true.”
She grins, settling back into her chair and folding her hands under her chin. “Okay. Spill. And don’t leave anything out.”
“Spill what?”
“Mia.” She gives me a look. The look. The one that says I know you’re hiding something.
“You texted me ‘need to debrief in person.’ You never ask for in-person debriefs unless it’s serious.
So either someone died, or you did something interesting.
And since you’re not wearing black, I’m betting on interesting. ”
My face heats. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Uh-huh.” She leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Does this have anything to do with the four insanely hot tech guys who moved in next door?”
I sigh. “Maybe.”
“I knew it.” She grins wickedly. “Please tell me there’s an update on the panty thing. Did you find a shrine? Are they wearing it?”
“It’s not funny,” I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “It’s mortifying. And no, no updates. Just…vanished lace.”
“Tragic.” She leans forward. “So. Aside from your disappearing underwear, what happened?”
So I tell her.
I tell her about the pipe bursting. About the guys finding me and insisting I stay over. About waking up in their nest with Eli there, keeping me company.
I tell her how safe I felt. How I don’t know what to do with any of it.
By the time I finish, my latte has arrived, and Sierra is looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“So,” she says slowly. “You slept in their nest.”
“Yes.”
“With Eli.”
“Yes. Just Eli. The others weren’t there.”
“And nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened.”
She sits back, taking a sip of her latte. “Okay. So what’s the problem?”
I blink. “What do you mean, what’s the problem?”
“You called an emergency coffee summit,” she says. “Which means you’re thinking about something. So what is it?”
I wrap my hands around the warm mug, staring down at the foam art. It’s a little house. A cozy, domestic shape that reminds me exactly where I ran away from over the weekend. “I don’t know. It just feels…fast? I’ve known them for like two weeks…”
Sierra opens her mouth to respond, but her gaze flicks past my shoulder and her expression shifts.
“Don’t look now,” she says, voice dropping, “but there are three alphas at the table behind you who have been staring at us for the last five minutes.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“Two o’clock. Flannel shirts and overpriced watches.” She takes a deliberate sip of her latte, eyes tracking them. “They clocked my bond marks the second I sat down, so they know I’m off limits. Which means they’re looking at you.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I resist the urge to turn around.
“Are they…close?”
“Close enough to smell you,” Sierra says. “And they’re definitely interested. One of them just elbowed his friend and nodded in your direction.”
My omega does this awful, instinctive thing where she tries to make herself smaller. It’s a reflex I hate. Making myself small to escape a gaze that feels like wet hands on my skin.
It’s…icky.
“Should we—”
“Nope.” Sierra’s voice is firm. “We’re going to sit here and finish our coffees like we don’t even notice them. Because you’re not interested.”
“I’m not,” I say automatically.
“Exactly.” She leans forward, lowering her voice. “So here’s my question: how do you feel when the Traynor Pack looks at you?”
I blink. “What?”
“You’re trying to disappear right now.” She gestures to my hunched shoulders. “You hate that these guys are looking. But the pack next door? You told me they’re intense. You said they watch you. When they do…does it make you feel like this?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
“No,” I admit quietly.
“Why not?”
I think about Knox’s grin when he caught me watching from the window. Eli’s gaze when he found me in the wet grass. Declan’s face when he saw me wearing his hoodie. Rhys’s quiet, ‘You did good’.
I frown into my cup. “It’s not icky. It’s just…loud. Even when they aren’t talking, the way they look at me is loud.”
“Ha!” Sierra grins. “There it is.” She leans in. “The guys behind us are just window shopping. Your neighbors look at you like they’re ready to buy the whole store.”
“They’re not buying anything,” I mutter.
She raises an eyebrow. “You slept in their nest.”
“Because my house flooded!”
“And they could have put you in a guest room.” She ticks the options off on her manicured fingers. “Or given you a sleeping bag. But they tucked you into their pile. Mia. That’s not ‘good neighbor’ behavior. That’s ‘dibs’ behavior.”
My heart does that stupid flutter again.
Behind me, I hear chair legs scrape. Footsteps approaching.
Sierra’s eyes narrow. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Hey sweets,” a voice says.
I turn, and one of the alphas is standing next to our table.
Mid-thirties, decent-looking, wearing a flannel shirt so perfectly distressed it definitely came from a boutique.
His scent hits me next. Citrus peel and expensive leather.
It smells like a car dealership. So aggressively masculine that my omega recoils.
“Hi,” he says, flashing a smile that’s probably worked on other omegas. “I’m Dalton. I couldn’t help but notice you sitting here, and I thought I’d introduce myself.”
Sierra’s expression could freeze lava. “She’s not interested.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Dalton says, not even looking at her. His eyes are locked on me. “I’m talking to the pretty omega who smells available.” He licks his lips. “Strawberry pie.”
The word ‘available’ lands like a slap.
“I’m not—” I start.
“She’s not available,” Sierra cuts in, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. “And even if she were, she wouldn’t be interested in an alpha who interrupts women’s conversations to hit on them in coffee shops.”
Dalton’s smile tightens. “I’m just being friendly.”
“You’re being pushy,” Sierra says. “And you’re making her uncomfortable. So why don’t you go back to your table and let us finish our conversation?”
For a second, I think he’s going to argue. His scent spikes with annoyance, maybe a little anger, and I feel my omega shrink further.
Then a shadow falls over the table.
“Is there a problem here?”
I look up.
Dax.
Sierra’s alpha is standing behind Dalton, and he’s not smiling. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating the kind of quiet strength that makes other alphas think twice.
Dalton takes one look at him, clocks the bond marks on Sierra’s neck, and takes a step back.
“No problem,” he mutters. “Just saying hi.”
“Great,” Dax says flatly. “You’ve said it. Now you can leave.”
Dalton hesitates, then turns and walks back to his table. His friends are watching, and I can see the moment they decide to cut their losses. They drop cash on the table and leave.
The tension in the air eases.
Dax looks at me, his expression softening. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, a little breathless. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” He glances at Sierra. “Ready to go?”
“Almost.” She stands, handing him her laptop and slinging her bag over her shoulder as she shoots me a look that is 100% pure sass. “You see the difference, right?”
I blink. “That Dalton was a creep?”
“That Dalton was a boy,” she corrects, leaning in with a wicked grin. “Your neighbors are the main event. Stop trying to convince yourself you want the opening act.”
“I’m not trying to—”
“Just take the win, Mia,” she interrupts, patting my cheek. “Flirt with the hot tech bros. Stop overthinking it before you talk yourself out of the best bad decision of your life.”
“It’s not a decision,” I mutter. “It’s a lease.”
“It’s an opportunity.” She winks. “Don’t waste it.”
She pulls me into a quick hug, then lets Dax steer her toward the door.
But before they leave, she glances back over her shoulder.
“For the record,” she calls, loud enough for half the coffee shop to hear, “Julian would have let that guy buy you a drink just to avoid a scene. Think about it!”
Then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the middle of Waterside Coffee, face flaming, while a barista gives me a sympathetic smile.
I grab my purse and flee.
The drive back to Sweetwater Pines feels shorter. I lean back in my seat, windows cracked, letting the late afternoon air wash over me.
By the time I pull into my driveway at 124, the sun is starting to dip low.
I sit in the car for a moment, staring at my house. My cute, perfect house.
Then I look at 126.
The lights are on. I can see movement through the kitchen window.
My chest does that little flip thing again. Taking a breath, I get out of my car and head up my porch steps.
Inside, the house is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you check your phone just to see if the world ended while you were driving.
I drop my keys on the counter at the same time that my phone buzzes.
Sierra: Enjoy the view.
Me: I am working.
Sierra: Liar. You’re staring at 126.
I look up.
I am absolutely staring at 126.
The lights are still on. Shadows move past the windows. Broad shoulders, tall frames. It looks chaotic and crowded and alive.
I rescue the dish from the fridge and grab a fork, skipping the plate entirely. Leaning against the counter, I eat the lasagna cold, straight from the container, while watching the shadows pace back and forth next door.
It’s the best lasagna I’ve ever had.
“Okay,” I whisper to the empty room. “Maybe the food is a point in their favor.”
I carry the container to my table and open my laptop. I have a deadline. I have work to do.
But I don’t close the curtains.