Chapter 17
Wells
Wells
Ineed self-control to survive. It's not just a preference for me; it's a necessity.
As the mayor's chief of staff in a town where everyone knows everyone's business, discipline is my armor.
I don't make impulsive decisions. I don't act on emotion.
I certainly don't let myself develop feelings for temporary housemates who are clearly already entangled with my two closest friends.
Which is why I've been avoiding Rowan for the past three days.
From my office window in Town Hall, I can see the town square transforming for the Harvest Festival.
Workers put up white pavilion tents while volunteers string paper lanterns between the trees.
The annual madness has begun—the first of four seasonal festivals that consume Vineyard Groves like a collective fever dream.
In previous years, I've found the preparations irritating but tolerable. This year, they're a welcome distraction from the increasingly complicated situation at home.
Jasper is brooding more than usual, spending most of his time in the garage or at job sites, coming home late and leaving early. Theo is doing that thing where he pretends everything is fine while radiating protective alpha energy every time Rowan enters a room. And Rowan...
Rowan is the eye of the hurricane, seemingly calm while chaos swirls around her. But I can sense the tension beneath her composure, the way her scent shifts and twists with conflicting emotions. The way it grows stronger, sweeter, more defined with each passing day.
Mayor Tillie knocks on my open door, breaking my reverie. "Still staring at spreadsheets? The festival opens tomorrow, Wells. Even you are allowed to enjoy it occasionally."
"I enjoy efficiency," I reply, turning away from the window. "And this budget won't balance itself."
She waves a dismissive hand. "Budgets can wait. I need you to check on the pavilion setup. Make sure they're following the layout we approved."
I know better than to argue when Tillie gets that look in her eye. "Of course."
"Excellent." She turns to leave, then pauses. "Oh, and see if you can find Rowan while you're at it. Lala mentioned she's helping with the flower arrangements today, but no one's seen her since lunch."
My stomach tightens at the mention of Rowan's name. "I'm sure she's fine."
"Of course she is," Tillie agrees with a knowing smile that makes me deeply uncomfortable.
"But check anyway. For my peace of mind."
This is a setup. Tillie's been not-so-subtly trying to throw Rowan and me together since the gala, convinced we'd make an "adorable power couple." The woman is relentless when she gets an idea in her head.
But I'm a professional. I can find Rowan, ensure she's where she needs to be, and maintain appropriate boundaries. It's not difficult.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I head toward the town square.
The festival grounds are controlled chaos—volunteers scurrying about with clipboards, vendors setting up booths, maintenance crews testing sound equipment and electrical connections.
I check the main pavilion first, where the flower arrangements will be displayed, but find only Avianna arranging chairs.
"Looking for someone?" she asks, her expression far too innocent to be genuine.
"Mayor Tillie wanted me to check on the pavilion setup," I say, deliberately vague.
"Mmhmm." She smirks. "If you're looking for Rowan, she went to get more ribbon from City Hall. Should be heading back this way any minute."
I nod, keeping my expression neutral despite the knowing look she gives me. "I'll let her know you're waiting."
I turn to leave, only to nearly collide with the very person I've been both seeking and avoiding.
Rowan stands in the pavilion entrance, arms full of spools of pastel ribbon, her expression momentarily startled before she composes herself.
"Wells," she says, her voice carefully casual. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Mayor Tillie sent me to check on the setup," I explain, taking an instinctive step back to maintain a safe distance. Even with that distance, her scent reaches me—sweet and complex, with that spicy undertone that's uniquely hers. "And to... find you, actually."
"Oh?" She raises an eyebrow, depositing the ribbon on a nearby table. "Did I miss a meeting or something?"
"No, just making sure you hadn't been kidnapped by the decorating committee," I say, the words coming out stiffer than I intended. "They can be rather zealous this time of year."
Avianna snorts from where she's pretending not to eavesdrop. "That's rich coming from Mayor Tillie's enforcer."
I ignore this. "Do you need any help with the arrangements?"
"Actually," Avianna chimes in before Rowan can answer, "I need to run back to the shop. I;m about to fall asleep standing here. Rowan, why don't you show Wells what we've done so far? Get his... professional opinion."
And with that transparent excuse, she's gone, leaving Rowan and me alone in the half-decorated pavilion.
Rowan looks as uncomfortable as I feel, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "You probably have more important things to do."
"I do," I confirm, then surprise myself by adding, "but I could use a break. Would you like to walk through the grounds? I can show you what to expect tomorrow."
The invitation comes from nowhere, catching us both off guard. But after three days of carefully orchestrated avoidance, something in me craves a few minutes of normal interaction. Neutral territory, public space, professional context. Safe.
She hesitates, then nods. "Sure. I could use some fresh air."
We walk side by side, careful not to brush against each other as we weave through the festival setup. I point out the various sections—artisan booths, food vendors, the stage for local musicians, the children's area with games and face painting.
"The whole town really goes all out for this, huh?" Rowan observes as we pass an elaborate display being constructed to showcase the history of apple cultivation in the region.
"It's a significant source of tourism revenue," I explain. "And a point of pride for the community."
She gives me a sidelong glance. "Do you ever just enjoy things without analyzing their practical value?"
The question catches me off guard. "Of course."
"Name one thing," she challenges, a hint of mischief in her eyes.
I consider this longer than I should need to, which is telling in itself.
"You really are that serious all the time, aren't you?" she says, but there's no judgment in her tone. Just curiosity, maybe a touch of amusement.
"I appreciate... efficiency," I finally say, aware of how ridiculous it sounds even as the words leave my mouth.
She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected in the afternoon air. "Efficiency. Wow. That's... okay, that tracks actually."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're exactly as Theo described you the first day—a robot with excellent hair."
I should be offended, but there's something about the teasing glint in her eye that makes my lips twitch instead. "My hair is not part of the efficiency equation."
"No?" She tilts her head, studying me with mock seriousness. "I assumed it was perfectly engineered for optimal performance in all weather conditions."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it—short and rusty from disuse, but genuine. "Are you always this impossible?"
"Only with people who need it," she says, her smile softening into something that makes my chest tighten. "You should laugh more often. It humanizes you."
"I'll take that under advisement," I say dryly, but I'm still fighting a smile.
We continue walking, the silence between us more comfortable now. I find myself relaxing incrementally, the constant tension I've been carrying for days easing just slightly.
That's when she stumbles.
It's nothing dramatic—her foot catches on an exposed tree root, and she tilts forward with a small sound of surprise. My reaction is pure instinct—one arm shooting out to catch her elbow, the other wrapping around her waist to steady her.
And suddenly she's against me, her back to my chest, my arms around her, her scent filling my lungs in a rush that makes my head spin.
I should let go immediately. Step back. Reestablish the careful distance I've been maintaining.
I don't.
For one suspended moment, we stay like that—her body warm and solid against mine, her pulse racing beneath my fingers where they circle her wrist, her scent surrounding me, intoxicating in its sweetness.
"Thank you," she says softly, making no move to pull away. "I'm usually more coordinated than that."
"It's the uneven ground," I manage, my voice rougher than usual. I still haven't let go.
She turns slightly in my arms, looking up at me with an expression I can't quite read. "You're very... steady."
It's a simple observation, but something in her tone makes it feel like more. Like she's not just talking about my physical presence.
"I try to be," I say, the words coming out more honest than I intended.
Her eyes search mine, and I have the distinct sensation of being seen—really seen—in a way that's both uncomfortable and exhilarating. Then she relaxes, just slightly, leaning into me with a small sigh that I feel more than hear.
Something in me responds immediately—a protective, possessive instinct that I usually keep firmly in check. My arms tighten around her fractionally, and I find myself breathing deeply, drawing in her scent, wanting to surround her with mine.
Words form on my tongue—gentle words, tender words I have no business speaking—and for a terrifying moment, I almost say them aloud.
Reality crashes back with brutal force. I step away, creating distance, letting my arms fall to my sides. The loss of contact is physical, a cold absence where her warmth had been.
"We should get back," I say, my voice carefully controlled once more. "There's still a lot to do before tomorrow."
Something flickers across her face—disappointment? frustration?—before she nods, her own walls visibly coming back up. "Right. Efficiency."
The walk back to the pavilion is silent, the easy camaraderie of moments ago replaced by a tense awareness of what almost happened. Of what I almost allowed myself to feel.
"Thank you for the tour," Rowan says when we reach the pavilion, where Lala has now joined the decorating crew. "It was... informative."
"Of course," I reply, falling back on professional courtesy like armor. "I should get back to the office. Mayor Tillie will be wondering where I am."
She nods, already turning toward Lala, who's watching our interaction with undisguised interest. "See you at home, I guess."
Home. Such a simple word, and yet so complicated in the context of our situation. It's not her home—not really, not permanently. It's a temporary arrangement, one that's rapidly approaching its end date.
I need to remember that.
Back at the office, I throw myself into work with renewed determination, refusing to think about the way Rowan felt in my arms, the way her scent lingered on my clothing, the way something in me had recognized something in her in a manner that transcended conscious thought.
By the time I get home that evening, the house is quiet. Theo's working the night shift at the clinic, and Jasper's truck is nowhere to be seen. Rowan must still be at the festival grounds, helping with last-minute preparations.
The empty house should be a relief—space to decompress, to regain my equilibrium after the unexpected interaction this afternoon. Instead, it feels hollow, the silence too complete.
I take a shower, trying to wash away the day and the lingering scent of Rowan that clings to my clothes, my skin. It doesn't work. When I step out, I can still smell her on my sweater where she leaned against me.
I should wash it. Instead, I find myself bringing it to my face, inhaling deeply, letting her scent fill my lungs again. Sweet and warm and spicy, with that undercurrent of something that calls to my alpha in ways I'm not prepared to examine.
The arousal that follows is immediate and undeniable. I try to ignore it, to focus on practical matters—dinner, emails, preparation for tomorrow's festival opening.
But when I finally retreat to my bedroom, Rowan's scent still wrapped around me from the sweater I couldn't bring myself to wash, my control slips completely.
I stretch out on my bed, one hand sliding beneath the waistband of my pajama pants almost of its own volition.
I grip my cock-- hard and aching-- I stock myself twice, up and down and feel the pleasure lick up my spine.
I close my eyes, and immediately see Rowan—her face turned up to mine this afternoon, her body warm against my chest, her scent drawing me in like a siren's call.
I imagine how it could have gone differently. How instead of pulling away, I might have pulled her closer. Buried my face in the curve of her neck, tasted her skin, felt her pulse race beneath my lips.
My hand moves faster, grip tightening as I picture her eyes darkening with desire, her scent spiking with arousal, her body arching against mine. In my mind, she whispers my name, her voice breathy and urgent, her hands clutching at my shoulders as I—
Release hits me with unexpected force, intense and consuming. For a few blissful moments, my mind goes blank, free of the constant analysis and control that define my existence.
Then reality returns, bringing with it a wave of guilt and confusion. I clean up mechanically, my thoughts churning with the implications of what just happened.
I'm attracted to Rowan. That much has been clear, if unacknowledged, for weeks. But this feels like something more, something deeper. Something that scares me with its intensity.
Jasper's obvious interest in her, Theo's growing attachment, the way her scent complements all of ours in a harmony that feels almost predestined—it's all pointing toward a conclusion I'm not ready to face.
Because if this is what I think it is—if she's who I think she might be to us—then the neat, ordered life I've built is about to become infinitely more complicated.
As I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, I can no longer deny the truth that's been building for weeks: I'm already in trouble. We all are.
And when Rowan's trial month ends in ten days, none of us will be the same.