Chapter 8 Wren
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wren
The first thing I smell is hyacinth.
Then comes the soft thud of the door hitting the bell chime, followed by a familiar voice calling my name like a question and a smile all at once.
“Wren?”
I wipe my hands on a damp rag and come out from the back, still in my paint-streaked overalls and with a streak of charcoal primer on my cheek, I’m sure. The scent of dust and wood polish still clings to the air.
It’s been a long day of scraping and sanding, and I only just managed to convince myself to sit down for a break.
Then Norah walks in—sunlight in the form of a woman, as always—with a bouquet cradled in her arms.
“I brought flowers. And judgment, if you tell me you haven’t eaten lunch again.”
I laugh, already feeling some of the tension in my spine ease. “That’s an aggressive combination.”
“You’ve met me,” she says simply, then hands me the bouquet. “These are from my shop. Early dahlias, a few stubborn ranunculus that don’t know it’s almost fall. And the hyacinths from my front window box.”
I bring the blooms to my nose. Fresh. Lush. A little chaotic—like everything in this town that still manages to grow despite the hard winters.
“They’re beautiful.”
“You look like hell,” she adds, grinning.
“I feel like hell.”
Norah’s been my best friend since we were both twelve and she threw a rock at the back of a boy’s head for calling me a redheaded freak. She’s never really lost that righteous spark.
That’s what makes her so good at running the Welcome Center. She organizes Fox Hollow’s chaos with checklists and cookies.
“I figured you might be knee-deep in projects,” she says, glancing around the half-finished bakery. “Ryker said you’ve been pushing yourself.”
“Snitch,” I mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.
“He also said you’re making good progress. The windows look incredible, and the cabinets look fantastic.”
“Jude helped me get them in last night, and the cabinets are all Beau,” I say, too quickly. His name slips out before I can think better of it.
Norah clocks it immediately. “Oh? Beau?”
I busy myself fluffing the flowers in a mason jar I set on the counter. “It was nothing. Just—he passed by the day you and I hung out to bring me back my sweater, and then we had coffee. That’s all.”
Her silence is loud.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, what brings you by besides flowers and insults?”
“Two things. One—you’re officially being conscripted onto the Harvest Festival planning committee. Don’t argue. I already put your name down.”
I groan. “Norah—”
“It’s just one meeting a week. We need help with the vendors this year. And you’re a legacy—everyone remembers how your grandma used to make hot cider with cinnamon sticks the size of baseball bats. People still ask about it.”
“That cider was mostly whiskey,” I mutter.
“Exactly. You’ll be great.”
I press my lips together but nod once. “Fine. But I’m not doing the pie contest. Again.”
“Deal.”
She doesn’t mention the second thing right away. Instead, I let her drag me out of the café, and we take a slow walk through the square.
It’s late afternoon, the sun slanting low and golden across the rooflines. The shops all have little chalk signs outside, advertising pumpkins and apples. Even the tattoo shop has a carved gourd on the stoop.
Fox Hollow excels at navigating seasonal transitions. Always has.
We pass the used bookstore, then the knitting shop, and just as we’re rounding the corner near the old post office, the fire truck drives by, and I catch part of a conversation between two women perched on a bench with matching iced lattes and buzzed expressions.
“—I swear, they already act like a pack. Beau and Levi are always together, and Simon’s basically the dad of the group.”
“Ugh, Simon is grumpy-hot. But I heard they’ve been bonded for a while, they just haven’t filed officially,” the other one says. “And Beau is so fucking sexy. Did you know…”
My spine stiffens before I even realize why.
“Everything okay?” Norah asks, her gaze already narrowed toward the bench where the women are still gossiping like it’s their day job.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just… overheard something.”
“You’ve got that face.”
“What face?”
“The one you get when you’re fighting with yourself in your head and both sides are losing.”
I glance away. “It’s nothing. Just… Beau.”
That gets her full attention. “You and Beau?”
“No. Not like that.” I rub the heel of my hand against my chest, right over the place that won’t settle. “It was just a moment after the fire. He—he helped. I was out of it, but I remember his voice. His scent.”
Norah tilts her head. “And?”
“And I’ve been trying to forget it ever since.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. “You do know that according to every woman who’s ever had him, Beau is—how shall I put this? —an absolute menace in bed.”
My eyes snap to hers. “Seriously?”
“Oh yeah. Legend status. I’ve heard he’s like, a sensualist or something. Focused. Quiet. Makes you feel like you’re the only thing he’s thinking about.”
I scowl. “Please stop.”
“He apparently hooked up with the bakery triplets one summer—June, Riley, and Cora.”
I blink. “All three?”
“Not at once,” she says, amused. “Well, not that I’ve confirmed. But two out of three.”
Great. That’s all the confirmation I need to double down on avoiding Alphas. Especially that one.
Because I know myself, I know the way I’m wired—my brand of self-sabotage. One more moment with someone like Beau, and I won’t trust myself to say no.
And that’s precisely why I have to.
It doesn’t matter what the doctor said. Pre-heat or not, I am not the kind of woman who gets entangled with Alphas.
They’re controlling. Possessive. Addictive.
I don’t want to end up like my mother. I will not end up sidelined. Swallowed.
Norah and I keep walking until we reach the B&B bistro, where the smell of grilled meat and rosemary fries wafts out onto the street.
We slide into one of the booths, and she orders for both of us without asking—two medium-rare steaks, fries, and a basket of cornbread muffins with honey butter. It’s a comfort meal.
“You should come out tonight,” she says casually, spearing a fry. “It’s Friday. We could go to The Smokehouse for a drink. Or, if you’re feeling bold, dancing.”
“Dancing?” I wrinkle my nose. “Do you know how long it’s been since I went out dancing?”
“That’s why you should.”
I shake my head. “I’d fall asleep at the bar. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a week.”
She studies me for a beat. “You still getting those dreams?”
“Not as bad. But I think it’s my body. Trying to… recalibrate.”
“You think it’s heat?”
I sigh. “Simon seems to think so.” At her raised brow, I add, “Dr. Hale. He said I’m showing signs of pre-heat. Hormonal realignment post-trauma.”
“That tracks,” she says, thoughtful. “You’ve always been sensitive to scent triggers. Remember when you were so stressed by exams in sophomore year that you passed out?”
“I was fifteen.”
“You still passed out.”
I groan. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Look,” Norah says gently, nudging a muffin toward me, “I’m not saying you need to do anything about it. But maybe don’t run from it, either.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve always had a handle on your scent and being an Omega and all of that.”
She grins. “I’m lucky. I could take you to the apothecary if you need something to help…”
“I’m on meds. I’ll be fine.”
We eat in companionable silence for a while. The food’s good—real food, grounding. I feel a little less scattered afterward, though the thought of Beau still hovers somewhere just behind my ribcage.
He’s not what I want.
I remind myself of that the entire walk back to my place, even as my body hums with heat that has nothing to do with the late sun.
When I close the bakery door behind me, the flowers from Norah are still on the counter. And then I reach for the shelf, and my fingers close around the folded prescription from Simon for the stronger meds—like it’s a line in the sand I haven’t yet stepped over.
Maybe I should have taken him up on Invisira?
I know I’m close. Too close.
Invisira makes me so groggy and sleepy, but I’ll try just about anything before I consider an Alpha in my bed.
That late-autumn softness that makes everything feel like it’s underwater. The upstairs hallway smells like primer and clean pine. I take the stairs slowly, one hand grazing the rail Jude reinstalled two days ago.
His tools are still neatly stacked in a crate by the landing, and there’s a new box of cabinet handles waiting on the floor, labeled in Norah’s neat block lettering: brASS, NOT brONZE.
I smile despite myself.
I spent most of the afternoon scrubbing soot from the baseboards with vinegar and baking soda, then re-lining the drawers my grandma used to keep her tea bags in.
Everything smells like lemon now. A little sharp, a little clean. It helps.
I hang up my jacket by the door and pull off my cowboy boots. The heat kicks on with a low groan behind the walls.
This place isn’t meant to be lived in yet—Ryker says the insulation’s shot, and I’ll need storm windows before December—but it’s mine. Every creak and chip of paint has memory, even the ghosts. Especially the ghosts.
I move the hyacinths Norah brought to the little table in the kitchenette.
My body aches in the way that has nothing to do with labor and everything to do with something inside me fraying.
That low hum behind my ribs hasn’t gone away—not since I overheard those women talking about the Alphas. Not since Beau brought me that coffee and stood too close to me. Not since I saw the way Simon looked at me when I left the clinic.
Like I was made of something breakable.
Or edible.
I shake it off.
I go through my routine like muscle memory. Hair pulled loose from its knot. Face washed with the mint cleanser I’ve used since college. A fresh tank top, clean underwear, and cotton joggers.