Chapter 11 Rowan
Rowan
Focus on the book, Rowan. The protagonist is about to discover who the killer is.
I'm supposed to be reading and keeping an eye on my cat. That's what I told myself when I came out to the back porch with my book and a cup of coffee—that I was going to enjoy the crisp September afternoon and catch up on some leisure reading.
But instead...
I'm not staring at Jasper's forearms. I'm definitely not cataloging the way his muscles flex when he swings the hammer, or how his T-shirt stretches across his shoulders, or the little grunt he makes when he drives a nail home with one perfect strike.
Nope. Not doing any of that.
I'm simply... appreciating craftsmanship. Professional curiosity. Totally normal behavior for a Saturday morning.
"If you keep watching me like that, I'm going to start charging admission," Jasper says without turning around, his voice gruff and low.
Heat floods my face. Busted.
"I'm not watching you," I lie, focusing intently on Gerald, who's batting at a piece of string beside me on the porch steps. "I'm supervising my cat."
"Your cat is fine," Jasper says, finally turning to face me. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and a smudge of sawdust across one cheekbone.
"You, on the other hand, have been sitting there for twenty minutes pretending not to stare at me."
"That's..." Completely accurate. "Ridiculous."
He sets down his hammer, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement makes his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt, and my mouth goes dry. What is happening to me?
Ever since that night with Theo a few days ago—the night I pretended to be asleep while he scent-marked me, the night my body practically melted in response—it's like all my senses have been dialed up to eleven. Especially around the alphas. Especially around Jasper.
It's infuriating. And terrifying. And... something else I refuse to name.
Jasper is still watching me, his expression unreadable. "If you're going to keep hanging around, you might as well make yourself useful."
I blink, surprised by the offer. Jasper has been avoiding me like I'm carrying the plague for the past two weeks. This is the most words he's spoken to me directly since the night I brought Gerald home.
"What do you need?" I ask cautiously.
He gestures to the porch railing he's rebuilding. "Hold the other end of this board while I secure it."
I set Gerald down carefully on the porch swing and approach, hyperaware of Jasper's eyes on me. He hands me the end of a long piece of cedar, positioning my hands where he wants them.
"Don't let it move," he instructs, his fingers brushing against mine during the handoff.
A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm at the contact. I nearly drop the board, earning a raised eyebrow from Jasper.
"Sorry," I mutter. "I'm not usually this jumpy."
"No?" he asks, his tone suggesting he doesn't believe me. "Seems like that's exactly what you usually are. Jumpy. Skittish. Ready to bolt at the slightest provocation."
"I am not," I protest, even as I realize he's right. I have been acting like a nervous rabbit ever since my body started doing... whatever it's doing.
"Hold still," he says, ignoring my objection. He positions his end of the board, then pulls a pencil from behind his ear to mark where he'll cut. The motion stretches his shirt up slightly, revealing a strip of tanned skin and the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
I swallow hard and look away. This is ridiculous. I've seen a man's stomach before. I've dated. I've had sex. Mediocre, forgettable sex, but still. There's no reason I should be reacting like this to just a glimpse of Jasper's abs.
Except that there is a reason, and we both know it.
"Your scent is changing again," Jasper says, his voice low and matter-of-fact as he measures the board. "Getting stronger."
I tense. "I'm using the blockers."
"They're not working." He looks up, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. "Or not working well enough."
"I'm sorry my biology is so inconvenient for you," I snap, embarrassment making me defensive.
He sets the pencil down with deliberate care. "I didn't say it was inconvenient. I said it was changing."
Something in his tone makes me pause. He doesn't sound angry, like he usually does when discussing my potential omega status. He sounds... resigned. Maybe even a little intrigued.
"Why do you hate omegas so much anyway?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
His jaw tightens. "I don't hate omegas."
"Could have fooled me."
"I don't trust them," he clarifies, picking up his saw. "There's a difference."
"That's not better," I point out. "That's like saying you don't hate puppies, you just don't trust them not to pee on your carpet."
A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Terrible analogy."
"But accurate," I insist. "What did an omega ever do to you that was so horrible?"
The smile vanishes. "Hold the board steady," he says, returning to work with renewed focus.
But I'm not letting him off that easily. "Let me guess. Bad breakup? Omega ex who broke your heart? Or maybe—"
"Yes. Once… But really my mother was an omega," he interrupts, his voice hard. "She left when I was eight. Just... disappeared one day. No warning, no goodbye. Turned out she'd found a 'more compatible' alpha and decided to start fresh. Without the kid."
Oh.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "That's awful."
He shrugs, but the tension in his shoulders tells me it's far from the casual dismissal he's aiming for. "It was a long time ago."
"Still." I hesitate, then add, "For what it's worth, that's not an omega thing. That's a shitty person thing. Plenty of alphas and betas abandon their kids too."
"I know that," he says, sawing through the board with quick, efficient strokes. "Logically, I know that. But logic has nothing to do with it."
No, it doesn't. I understand that better than most—how the wounds from childhood can shape us in ways that defy rational thought. How they can make us build walls, create rules, push people away before they can hurt us.
"Anyway," he continues, setting down the saw, "that's why I wanted an alpha roommate. Less... complicated."
I can't help but smile at that. "And instead you got me. Complications incarnate."
"Exactly," he agrees, but there's a warmth in his voice that wasn't there before. "Hold this in place while I nail it."
I position the freshly cut board, watching as Jasper retrieves his hammer and nails. There's something mesmerizing about the way he works—confident, precise, every movement controlled and intentional. I try not to think about how those strong, capable hands would feel on my skin.
Fail spectacularly.
"You're not focusing," Jasper says, his voice closer than I expected. He's standing right behind me now, his chest nearly touching my back as he reaches around to adjust the board's position. "Like this."
His body heat envelops me, his scent—pine and sawdust and something fundamentally male—filling my lungs. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I'm certain he can hear it, can sense the way my body is responding to his proximity.
"Got it," I say, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
He doesn't move away immediately. Instead, he stays close, close enough that I can feel his breath stir the hair at the nape of my neck. "Are you sure? Because you seem... distracted."
Is he... flirting with me? Jasper, who's been treating me like a walking biohazard for two weeks?
"I'm fine," I manage, though my body is screaming otherwise. Every nerve ending feels electrified, hyperaware of exactly how close he is, of the mere inches separating us.
"Your pulse says differently," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that sends shivers down my spine. "It's racing."
"Maybe I'm afraid of hammers," I quip, a weak attempt at deflection.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me. "No, you're not. You're afraid of this." His hand moves to my wrist, fingers brushing over my pulse point. "Of how your body reacts when I'm close. Of what it means."
He's right, and we both know it. I am afraid—terrified, actually—of the way my body betrays me around him. Around all of them, really, but especially Jasper, with his gruff demeanor and hidden depths and those forearms that should be classified as lethal weapons.
"Jasper," I say, not sure if I'm asking him to back off or move closer.
Before either of us can find out, the front door swings open, and Wells's voice cuts through the tension. "Jasper, have you seen the—oh."
Jasper steps back so quickly I nearly lose my balance. I turn to see Wells standing in the doorway, his expression a careful blank as he takes in the scene.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says, though he doesn't sound sorry at all. "I was looking for my festival planning binder."
"Haven't seen it," Jasper says, his voice back to its usual gruff indifference. He picks up his hammer, putting deliberate distance between us. "Check the study."
Wells nods, his eyes lingering on me for a moment before he retreats back inside.
The moment—whatever it was—is broken.
"I should go check on Gerald," I say, even though Gerald is perfectly fine, napping on the porch swing in a patch of sunlight.
Jasper nods, already turning back to his work. "You do that."
I flee to the safety of the porch swing, heart still pounding, skin still tingling where Jasper's fingers touched my wrist. What just happened? Was he actually... interested? Or was he just making a point about my changing biology?
And why, despite all my determination to maintain boundaries, am I hoping it was the former?
Gerald stirs as I sit beside him, stretching lazily before climbing into my lap. His rumbling purr is soothing, a counterpoint to my racing thoughts.
Across the porch, Jasper continues working, his movements betraying no hint of the charged moment we just shared. But occasionally, I catch him glancing my way, his expression impossible to read.
One thing is certain: whatever is happening between us—between me and all three alphas—is getting more complicated by the day. And with less than two months left in our contract, I'm running out of time to figure out what I want.