Chapter 28
twenty-eight
JULIA
The sun had dipped low enough to paint everything in amber when Sunny finally gave up the fight.
One minute she was tugging at River’s hand, demanding to see the goats “one more time,” and the next she was a boneless puddle of blonde curls slumped against his chest with her thumb in her mouth and a smear of blue cotton candy on her cheek.
River adjusted her weight like he’d done it a thousand times, one arm hooked securely under her bottom, carrying her with ease. He didn’t break his conversation with Ransom, just shifted her and kept going. It was the most natural thing in the world.
Her cheek was pressed into the hollow of his shoulder and the two of them looked so adorable together, I lifted my phone and snapped a picture.
That one’s a keeper. And I wasn’t just talking about the picture…
Beside me, Wyatt was putting on a brave front, but I could see the fatigue pulling at the corners of his eyes.
He’d been running with his friends for three hours straight, had consumed enough sugar to power a small city, and was currently holding a stuffed snake toy that was almost as big as he was.
The kid was running on fumes and stubborn will.
“I’m not tired,” he announced to nobody in particular, swaying slightly on his feet.
“Course not,” Stetson agreed, his mouth twitching.
The fair was shifting around us. Families were thinning out, replaced by clusters of teenagers and couples drifting toward the midway as the string lights overhead blinked to life.
The air had cooled, carrying the smell of grilled corn and campfire smoke from somewhere past the barns.
Music from a live band was starting up near the beer tent, a slow country song that drifted across the grounds.
Gideon appeared from the direction of the parking area, truck keys spinning on his finger. He took one look at Sunny passed out on River’s shoulder, then at Wyatt fighting gravity, and his gaze slid to Stetson.
The two of them exchanged one of those wordless conversations I was starting to understand. A slight lift of Gideon’s chin. A barely perceptible nod from Stetson. The two of them seemed to agree on an entire plan without uttering a word.
Ransom, catching the exchange, wandered over, finishing off the last of a funnel cake he’d somehow acquired when no one was looking. The man had the biggest sweet tooth of anyone I’d ever seen. He wiped powdered sugar on his jeans and crouched down in front of Wyatt.
“Alright, little man. I’ve got a proposition for you.” He held up a finger. “Ice cream on the way home. The good kind, from the Crazy Cow booth, not the freezer-burned stuff Boone keeps in the back of the chest freezer.”
“I heard that,” August called from somewhere behind us.
Wyatt considered the offer with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice weighing a landmark case. “What flavor?”
Ransom gave him a crooked grin and a shrug. “Dealer’s choice.”
“Deal.” Wyatt gave me a hug, followed by Ransom and Gideon, and then followed them toward the ice cream booth that was strategically located near the parking lot without giving the rest of us a backward glance.
August materialized next, collecting the remaining carnival prizes and shoving as much of the loot into his canvas totes as possible, his big arm cradling the rest. He paused beside me long enough to press a kiss to the top of my head and murmured, “Have fun tonight,” before heading after the others.
Colt passed behind me without stopping, but his hand found the small of my back for two seconds as he moved.
His thumb grazed along my spine, there and gone, and then he was walking toward the parking lot with his hat pulled low and his hands in his pockets.
He didn’t look back, but he didn’t need to.
I felt that touch all the way down to my boots.
River was last. He stopped in front of Stetson with Sunny still dead asleep on his shoulder, her little fist curled into the collar of his shirt.
“We’ve got them for the night,” River said quietly. “Take your time. No rush.”
Stetson’s throat worked. “Thanks, brother.”
River turned to me with that steady gaze, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “Don’t let him be boring, Jules.”
Stetson arched a brow at his packmate while I laughed. Then he was gone, carrying my sleeping girl toward the truck with the kind of easy tenderness that made my ovaries ache.
And just like that, the noise faded. The pack was gone, taking the kids and the chaos with them, and I was standing in the middle of the county fair with Stetson Tate and the whole evening stretching out ahead of us.
He looked down at me. Without the kids flanking him and the guys orbiting nearby, his posture changed.
His shoulders dropped a fraction. The set of his jaw loosened.
He looked younger, suddenly. More like the man in the old photos I’d seen in the house, before the weight of the world had settled permanently on his shoulders.
“So,” he mused, settling his hat lower on his brow. “I’ve got you all to myself.”
“Looks that way.” I tilted my head. “What are you going to do with me, cowboy?”
His green eyes darkened, and the slow smile that spread across his face made my pulse kick into a gallop.
“Whatever you’ll let me.”
His wicked words were a stark contrast to the way he offered me his arm like a gentleman. I took it, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow as we turned back toward the midway.
The fair had transformed while we weren’t looking, the string lights glowing golden against the growing dark giving everything a romantic vibe. The sound of the fiddle and steel guitar drifted over the dwindling crowd as we walked.
“Drink first?” Stetson tilted his head toward the tent.
“God, yes,” I laughed.
He returned two minutes later with a whiskey for himself and a peach something-or-other for me that came in a mason jar with a sprig of mint and tasted like summer in a glass.
We walked with no particular destination, sipping our drinks, drifting past the booths on the far side of the fairgrounds we hadn’t made it to with the kids since there was only so much shopping they would’ve endured.
The artisan section was quieter over here. Less carnival games and funnel cake, more handmade leather goods, local honey, paintings, and woodworking. I stopped in front of a table loaded with handcrafted soaps and lotions, my fingers tracing the edge of a beautifully packaged lavender salve.
My mind drifted, the way it always did when I saw products like these. I picked up a jar of whipped body butter, turned it over to read the ingredient list, and thought about my own lotions and the new formula I was working on.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said, turning the jar over in my hands.
“Once the exemption and the patent go through, I don’t just want to use the formula for myself and Addy.
I want it available to every Omega who needs it.
The lotions, the pills, the lozenge—all of it.
I want to make products that are affordable and accessible, nothing like the half-assed stuff the OMA offers us. ”
Stetson leaned his shoulder against the booth’s support post, his whiskey resting easy in his hand, giving me his full attention.
“I’ve been debating setting up an online store first. Maybe test the market, build a brand.
” I set the jar down and looked out at the row of bustling vendor tents, the dream I’d been sitting on for years finally finding its voice.
“Then maybe craft fairs like this. Weekend markets. I could see myself doing this every Saturday, you know? Having a booth, talking to people about the product, building a real business.” I chewed my bottom lip.
“I thought about an actual storefront. Just a small place in town. But Omegas can’t—”
I stopped myself, my teeth sinking deeper into my lower lip as reality crashed into my daydream.
Omegas couldn’t hold commercial leases without an Alpha guarantor.
And even then, there were all these rules about Omegas, even bonded ones, not being allowed to run a store by themselves.
Some bullshit about safety and security, which made sense, but it still pissed me off.
Stetson’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, crowding into my space until his chest brushed my shoulder, blocking out the rest of the fairgoers.
“You can,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a grand, sweeping promise. It was a Stetson promise, simple yet absolute. “Whatever you want to build, Jules, we’ll figure it out.”
I stared up into his green eyes, my pulse kicking into a wild rhythm. I believed him.
I turned back to the vendor tables, overwhelmed by his unwavering support.
It wasn’t at all what I’d expected from a pack of Alphas.
I’d always thought they’d force me into a life I didn’t want.
But here I was, surrounded by men who wanted to support me and make me happy, something the OMA had taught us Omegas was our job to do for our packs.
The difference between what had been drilled into me and the actual reality of pack life was a lot to wrap my head around, even though it warmed my heart.
Going from the OMA to this kind of normal life almost felt like whiplash.
We kept walking, finishing our drinks as the last traces of daylight bled out of the sky and the band switched to a slower song.
Stetson tossed our empty cups into a trash barrel and fell back into step beside me. His hand found the small of my back again, his palm warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, and I leaned into him without thinking about it.
“You know…” I tipped my head against his shoulder as we walked. “This is the first time we’ve been alone outside of the house.”
“Mhm,” he rumbled.
“Like, actually alone. There are no kids or packmates pretending they’re not watching from the kitchen window. No ranch emergency pulling you away.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m aware.”