Chapter 3 #3
Lily returns with our drinks. One mocha with what appears to be edible glitter, tiny fondant bats, and actual dry ice making them smoke, and one caramel-pumpkin cold brew drink.
The treats are even more elaborate. A cemetery of brownies with cookie tombstones, cream puffs shaped like ghosts with chocolate chip eyes, and tiny pumpkin cakes with gold leaf.
“Lily, this is incredible,” I breathe.
“Halloween is my art festival! Oh, and the bookstore is doing a horror reading tonight if you want to come. Local authors reading their scariest stories. I’m providing themed snacks, obviously.
Bloody velvet cupcakes, monster cookies, maybe some witch fingers if I can get the almonds to look right for fingernails. ”
“Sounds amazing and you’re a genius,” Harper tells her. “Feed them sweets, then sell them books while they’re on a sugar high.”
“That’s the plan! Though, honestly, I just love seeing people happy. And nothing does that more than unexpected cookies.” She glances at the growing line. “Gotta go! Mrs. Kim wants her usual, and if I make her wait, she gets cranky!”
After we finish our breakfast, every incredible bite of it, Harper walks me to the door. Lily catches us there, pressing small paper bags into our hands.
“Morning tea treats.” She winks. “Halloween macarons. They have Pop Rocks in the filling.”
“Lily, I would die for you,” Harper says seriously.
“No dying! It’s bad for business!” Lily laughs, shooing us out.
Harper hugs me on the sidewalk, tight and fierce. “You’re going to be okay. And if Van shows up at the brewery, I’m right there.”
“I know you are, thanks.”
“And maybe… maybe think about those bikers. I know they’re not what you planned, but plans change.”
“My plan was to stay invisible and alone forever,” I remind her.
“Terrible plan. Your new plan should involve hot men who want to protect you.”
The brewery warehouse looms ahead, all exposed brick and industrial windows, Whispering Grove Brewing Company painted in elegant script above the main entrance. That’s where Harper and I part ways, as she works in the marketing department.
Inside smells like heaven for beer lovers. All malty and rich with hints of citrus from the IPA we’re brewing. The exposed copper tanks gleam behind glass walls, and the taproom up front is already being set up for the lunch crowd.
“Cindy! Thank God you’re here!”
Garrett, the owner, emerges from his office looking frazzled, his flannel shirt untucked, dark hair sticking up where he’s probably been running his hands through it.
At six foot two with broad shoulders from years of hauling equipment, he cuts an imposing figure, but his deep green eyes are as kind as ever.
“Morning to you too, boss,” I say fondly.
“Sorry, sorry. Morning. You look nice. Is that a new shirt? Doesn’t matter.
Listen—” He’s already grabbing his notebook from his back pocket, flipping through it as he walks backward toward the door.
“The ad agency completely screwed up. Half the flyers for the Halloween tasting never went out, and then they lost all the files in some kind of data breach. Long story short—they had to remake everything from scratch and just got the new batch printed. But now it all needs to go out. Can you handle distribution? The marketing team is tied up with something else urgent. The stack’s on your desk. ”
“How far do you need them to go?”
“Around town for sure. Maybe all the tourist places on the outskirts of town if you have time? I know it’s a lot, but the festival starts tomorrow and we want everyone to come visit our booth.
The first batch we ordered went out last week—surrounding towns, regional partners, and a few of the highway stops.
But this set just arrived, and they’re for the local crowd.
Main Street, shops, hotels, all of it. They need to go out today. ”
“I’ve got it,” I promise.
“You’re an angel! A saint! I’m naming a beer after you!” He’s already out the door, presumably late for some supplier meeting.
I head to my desk, still smiling at Garrett’s chaotic energy.
The brewery office is cozy with exposed brick, vintage brewing posters, and a few plants I’ve managed to keep alive.
My desk faces the window overlooking a small field and the city in the distance.
I can spot the Halloween decorations from here.
The stack of flyers sits in the center of my desk, glossy and professional. I pick up the top one, admiring the design of the copper tanks looking mysterious in moody lighting, the taproom full of happy customers, the Halloween beer names in Gothic font. It turned out fantastic.
Garrett’s brewery has exploded over the past year, tripling in business, expanding the staff, and somehow still managing to keep its cozy charm. It’s been nonstop, but the kind of busy that feels like momentum.
Then I see it.
In the background of the main photo on the brochure, barely noticeable unless you’re looking, but clear enough if you know what to look for.
Me.
I’m laughing at something, holding a flight of samples, looking happier than I ever did. My hair catches the light, my face is turned just enough to be recognizable.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe, sinking into my chair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
This must be how Van found me. He must have seen a brochure, recognized me.
The photo was from our summer event. I remember that day, the first time I felt truly free, truly myself. And now it’s the thing that brought my past crashing back.
My stomach churns like I’m going to be sick at thinking of him again, and I’m convinced he’s not going to leave me alone.
Maybe I should move in with Harper for a while. Safety in numbers. Her apartment is above the vintage shop, has good locks, a fire escape. She’d let me stay as long as I needed.
I slump forward, head on my desk, and sigh loud enough to rattle the flyers.
“Why is my life like this?” I ask the universe.
The universe, as usual, doesn’t answer.
But I know one thing for certain… Van is in my town, in my safe space, and he won’t stop until he gets what he came for.
Me.
The question is whether I keep running or finally turn and fight.
I think about the dream again, about being surrounded by them, protected by them. About how my body recognized them even if my brain was screaming Danger! How their scents were so warming that it scares me to think my attraction to them is more than physical.
Maybe Harper is right. Maybe there’s dangerous, and then there’s dangerous .
But right now, I need to distribute these flyers and pretend everything is normal. Pretend I’m just Cindy Young, brewery assistant, miniature enthusiast, definitely not a runaway Omega with an Alpha stalker and inappropriate dreams about bikers.
Just another October day in Whispering Grove.
If only that were true.