Chapter 5
CLAIRE
“He lives next door to you, and you waited weeks to tell me?”
Nina is sitting across from me at our usual corner table, hazelnut latte in front of me, her coffee untouched, her blue eyes so wide I can see white all the way around.
A strand of blonde hair has escaped from behind her ear, and she hasn’t noticed.
Her apron says The Flour House in curling script, her name tag says Nina, and her face says I’m about to cause a scene in my own establishment.
“I’ve been busy,” I explain.
“Busy doing what? Watching him through your window?”
“Obviously.”
“And?”
“It’s hot! I’ve seen this man covered in chocolate and then lick it, and I think I’m obsessed.”
She grabs my arm across the table. “Go on.”
“He has muscles I didn’t know existed, and they move so much when he’s cooking shirtless.”
Nina’s grinning so hard it must hurt. “This is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to anyone I know.”
“And did you see that he made one of my recipes on camera?”
She’s already reaching for her phone, nearly knocking over her coffee, swiping through screens. I sit back, sip my latte, and wait.
She finds it, and her lips part, eyebrows climbing as she drags in a slow breath through her nose. Then she presses her hand flat to her chest and mouths, Holy fuck. She lifts her head. “Claire.”
“Yep.”
“The way he slapped the dough, he was imagining it was your ass, you know that?”
I nod, fire rushing up my neck.
“And that message at the end? Incredibly talented and delicious?” She sets the phone down and leans across the table. “That’s not just a recipe video. It’s a mating call.”
I burst out laughing. “No, you’re reading too much into it, and—”
“If you finish that sentence, I will throw this coffee at you.”
I press my lips together. She’s not wrong and we both know it.
“Okay,” she says, shifting into a gear I recognize and fear.
“He made a video of your recipe. Then you say he’s leaving cookies at your door, and made a second video for you while making those cookies.
Plus, he called you delicious in both videos in front of millions.
And he lives close enough that you can watch him cook from your living room.
This is not a coincidence. This is the universe screaming at you. ”
“When it does that, it’s usually bad news.”
“Not this time.” She taps the table with one finger. “Are you going to Betty’s wedding?”
The shift catches me off guard. “What?”
“This Saturday. Anita, my new friend in town that I was telling you about, who hooked up with the Wilde Charters guys. Well, she hasn’t stopped talking about it. One of her Alphas is friends with the groom, so they’re going.”
I shake my head. “Oh, you didn’t tell me that part.”
Her whole face softens into the grin she reserves for truly exceptional gossip. “Her scent mates. All four. It’s a story I need to tell you when we have more time, but basically, she arrived in town dressed as a man so she could get a job in their business to spy on them or something.”
“Wow!”
“Deepened her voice, bound herself, applied as a male Beta.”
“How did she go from faking being a guy to being with all four of them? I have so many questions.”
“Next girls’ catch-up. I’ll get her to tell the whole story. Your place?”
“Soon, I promise.”
“Good. Because I need to see this neighbor situation in person.” She straightens. “Now. The wedding.”
“What about it?”
“Invite him.”
“No.”
“Invite Brody to the wedding as your date.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Listen.” She bats her hand between us. “First, you are responding to his obvious, undeniable, dough-slapping invitation, because you can’t let this Alpha slip away.
Second, you turn up with that man on your arm and Louis will die.
He’ll see you walk in with that hunk, and he will crumble into dust. And then when Louis comes crawling back, you send him right back to the ditch he slithered out of. With a smile.”
“Nina, I barely know the guy. And you know how hard it is for me to put myself out there. I can’t walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, wanna be my fake date at a wedding where my ex will be staring at me?’ ”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll die. They’ll find my glasses and nothing else.”
“Okay.” Nina tucks the loose hair behind her ear, sits up straight, and clears her throat. “Let me show you how this goes.”
“Hey, Brody.” She drops her voice, soft and breathy, adding shy eyes, clasped hands, and the posture of a tragic Victorian orphan about to ask for soup. “So I was wondering, and you can totally say no, but would you maybe—”
“I don’t sound that pathetic.”
She holds up a finger, switches roles, lowers her chin, squares her shoulders. “Claire. I thought you’d never ask.” Her voice goes deep and growly.
I’m laughing at her antics.
“Oh! Really? Because it’s a wedding. With my ex. And my entire family. And there might be a chicken dance.” She’s already switched back. Soft voice, wide eyes, hands pressed to her chest.
She switches again, leaning back with one arm draped over the invisible back of the chair like she owns the café, the town, and possibly my ovaries. “Sweetheart, I’d fight your ex and do the chicken dance. At the same time.”
I can’t stop giggling.
Lip bite. Then she slides one hand to her shoulder, pushes an imaginary sleeve off the edge with agonizing slowness, tilts her chin down, and blinks up through her lashes like she’s trying to seduce a fireplace.
“What was that?” I choke.
“That’s you being seductive.”
I completely lose it.
“Start practicing. Commit to the shoulder. Now here’s where it gets good.” She shakes herself, and her intensity is dialed up so high that the elderly man near the window lowers his newspaper to watch. “Claire, I think about you every time I knead dough. I named my sourdough starter after you.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, smiling too much.
“And then you say…” She goes breathy again, fans herself with both hands, and pretends to faint sideways off the chair with enough drama to qualify for community theater funding. “Oh, Brody, take me now on this pile of flour—”
“Nina!” I’m laughing so hard my ribs ache, my hand clamped over my mouth, tears blurring my vision. The couple at the next table has stopped eating. Miranda is frozen behind the counter, holding a portafilter.
Nina is doubled over, one hand gripping the table. “I’m telling you, this is exactly how it’ll go. He’ll have his shirt off before you finish the sentence, and you’ll be engaged to a loaf of bread by sunset.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m a visionary.”
The door chimes. Three customers walk in, scanning the menu board, and Nina stands, smoothing her apron with the composure of a woman who was not just performing a one-woman seduction play in the middle of a café.
“I have to go rescue Miranda before she puts oat milk in a flat white again.” She turns back, pointing at me. “Do it, Claire. Ask him. And I need to know everything. Every detail.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t. Thinking is how you talk yourself out of everything good.
” She’s already moving toward the counter.
“Just do it before some other Omega beats you to it and ends up with free pastries.” She vanishes behind the machine with a wink, and I sit with the last of my latte, staring at the foam, turning the idea over.
It makes sense but is also terrifying, nauseating, and stomach-flipping, and that’s exactly why every cell in my body is screaming to do it and not do it in equal measure.
I finish my coffee, wave to Nina, and step outside.
The walk home usually takes forty minutes along the coast road, and I need every minute of it. The cliffs drop away to my left, the ocean glinting in the sun, and by the time I’m halfway home, the fresh air has loosened the knot in my chest enough to think straight.
My phone rings. It’s Katie. “Hey! Quick check-in. I’ve got a Zoom in fifteen.” Her voice is bright, rapid, and already halfway through three other tasks. “Everything good? Book going okay? Wedding sorted?”
“Book’s moving. Wedding’s Saturday. Not looking forward to it at all. Tomorrow I’m getting my hair done, day after, I’m picking up the dress, and then I plan to attend, smile twice, eat cake, and escape before anyone tries to talk about my future.”
“You need a date.”
“Not you too.”
“Who else said it?” she asks.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Which means it was someone important.”
“Regardless, I think I’ll attend alone.”
“Claire, it would be so much easier if you—”
A jackhammer erupts from the roadwork beside me, loud enough to rattle my bones. Across the street, three men in hi-vis vests are tearing into the pavement, and Katie’s voice dissolves into cheerful, dangerous fragments.
“—really think you should let me—”
“What? I can’t hear you. There’s roadwork.”
“—just take care of the whole—”
“Katie, it’s so loud.” I press a finger to my other ear and raise my voice like that helps. “But honestly, I don’t need anything for the wedding. I’m fine.”
“—sure? Because I can easily—”
“I’m going alone! Seriously!”
The jackhammer starts again, aggressive and perfectly timed, because apparently even municipal construction has joined the campaign to ruin my life.
“—okay, well— Handle it, then—”
“Yeah, I will,” I say, though not sure what exactly she was asking.
“—gotta go, got a meeting. Love you!” The line goes dead.
The jackhammer stops, and a seagull screams into the silence with deeply irritating timing.
I pocket the phone, pick up the pace, and try to stop hearing Nina’s fake-Brody voice saying, Sweetheart, I’d fight your ex and do the chicken dance at the same time.
The rest of the afternoon disappears into writing.
The focaccia chapter takes shape, Nana’s story about burning three loaves in a row the summer Grandpa painted the fence shirtless, and I’m choosing not to examine why that particular memory speaks to me right now.
By evening, I’ve eaten leftover pasta, washed up, changed into sleep shorts and a tank top, and settled on the couch when I hear a sound outside the front door.
A soft thud. Then scratching.