Chapter 28 Wren
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wren
The festival is alive before I even get to the square. The air is heavy with scents—pies cooling on long tables, roasted corn, candied apples, and beneath it all the unmistakable tang of Alpha pheromones carried on the autumn breeze.
It presses against me from every side, and I feel lightheaded the second I step closer to the crowd. I grip the edge of the booth, my stomach twisting.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I whisper.
Norah squeezes my hand, her fingers warm and certain against mine. “No. You are not. You’re not throwing up again in front of this many people, Wren Aldridge. Do you hear me?”
Her tone is bossy in that way only she can get away with. I breathe in, shaky, forcing myself to nod. “Okay. Fine. But I swear, Norah, it feels like everything is spinning.”
“That’s nerves. And excitement. And maybe a little too much sugar because you’ve been taste-testing crusts for three days,” she says with a smirk. “But you’re fine.”
I press a hand to my stomach, willing myself to believe her.
Levi left earlier to pick up his family, and the absence of his grounding presence makes me want to crawl right out of my skin. My best friend studies me, eyes narrowing like she can read every thought flashing across my face.
“What?” I ask, defensive.
“You’re buzzing like a live wire. So? What’s going on?”
I bite my lip, then give up the secret. “He told me that he loved me, and I said it back.”
Her eyes widen, and for once, Norah’s mouth goes silent. “Who? Simon? Beau? Levi?”
“Levi!”
She blinks at me, then lets out a slow whistle. “Wow. That’s… big.”
“I know.” My throat tightens just repeating it. “It just came out. I didn’t plan it, I didn’t even think about it. He said it first, and then—I couldn’t not.”
She softens, her whole face shifting into something gentle and protective. “And how do you feel?”
“Like I meant it.”
That earns me a hug so tight I almost lose my balance. Norah kisses my cheek, whispering, “We’ll dissect every detail after this festival is over, I promise. For now, you’ve got pie competitions to win.”
When we pull back, I see movement beyond her shoulder, and my heart stutters. “The guys are here.”
I turn, and sure enough, Simon and Beau are striding toward the booth. Simon looks impossibly put together in dark jeans and a crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, his glasses catching the sunlight.
Beau, on the other hand, is all casual fireman charm in worn denim and a navy Henley that clings to his shoulders. The sight of them together does something low and dangerous inside me.
My body lights up like a struck match. My cheeks flush, my pulse kicks, and I swear my knees weaken just watching them cross the square.
Simon leans in first, brushing a soft kiss against my cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” I murmur, my voice thinner than I want it to be.
Beau’s arms are around me before I can blink, warm and strong, pulling me into his chest. “You smell like sugar and nerves. You sure you’re okay?”
I nod again, a little more firmly this time. Their presence is a balm, anchoring me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
Norah claps her hands like she’s corralling children. “All right, gentlemen. The pie contest kicks off in about twenty minutes, and our girl here needs a distraction. Keep her from spiraling, please.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t need a distraction. I want to help you with the booth.”
Norah arches an eyebrow. “I sell flowers, Wren. I can handle a little sales table.”
“We should have brought the flowers here too,” I argue. “People would have loved them.”
“Maybe later this afternoon,” she says breezily. “Right now, everyone’s all about the pies. You? Focus on winning.”
Before I can answer, Beau jerks his chin toward a booth draped in dried herbs and bundles of lavender. “There’s a scent-matching tent. Miss Thea’s running it.”
Simon’s mouth tightens instantly, his eyes narrowing like he’s facing down a con. “Of course she is. Witchcraft parading as science.”
Norah snickers. “It sounds fun. Come on, let’s go.”
I laugh despite myself, letting them herd me away from my booth. Miss Thea greets us like she’s been expecting it, her wide hat casting her face in shadow, the smell of sage and honey curling in the air.
She makes us sniff oils and dried petals. Beau plays along, teasing me that apparently my scent leans toward cinnamon and autumn leaves. Simon mutters something about placebo effects but doesn’t walk away.
It works, though. For a few minutes, I forget about the contest and the eyes of the town, and it’s just us—joking, laughing, Norah rolling her eyes.
Then the loudspeaker crackles overhead, and a voice announces: “All contestants for the pie competition, please head to the main tent to prepare.”
The noise of the crowd rises in response, and my stomach flips again. I glance at the men, wide-eyed, nerves rushing back like a tidal wave.
Simon reaches out first, his hand warm as it covers mine on the edge of the booth. “You’ve got this,” he says, voice low and certain.
Beau mirrors him on my other side, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. “You’re going to crush this, baby.”
Norah beams, already tugging her apron tighter. “Go show them what you can do.”
I force my legs to move, weaving through the crowd toward the large striped tent at the far end of the square. The canvas walls ripple in the breeze, the faint smell of cinnamon and butter wafting out even before I step inside.
My hands are damp, my chest tight.
The inside of the tent is bigger than I expected—long rows of stainless-steel stations already set up, bowls and rolling pins gleaming under the lights strung above. Each station has a number pinned to it, and mine is right in the middle.
The placement makes my stomach knot. Everyone will see me.
I glance around at the other contestants, trying to take them in before I lose myself in nerves. To my left is June, her blond hair tied back in a sleek ponytail, already arranging her ingredients like she’s running a professional kitchen.
On the far side, Cora is laughing with her sister while unpacking what looks like half her bakery into neat glass jars.
There’s Hank Mills, the butcher’s son, his apron already streaked with flour though we haven’t even started, and beside him is Ruth Evans, a sweet-faced older Omega with a silver bun and hands that look like they’ve kneaded dough for decades.
Two more—Daniela, who owns the food truck that always parks near the harbor, and Grant, a lanky Beta who seems more interested in flirting with the judges than baking.
The judges themselves are at a long table in front, clipboards ready, voices low as they confer. Riley is there, of course, and she catches my eye with a quick wink, reminding me of her promise to be fair.
“Contestants!” one of the organizers calls, clapping her hands to get our attention.
“Welcome to this year’s Harvest Festival pie competition.
You’ll have two hours to create your best pie from scratch.
The crust and filling must both be prepared here today.
No premade items are allowed. When the timer buzzes, pies will be presented to the judges for tasting. ”
Two hours. I mouth the number like it might help me swallow it down—two hours to make something that could change everything.
I turn my head, searching the crowd just beyond the roped-off area.
There. Beau, arms crossed, grinning like he knows exactly how frantic I feel inside.
Simon, standing beside him in that rolled-sleeve shirt, glasses flashing as he watches me like I’m his only patient.
And Norah, practically bouncing, mouthing the words, “You’ve got this. ”
And then—Levi. He’s off to the side, near the back row, his parents standing with him. His mother is beaming, his father clapping a hand on his shoulder as they talk.
Levi glances up at just the right moment and catches me staring. He lifts his hand, thumb pointing high, and my chest squeezes so tight I could cry.
I blow out a slow breath and tie the apron around my waist. The fabric feels too stiff, the knot at my back too tight, but I leave it. I need it.
I press my palms flat against the counter, feeling the cool stainless steel under my skin, and whisper under my breath, “This is for you, Grandma.”
The timer is set, the organizer raises her hand, and the buzzer sounds. We begin.
I grab the flour first, heart hammering. The bag feels heavier than it should, but my movements fall into a familiar rhythm—measure, sift, add butter. My hands know what to do even if my brain is screaming.
Around me, the other bakers are already moving like clockwork, rolling pins slamming against dough, the clatter of bowls filling the air. June is slicing apples in perfect, uniform wedges, and Cora is already working on some lattice design that makes my stomach dip.
I focus harder. This isn’t about them. This is about me, about the recipes I grew up with, the woman who taught me that flour under my nails meant love in someone’s belly.
My grandmother’s pies weren’t fancy, but they were unforgettable. That’s what I want to make here.
The butter is cut into the flour, and I rub it in with my fingertips, working quickly but carefully. The mixture turns crumbly, ready for water.
My breathing steadies slightly—this part, I can handle. Dough is familiar, forgiving if you treat it with care. I mix, press, and gather the ball into my hands, wrapping it before setting it aside to rest.
A glance up, and I catch Beau pretending to mime rolling dough, grinning like a fool. It almost makes me laugh. Simon is shaking his head at him, but his lips twitch with amusement. Levi meets my eyes again from across the way, his parents still talking, but his smile is only for me.
Warmth floods my chest, and my fingers stop shaking.
I roll out the crust, sprinkling flour across the counter, the rhythm of the rolling pin calming my nerves. I know this motion better than I know myself.
Back and forth, turn, back and forth again, until it’s even and smooth. I lift it carefully into the pie dish, pressing it against the edges, trimming the excess.
For filling, I reach for the apples—crisp, tart, the way Grandma liked. I slice them thin, tossing them with sugar, cinnamon, and just a hint of nutmeg. The smell rises instantly, enveloping me in memory, warmth, and home.
I close my eyes for half a second and see her hands guiding mine, teaching me not to be afraid of imperfection. “Pie is meant to be shared, not admired from afar,” she used to say.
By the time I lay the top crust over the apples, my nerves are shifting into something else. Focus. Purpose. I crimp the edges with practiced fingers, cut small slits for steam, and brush the top with egg wash. The crust gleams under the lights.
Around me, the tent is alive with chaos. June’s pie is already in the oven, her movements sharp and efficient. Cora is fussing with elaborate cutouts for her topping.
Hank swears under his breath as something burns, and Ruth hums softly, her hands moving with decades of grace.
Daniela’s station smells of peaches, sweet and firm, and Grant is still talking more than baking, his pie dish suspiciously empty.
I slide mine into the oven, exhaling a long breath.
When I glance up again, the three men are still there, exactly where I left them. Watching and believing in me.