Chapter 24 Wells
Wells
Before Rowan Whitley upended my carefully ordered existence with her stubborn independence and vulnerable eyes, and with the way her scent seems designed specifically to drive me to distraction. I excelled at compartmentalization. But that was then, and this is now.
"Wells? Are you even listening?"
I blink, focusing on Mayor Tillie, who's staring at me with unusual concern from across her desk.
The Harvest Festival is in full swing outside the windows of Town Hall, and I should be reviewing vendor complaints and security reports, not thinking about Rowan in the throes of her first heat, face flushed, eyes dilated, body calling to mine in ways I refuse to acknowledge.
"Of course," I lie smoothly. "The issue with the parking overflow."
Tillie's eyes narrow slightly. "That was ten minutes ago. I've moved on to the lighting issue at the pavilion."
"Right." I glance down at my tablet, where I should have been taking notes. The screen has gone dark from inactivity. "The circuit breaker keeps tripping. I'll have maintenance look at it immediately."
"I already told you I've handled it," she says, leaning forward with that penetrating gaze that makes it seem like she can read minds. "Wells Roman, I have known you for three years, and I have never seen you like this. Distracted. Unfocused. Dare I say... emotional?"
I stiffen at the accusation, though I know it's warranted. "I apologize. It won't happen again."
"That's not—" She sighs, her expression softening. "I'm not reprimanding you. I'm concerned. This isn't like you."
Because I'm not like me anymore. Not since Rowan stood in my kitchen with Gerald on her shoulder, humming softly, looking perfectly at home.
Not since I held her on the festival grounds, feeling her warmth against my chest, her scent wrapping around me.
Not since I stood in her doorway last night, watching Theo comfort her through her heat while every cell in my body screamed to join them.
"I'm fine," I say, the lie so obvious it almost sticks in my throat. "Just a bit sleep-deprived with the festival."
Tillie clearly doesn't believe me, but mercifully she lets it drop. "Well, try to focus. The governor is arriving at three, and I need you at your sharpest."
I nod, grateful for the return to business. "I'll review the security protocols again before his arrival."
"Good. That's all for now." She waves me off, already turning her attention to the stack of papers on her desk.
Back in my own office, I close the door and lean against it, exhaling slowly. This is unacceptable. I have responsibilities, duties that require my complete attention. I can't afford to be distracted by thoughts of Rowan, by the memory of her scent, by the image of her melting into Theo's arms.
I move to my desk, determined to focus on work, only to find myself reaching into my jacket pocket before I can stop myself.
My fingers close around the silky fabric I tucked there this morning—Rowan's head scarf, left behind on the couch the other night.
I had picked it up intending to return it, then somehow. .. didn't.
Instead, I brought it with me to work, like some lovesick teenager carrying a token of his crush. Pathetic.
But I don't put it away. Instead, I bring it to my face, inhaling deeply.
Her scent is concentrated here, sweet and warm with that hint of spice that makes her uniquely Rowan.
The fabric is soft against my skin, and for a moment I allow myself to imagine it's her—her softness, her warmth, her presence filling the emptiness I never acknowledged until she appeared.
My phone buzzes on the desk, startling me back to reality. It's a text from Theo.
Rowan's fever spiked again. Got her settled for now, but might need to take shifts if this continues. You coming home early?
Home. Such a simple word, and yet it carries weight now that it didn't before.
Home isn't just the house we share—it's where Rowan is, where her scent mingles with ours, where Gerald prowls the hallways like he owns the place, where the four of us have created something that feels dangerously close to. ..a family.
My thumb hovers over the call button. I should check on her directly. Hear her voice. Make sure she's okay.
But what would I say? What comfort could I possibly offer when I've been so careful to maintain my distance, to protect myself from exactly this kind of entanglement?
I set the phone down without calling, hating myself a little for the cowardice.
Town Hall until 5. Home after that, I text back instead, the words inadequate but safe.
My door bursts open without warning, and Lala sweeps in like a pastel hurricane, arms full of files and a determined glint in her eye that immediately puts me on guard.
"I need your signature on these vendor applications," she announces, dropping the stack on my desk with unnecessary force. "And don't give me that look. I'm doing you a favor by bringing them here instead of making you come to the bakery."
"I appreciate your consideration," I say dryly, reaching for the forms. "Though a knock would have been customary."
"Customs are boring," she dismisses, crossing her arms as she watches me sign. "Almost as boring as you're being right now."
I look up, pen poised mid-signature. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." She perches on the edge of my desk, uninvited. "You should be home right now, not hiding in your office pretending to work."
I blink, momentarily thrown. "I'm not hiding, and this isn't pretend work. The governor—"
"Isn't arriving for another four hours, and you've already triple-checked the security protocols." She waves a dismissive hand. "Meanwhile, Rowan is going through her first heat, and you're... what? Filing paperwork?"
I set the pen down carefully, fighting to keep my expression neutral. "Rowan is fine. Theo is with her."
"Ah yes, one out of three. Very impressive showing from her potential mates."
"We're not her mates," I say automatically, though the words feel hollow.
Lala's eyebrows rise nearly to her hairline.
"Really? Because that's not what your pheromones have been screaming at me for weeks.
Or what your face broadcasts every time she walks into a room.
Or what had your scent glands doing overtime at the festival setup when you were marking your territory like a teenager at prom. "
Heat creeps up my neck, but I maintain my composure. "I don't know what you think you saw, but—"
"Save it," she interrupts, her expression softening slightly. "Look, I'm not here to embarrass you. Well, not entirely. I'm here because I care about Rowan, and for some unfathomable reason, she cares about you three idiots."
"We care about her too," I say, the admission easier than I expected.
"I know you do. That's the problem." Lala leans forward, suddenly serious. "She's not fine, Wells. And neither are you. None of you are. You're all dancing around something that's obviously happening, pretending it's temporary, pretending it's simple, when we both know it's neither."
Her words hit uncomfortably close to home. I look down at the scarf still clutched in my hand, the evidence of my own emotional compromisation.
"It's complicated," I finally say, the understatement of the century.
"Most worthwhile things are." She stands, smoothing her skirt. "But here's what's not complicated: Rowan needs all of you right now. Not just Theo. Not just whoever's turn it is to check on her. All of you. Together."
The image her words conjure—the four of us together, supporting Rowan, supporting each other—is both terrifying and achingly appealing.
I've never allowed myself to need anyone that way, to be needed in return.
It's always been safer to maintain distance, to keep relationships defined and contained.
But nothing about Rowan is contained. She's messy and stubborn and emotional in ways that should repel me but instead draw me inexorably closer.
"I have responsibilities here," I say, but the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
Lala gives me a look that suggests I'm being particularly dense. "You have responsibilities there too. Ones that matter a hell of a lot more than making sure the governor's ego gets properly stroked." She heads for the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. "Stop being an idiot, Wells. Go home."
The door closes behind her with a decisive click, leaving me alone with thoughts I've been avoiding for weeks.
I've spent my entire adult life ensuring I never became my father—a man whose life was destroyed by attachment, who lost himself so completely to an omega that when she left, there was nothing of him left. I swore I would never be that vulnerable, that emotionally dependent on anyone.
And yet.
And yet I find myself standing, gathering my keys, slipping Rowan's scarf back into my pocket. I send a quick email to Tillie explaining that I have a family emergency, knowing she'll understand, knowing she's probably been expecting this all day.
Family. Is that what we are? What we could be? The thought should terrify me, but instead it fills me with a strange, fragile hope I scarcely recognize.
I make it halfway to my car before rationality reasserts itself. What am I doing? Running home in the middle of the workday because of Lala's meddling? Because of feelings I can't even name properly?
Rowan has Theo. She made her choice clear when she asked for him—just him—last night. She doesn't need me complicating things further with my presence, my confusion, my unwanted feelings.
And I have a job to do. Responsibilities. A life carefully constructed around order and control that I'm not prepared to abandon for... what? A woman I've known for a couple months? A possibility that might vanish as quickly as it appeared?
I force myself to turn around, to walk back toward Town Hall with steps that feel heavier with each moment. It's the rational choice. The responsible choice.
So why does something in my chest feel so wrong?