Chapter 4 Sophie
SOPHIE
The rain pummels the kitchen window, a relentless rhythm beating in time with my heart. The storm outside is acting in tandem with the storm brewing inside me.
I sit at the battered wooden table in the kitchen, its rough surface and patina right at home in the old kitchen. My pen in hand taps against my notebook, its pages littered with scribbles of repairs and costs.
The ink smudges are evidence of my growing frustration.
The inn’s to-do list is laughably endless—leaky pipes, drafty windows, peeling paint, and a roof that’s probably older than I am. Every time I think I’ve wrapped my head around it, another problem rears its head.
A gust of wind rattles the windows, and the sound makes me jump.
“Get it together,” I say under my breath, rubbing at my temples. My coffee’s gone cold, but I drink it anyway, letting the bitter taste sharpen my focus.
It’s then that I hear it—a faint, rhythmic dripping sound. At first, I convince myself it’s just a leaky faucet somewhere in the house. But the sound grows louder, more insistent, until I get that dreadful feeling you get when you hear running water where it's not supposed to be.
Pushing back my chair, I stand and follow the noise, my bare feet padding across the hardwood floors. The hallway is dim, shadows dancing as the wind blows shrubs in front of the porch light outside. The sound leads me upstairs, which crescendos into a steady pouring sound.
My stomach drops when I discover the source. Water is dripping in a steady stream through the ceiling of the only functional guest suite in three different spots, splashing onto the beautiful wooden floor below.
“Oh, no, no, no.” Panic surges through me as I dart back toward the kitchen, yanking open cabinets in search of anything that can catch the water. Pots, bowls, a stockpot—whatever I can find.
By the time I return, the water has formed a small lake around the baseboards. I set the pot in place, the clang of the water running into it echoing in the empty room.
Plink, plink, plink. The sound is defiant and unyielding.
Desperate, I grab a chair and drag it beneath the leak. Climbing up, I stretch as high as I can, trying to push a towel into an ever-widening hole in the ceiling to stop the water. The chair wobbles precariously beneath me, and my heart lurches as my foot slips on the slick seat.
I yelp, bracing myself for impact—only for a strong hand to grab my waist, and the delicious scent of cedar and summer to wrap around me, steadying me before I hit the ground.
“Careful there,” a deep voice drawls, tinged with amusement.
I look up, and there he is—Tyler Hawk, drenched from the rain but still managing to look infuriatingly irresistible. His sun-streaked hair is plastered to his forehead, and his faded T-shirt clings to his broad shoulders and muscled chest.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intended as I clutch my chest, willing my racing heart to calm. His hand still rests on my hip, where he braced me from falling.
Pulling his hands away, Tyler smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re the one scaling furniture like it’s a jungle gym. What were you even trying to do?”
“Fix the leak,” I bite out, gesturing toward the ceiling. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like you were about to break your neck,” he says, stepping closer to inspect the damage.
I glare at him, heat rising to my cheeks—partly from embarrassment, partly because his scent is starting to seep into my awareness and send heat waves to my core. He smells warm and earthy, like citrus and something smoky…maybe sage. The scent is grounding, yet entirely too distracting.
“Well, I don’t see you offering any solutions,” I mutter, hopping off the chair and nearly slipping again on the wetness beneath the chair.
Tyler’s hand shoots out, steadying me once more. “You’re welcome,” he says dryly, before turning his attention back to the leak. “Got any buckets?”
“In the pantry I think,” I mumble, brushing past him to go and grab them.
I hear him following me to the pantry, but I don’t look back. I locate the buckets and make a move in their direction. My arm brushes against his as we both reach for the stack of buckets, and the contact sends a spark zipping through me, so sharp and unexpected that I almost drop the bucket.
When I return, Tyler’s already rolling up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. If there were such a thing as forearm porn, his would have a starring role. “This place really is falling apart, isn’t it?” he says, more to himself than to me.
“It’s got character,” I say defensively, though my voice lacks conviction and seems more like a question.
Tyler arches an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Character doesn’t fix a leaky roof.”
He takes the buckets from me, positioning them under the most concentrated drips. I try not to notice how his hands move, strong and capable, as if they’ve spent years solving problems like this.
“Got any tools in the house?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “But maybe in the shed.”
Tyler shrugs, heading toward the door with an easy confidence that grates against my nerves. “Stay here. I’ll give it a look,” he says, his tone casual but carrying enough authority to ripple through me.
He points to the chair as if it’s not a suggestion, and my Omega instincts flare to comply without question.
My fingers curl into fists, fighting the inexplicable urge to sit like a good girl.
“I’ll do as I want,” I snap, my voice shriller than I intend, a defiant edge slicing through the air. The words sound petulant even to me, but I can’t let him think he can waltz in here and start giving orders.
Tyler pauses, glancing back at me with an arched brow, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.
“Suit yourself,” he says, clearly amused. “But if you fall off that chair again, don’t expect me to catch you a second time.”
I bristle, warmth flooding my cheeks, betraying my frustration. He turns and heads for the shed, leaving me stewing in a whirlwind of irritation and something I refuse to name.
The ache to follow his instruction, to let someone else take control for once, wars against my pride, and it’s a battle I’m not ready to lose.
When he returns, he’s carrying a toolbox that looks like it’s seen better days. He grabs the chair I abandoned earlier and plants it under the leak.
“You hold the chair,” he instructs, climbing up with a staple gun in hand. He reaches through the hole in the ceiling and starts attaching a sheet of plastic, giving the leaks a place to collect.
“This should at least keep the water from going where we don’t want it,” he says
I step behind him, my hands gripping the edges of the chair. My eyes are level with his lower back, and I can’t help but notice the way his muscles shift under his shirt as he works. And the way he smells fills me with need and desire.
My traitorous Omega conditioning stirs, making my skin heat and pulse quicken. I can feel myself leaning in closer, taking in his delicious scent on an inhale. I close my eyes. Maybe three years without having sex is just too long of a dry spell. My Omega is almost purring. My breath hitches.
“You’re staring,” Tyler says without looking down. His voice deepens, making me think of all the things we could be doing in a bedroom. None of them include fixing a leaky roof, but I shake my head and decide denial is my best course of action.
“I’m not!” I protest, my voice cracking slightly, my eyes looking anywhere but at his back.
“Sure you’re not,” he teases, glancing down with a grin and a smolder that makes my knees feel weak.
Before I can respond, a loud crash of thunder shakes the house, and the chair wobbles beneath Tyler’s weight.
My arms instantly go around his thighs, bringing my body flush against his back, with only the chair between us.
My hands grip the fabric of his jeans instinctively, way too close to parts of him I have been imagining over and over since I first saw him.
“Relax,” he says, clearing his throat, his voice low and reassuring. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The way he says it—calm, steady, like an unspoken promise—sends a shiver down my spine, igniting something I thought I’d buried. Heat pools low in my stomach, and I can feel the slickness start, my body betraying every wall I’ve built.
What the hell is wrong with me? I bite my lip, desperate to ignore how my Omega biology is roaring to the surface, screaming for his touch.
The last time I was with an Alpha was a lifetime ago. The memory flickers through my mind unbidden—the raw intensity of him, the way he made me feel both claimed and untethered all at once.
That connection had unraveled me, and the pain of his rejection still lingered like a bruise that refused to fade. Eight years later, here I am, my body responding as if I haven’t learned my lesson.
Tyler’s gaze locks with mine, his eyes darkening with something primal, and for a moment, I swear he might jump me. His hand shifts, his fingers twitching like he’s fighting his own instincts. My breath hitches when his hand cups the side of my face, his palm warm and grounding against my skin.
The touch is gentle but electrifying, and it pulls a sound from my throat—a sound I didn’t even know I was capable of making. My lips part, words lost as the heat between us grows, threatening to consume the fragile control I’m clinging to.
“Sophie… “ he says with a depth of want that knocks me off my feet, and I know in that moment, that he’s going to kiss me, and I’m going to let him.
The moment shatters like glass when a deep, familiar voice cuts through my hazy thoughts.
“What the hell is going on up here?”
I jolt back from Tyler so fast I almost lose my footing again, my heart leaping into my throat. My head snaps toward the doorway, and there he is—Ethan, his broad frame filling the doorway, silhouetted by the dim light of the hallway. The sight of him is like a punch to the gut.