Chapter 7
SEVEN
HOLLY
Caro’s Comfort Cove sits wedged between a hardware store and a vintage clothing boutique on Main Street. From the outside, it’s almost disappointingly normal—weathered wooden siding, windows frosted just enough to obscure the goods inside, and a hand-painted sign reading.
Nothing about its exterior screams SEX TOYS SOLD HERE!
Which I suppose is the point.
I’ve been sitting in my car for fifteen minutes with the engine off, trying to work up the nerve to go inside.
The digital clock on my dashboard flips to 7:45 PM, fifteen minutes until the store closes.
I’ve wasted enough time, but I really want to be one of the last customers of the day and hopefully the only one in the store.
Just go in. Get what you need. Get out.
My inner pep talk falls flat as I push open my car door and step into the crisp mountain air. Each step toward the store entrance feels like wading through molasses. Heats are a normal and expected occurrence, and all sorts of people could have a valid reason for going to a heat supply store.
I reach for the door handle, hesitate, then steel myself with a deep breath. The door swings open, and a jaunty bell announces my arrival with an enthusiasm I definitely don’t share.
Ding-ding-Diiing!
I cringe at the sound of the electronic doorbell, freezing in the doorway as three sets of eyes swivel in my direction—two customers browsing shelves and a cashier arranging items behind the counter.
For one wild moment, I consider bolting back to my car.
Then they all turn back to what they were doing, and I can let out the breath I’m holding and actually take a good look around.
The store is not what I expected. Warm amber lighting casts a gentle glow over wooden shelves neatly stocked with colorfully packaged products.
The space smells pleasantly of cedar and lavender, with soft instrumental music playing from hidden speakers.
It’s less organized than a traditional sex store, but more tasteful than I expected.
And there are so many products.
Shelves upon shelves of items I’ve never seen before, let alone considered using.
Herbal supplements in jewel-toned bottles.
Scented oils in elegant glass containers.
Plush fabrics and soft blankets in various textures and weights.
Heat-specific nutrition bars and electrolyte drinks.
Comfort items shaped to...well, comfort in ways I don’t let myself think about.
It isn’t as if I’m a virgin. Two beta boyfriends in college.
A string of increasing disastrous heat-breaking sessions through a matchmaking agency because I needed a release valve over the last few years.
If the anonymous alphas involved even noticed that I was on suppressants and very much not in heat, they didn’t bother to comment on it.
But looking at the various toys on the wall makes me wonder if I even know what sex is.
My stomach churns with anxiety as I realize how utterly unprepared I am for this. I’ve spent my entire adult life suppressing my designation, medicating away my biology. I know more about rare tropical diseases than I do about managing a natural omega heat.
“Can I help you find something?”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the voice beside me. A middle-aged woman with silver-streaked auburn hair and a gentle smile stands there, her name tag identifying her as Caroline - Owner.
“I’m just browsing,” I say automatically, my rehearsed excuse ready on my tongue. “I have an endocrine disorder that mimics some designation symptoms, and my doctor recommended I try some natural supplements.”
The lie sounds unbelievable even to me, but Caroline’s smile just widens.
“Interesting. We don’t get many betas in here, especially in the off season,” she observes, her tone conversational rather than suspicious.
“Though that might be because we don’t have many betas to speak of, really.
Especially not any your age. Heat Mountain has a higher percentage of omegas than most places. ”
I force a casual smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “So I’ve heard.”
“Oh yes. Nearly forty percent of our population identifies as omega, compared to the national average of twelve percent.” She gestures around the store. “Makes good business sense to have a well-stocked shop like this.”
I scan the shelves again, this time noticing how much of the inventory is specifically designed to mimic knots, most in improbable or even impossible sizes. The realization brings a flush of heat to my cheeks.
“I’m looking for something that might work similarly to Omegablock,” I say, naming my prescription suppressant. “My doctor thinks a natural alternative might help with the side effects I’ve been experiencing.”
Caroline’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Omegablock is pretty strong stuff.” Her gaze sharpens with professional interest. “You’re not seeing one of those wacko science denying health practitioners are you?”
“No, I’m…uh,” I consider prevaricating, but this is a small town. If she hasn’t heard of me already, she probably will soon. “I’m actually a medical doctor myself.”
“Oh, that’s a relief. You have no idea how many hippie types we get around here who think they can replace their vaccines with wormwood infusions.
” She leads me toward another row of shelves lined with neat bottles of vitamins and supplements.
“I assume you already know there are no natural formulations that can take the place of a prescription medication.”
“Of course.”
“What kind of side effects are you having?”
“Headaches, mostly,” I reply, the lie coming easier now. “And some mood disturbances. Nothing serious, but enough that my doctor recommended that I explore alternatives.”
She nods thoughtfully. “We have several herbal blends that might help. They’re not as powerful as prescription suppressants, of course, but they can take the edge off symptoms.”
She walks toward one of the aisles, clearly expecting me to follow. I do, but with each step, I feel increasingly exposed. What if she asks more specific questions? What if she recognizes that I’m not just looking for supplements to manage rare symptoms, but to prevent a full-blown heat?
“Actually,” I interject, stopping in my tracks, “would you mind if I just looked around myself for a bit? I’d like to read the labels and get familiar with what’s available.”
Caroline pauses, turning back to me with a kind smile. “Of course, dear. Take your time. I’ll be at the counter if you have any questions.”
Relief washes over me as she walks away. I need space to think, to figure out what might actually help without revealing too much about my situation.
I move deeper into the store, scanning product labels with the focused attention I usually reserve for medical charts. Most of the herbal supplements contain combinations of black cohosh, dong quai, and chasteberry—ingredients I recognize and already know won’t be of much use to me.
As I examine a bottle of something called Heat Ease, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Someone is watching me.
I glance around casually, trying not to appear paranoid, but I can’t shake the sensation of being watched. The two other customers I noticed earlier are now engaged in conversation with Caroline at the counter, their attention nowhere near me.
Still, the feeling persists. Is it just my anxiety playing tricks on me, or has someone recognized me? In a town this small, word travels fast. What if someone saw me at the pharmacy asking for suppressants and has connected the dots?
Pulling out my prescription, I double-check the dosage and then pull out my phone to look up the active ingredient of the Heat Ease. It contains an herb that is actually chemically similar to my suppressant and is approved in the European Union as an herbal product to treat mild heat symptoms.
This might actually work if I take enough of it.
I wander deeper into the store, telling myself I’m only browsing out of professional curiosity. Heat biology falls within my medical expertise, after all. I’m just...expanding my knowledge base. For science.
But as I move past shelves of nesting fabrics toward a wall display of very familiar toys, my body betrays me. The familiar ache of arousal tightens low in my belly as I stare at the array of organ-shaped objects designed specifically for omega biology.
This is ridiculous. I’m a doctor. I should be able to look at anatomically correct silicone without blushing like a teenager.
I pick up a modestly sized toy, turning it over in my hands with what I hope appears to be clinical detachment. The toy is surprisingly spongy, almost skin-like in texture.
“That’s one of our bestsellers.”
I nearly drop the toy as Caroline materializes beside me again. How does everyone in this town move so quietly?
“For first-timers,” she continues, either not noticing or politely ignoring my flaming cheeks. “It’s a good place to start for betas who are interested in exploring designation play.”
My mouth goes dry. “Designation play?”
“Oh sure. We get quite a few betas who are curious about what it feels like for an omega. Role-playing can be very liberating.” She smiles knowingly.
“The knot simulator on this model is modest but functional. Very popular with couples where one partner wants to experience what it might be like with an alpha.”
I stare at the toy in my hands, mortified yet unable to put it down. The rational part of my brain knows I should correct her assumption, explain that I don’t need this, that I’m only here for supplements.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Sure, I’ll take it.”
Caroline’s smile widens. “Excellent choice. Anything else catch your eye?”
“Nope, nothing. I really should be getting home, it’s late.” I mumble, desperate to end this conversation.
“Perfect. I’ll ring you up.”
I follow her to the counter, the toy and bottle of supplements clutched in white-knuckled hands. As she begins scanning items, I set everything down to dig through my bag for my wallet.
My fingers brush past my stethoscope, a granola bar wrapper, my phone, but no wallet. Digging deeper, I push aside the bundled sweater I always keep at the bottom of my bag and feel a cold wave of panic wash over me when I realize my wallet is in the outside pocket, but I’m missing something else.
“I can’t find my prescription,” I blurt out, frantically searching my bag.
Caroline glances up. “Prescription?”
“Yes, I had it out while I was looking at the supplements. It’s just a piece of paper with my doctor’s letterhead. I need it to get my medication when the pharmacy restocks.”
My heart pounds as I empty the contents of my bag onto the counter. Keys, phone, protein bars, chapstick—but no prescription. And that damn paper might not have my designation written on it, but that doesn’t mean I want any random person in town scrutinizing it too closely.
Without that paper, I can’t get my suppressants. My doctor back home had already hesitated about faxing a new prescription so early, I really don’t want to ask for another one only a day later. Without suppressants, I’ll go into heat. In a town full of alphas.
While working with Dr. Noah Klinkhart who I can’t seem to get out of my head even though I also want to bury him in a snowdrift.
“I must have dropped it somewhere in the store,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady as panic threatens to overwhelm me. “Did anyone turn in a piece of paper? Maybe while I was browsing?”
Caroline shakes her head. “No, honey, nothing’s been turned into me. Let me help you look.”
We search the aisles, checking under shelves and between products. Nothing. I retrace my steps to the entrance, scanning the floor. My prescription is nowhere to be found.
“Could it have fallen out in your car?” Caroline suggests.
“No, I know I had it here just a few minutes ago. It has to be here.”
But it isn’t. That single sheet of paper might as well have disappeared into thin air.
“If it turns up, I’ll make sure it gets back to you,” Caroline assures me, patting my shoulder in a comforting gesture.
I let her bag up my items and take the credit card from my shaking hand as my level of unease grows. Losing the prescription isn’t that big of a deal. My doctor will probably fax another one if I beg hard enough.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to fall off of a cliff.