Chapter 6
CINDY
T he Whispering Grove Halloween Festival sprawls across Miller’s Field like a Gothic carnival that escaped from someone’s fever dream and decided to throw a party.
The enormous field, which was once farmland owned by the Miller Family, the original founders of Whispering Grove, has been transformed into zones, with the food section, where we’re stationed; the games area, where screams of delight mix with actual screams from the haunted maze; and the main stage, where a band dressed as zombie Beatles is playing “Here Comes the Sun” in a minor key.
Our brewery booth sits between Mrs. Lessie’s Severed Fingers, spring rolls arranged to look disturbingly realistic, and Clayton’s candy apple stand, where each apple is a work of art.
I just served a sample to someone whose apple was decorated to look like Pennywise, and honestly, it was too good to eat but too creepy to look at.
“Stop catastrophizing,” Harper blurts, adjusting the plastic Viking horns she added to her outfit because, in her words, Vikings are scary and I’m scary cute .
She’s been documenting everything for our social media, adding filters that make our beer look like it’s glowing with supernatural power.
“Your face is doing that thing where you look constipated but emotional.”
“That’s just my face,” I protest, arranging sample cups for the millionth time.
“No, your regular face is cute with a side of sass. This is your ‘my mother called and now I want to die’ face.” Harper snaps another photo, this time of the Vampire’s Kiss stout with dry-ice smoke for effect. “Which, valid, but also, you’re scaring customers.”
The field around us pulses with Halloween energy. There’s a zombie-walk competition happening near the corn maze, a pumpkin carving contest, and approximately seventeen different versions of Harley Quinn wandering around. The air smells of kettle corn and cotton candy.
“I can’t stop thinking about Saturday,” I admit, serving a witch who ordered with a perfect cackle. “Two days to produce an Alpha from thin air.”
“Or,” Harper says, wiggling her eyebrows, “from that gorgeous food truck two spots down where those absolutely edible ex-bikers are currently making everyone in a fifty-foot radius swoon.”
I risk a glance at the Savor truck. It’s sleek black and has orange Halloween decals of skeletons doing a waltz on the sides. There’s already a line, probably because Arrow and Luke look like they stepped out of a bad-boys-of-cooking calendar.
“We need to discuss this strategically,” Harper continues, pulling out her phone. “I did some research.”
“You stalked them online.”
“Of course. Any respectful girl would. Anyway, Luke Brennan, co-owner of Blackline Forge they accent it, drawing attention to the sharp lines of his face and that infuriating three-day stubble dusting his jaw.
He looks like trouble. Beautiful, unfair, Alpha-coded trouble.
“Incoming hotness, three o’clock,” Harper mutters under her breath. “I’m going to check our backup kegs that definitely need checking right now immediately.”
“Harper, don’t you dare?—”
She’s gone. I shoot her a betrayed look, but she doesn’t even turn around.
Luke reaches the booth, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, the devil horns tilting slightly as he grins. “Hey, trouble,” he says, and his voice is pure sin wrapped in charm.
“Busy night?”
“It’s…” I gesture vaguely at everything, because my brain has gone into standby mode. “Halloween.”
“Noticed that,” he says, nudging one of the coffin-shaped drink trays on the counter. “The horns gave it away. That and Arrow’s insistence we serve everything in tiny boxes. Man’s obsessed with theme commitment.”
The breeze shifts. His scent hits me. Candied apples and spiced cider, and leather, the kind of smell that gets under your skin and makes you forget your own name. My knees wobble. Actually wobble. I have to grip the counter like I’m bracing for impact.
His eyes flick to my hand. “You okay?” he asks, tone shifting as he leans in. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Or commit murder. Possibly both.”
“Family stuff, I guess,” I manage to say, because apparently his presence annihilates my filter.
“Ah.” He nods like he’s heard this exact tone before. “The kind of family stuff that requires alcohol, or the kind that ends in a court summons?”
I huff a laugh, grateful for the distraction. “Somewhere between wine and witness protection.”
“Oof. That’s the spicy kind.”
His grin is lethal and warm all at once. I should not be looking at his mouth. I definitely shouldn’t be wondering what it would feel like to kiss that smirk right off his face. Or how he’d taste. Or if he’d keep the devil horns on.
I force myself to focus on stacking napkins that do not need stacking. “You here for a cider, or just to harass the staff?”
“For the company. The cider is just an excuse.”
He winks and reaches for one of the coffin-shaped drink trays. His fingers brush mine, and my entire nervous system short-circuits like it’s been hit with a cattle prod. The scent of him rolls in again, and my pulse flares so hard I nearly knock over the tray.
This is not normal. This is full-body chemical warfare. I’m sweating and freezing at the same time, and all he’s done is exist in my general area.
“You good?” he asks, eyes narrowing slightly like he already knows the answer.
“Yeah. Just busy. Lots of beer. Costumes. Small-town havoc.”
He lifts a brow. “So you’re telling me you’re not overwhelmed at all by the sheer volume of drunk pirates and cornstalks?”
I blink. “Sorry, what now?”
“There’s a girl dressed as corn,” he says. “Just corn. With fishnets. It’s a lot.”
I snort and cover it with a cough. “How are you even noticing anyone else in this crowd?”
“Because I already found the best view.” His eyes slide back to mine, and it’s not even a line. He means it.
Oh, no.
I glance away, but it’s too late. My face is on fire. I pretend to read the side of a cider box that I’ve definitely already unpacked.
Maybe Harper is right, my brain whispers treacherously. Maybe he could pull it off. If anyone could fake being your Alpha, it’s this man with cheekbones sharp enough to ruin you and a voice like bourbon lit on fire.
Just one day. That’s all I’d need.
He would sit beside me, play along, maybe wrap an arm around my shoulders like it meant something. Say all the right things. Smell like he does. Look like he does. My mother wouldn’t stand a chance.
I open my mouth. I get as far as “Hey, Luke, can I ask you something completely insane?” before I chicken out.
Abort. Abort.
“Actually, never mind,” I say instead. “I don’t trust you not to laugh at me.”