Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Eli
The snow clings to the edges of the garden bed. I crouch down on the dark, wet earth, my knees soaking through the fabric of my jeans, and gently brush a layer of slush off the row cover protecting the kale.
The air is crisp, biting at my nose, but the scent of the damp soil is grounding—a real, earthy smell that reminds me of my grandmother’s backyard in San Francisco.
I check the leaves beneath the fabric. They look a little shocked by the sudden freeze, their edges curling inward, but the vibrant green is still there.
Hardy. Resilient. Much like the rest of us in Fox Hollow.
Straightening up, I wipe my cold hands on my thighs and survey the rest of the small patch. The Brussels sprouts seem fine, and the herbs in the boxes near the back door have survived the night under the overhang.
It’s a quiet victory, but it matters. This garden is my sanctuary, the place where I go when I need to decompress.
The back door swings open, letting a wave of warmth and the smell of coffee spill out into the yard.
Knox steps onto the porch, his breath puffing in the chill air. He’s dressed in running gear, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the temperature.
“Everything survive?” he asks, stretching his quads, his movements precise and efficient.
“Looks like it,” I reply, turning to face him. “The kale took a bit of a hit, but it should recover. How was the run?”
“Cold. Wet. The trails are slush.” Knox walks over to the outdoor tap and turns it on, splashing water on his face to cool down. He wipes it off with the hem of his shirt, revealing a slice of toned stomach. “Fallon still asleep?”
“Last I checked. He had company.” I nod toward the closed curtains of the downstairs bedroom.
Knox lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “Of course he did. The man is a fucking horn dog. We have a full service today, and he decides to play host jusqu’à toutes les heures.”
“He’s entitled to a life, Knox. It’s not like he’s late yet.”
“It’s late for us,” Knox counters, but his tone lacks real heat. He checks his watch, a sleek, minimalist thing that probably costs more than my car. “Today was his day to open. If he’s not up in twenty minutes, the prep won’t be done.”
We walk back inside together, the heavy door sealing out the winter air. The space we share is enormous—a former warehouse that we converted years ago into our shared living quarters.
It’s a sprawling, open-concept dream, with high ceilings, exposed brick, and gleaming stainless steel that separates the domestic area from the professional kitchen.
It feels good to be in here. This building is ours. We just made the final payment on the mortgage last month, a milestone we celebrated with a bottle of expensive scotch and a rare moment of silence between the three of us.
Every inch of this place, from the reclaimed oak tables to the custom ventilation hood, holds a memory of our struggle and our success.
“I made coffee,” I tell him, heading toward the large kitchen island. “It’s fresh.”
Knox grabs a mug from the cabinet, pouring himself a cup black. He takes a sip, his eyes closing briefly as the caffeine hits his system. “Merci. I need it.”
“I can handle opening,” I offer, leaning against the counter. “I need to go to the market anyway. With the snow coming down, I’m betting the delivery truck will be delayed. I want to pick up fresh berries before they’re gone.”
Knox considers this, his mind already ticking through the logistics of the day. “If you go to the market, I’ll open. I can start the stocks and get the mise en place organized for the lunch rush. That leaves Fallon to handle the close and the deep clean.”
“He’s going to hate the close shift again,” I warn.
“He should have thought about that before he brought a stranger home on a Tuesday,” Knox mutters, though a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “It’s only fair.”
Just then, the door to Fallon’s room creaks open. He shuffles out, looking like a disaster. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, his chest bare. The morning light catches the ink on his skin.
On his left, the ocean comes alive in blues and grays—the lighthouse standing guard on his shoulder, the waves crashing down his arm, the compass pointing true on his forearm.
On his right, the land and his family claim him—herbs, the oak branch of strength, and the five interlocking rings that bind him to his siblings.
And over his heart, the driftwood tree grows, that small, empty space in the center waiting for a mate who hasn’t come along yet.
Behind him, a woman I’ve never seen before steps out. She’s wearing one of his T-shirts, looking around with wide, curious eyes.
“Morning,” Fallon grunts, his voice rough with sleep. He scratches his stomach, yawning widely. “Coffee?”
“In the pot,” I say.
Fallon walks over to the fridge, bypassing the coffee for a moment to grab a blue Gatorade. He hands it to the woman with a sweetness that belies his intimidating appearance. “Here. Hydrate. You had a long night.”
She takes it, smiling shyly. “Thanks, Fallon. I’m Jean,” she tells us, looking between Knox and me. “
“Nice to meet you,” I say politely.
“Jean here was driving through town on her way to Seattle, but the snow made her stop at the motel down the road,” Fallon provides.
Knox just gives a curt nod, his gaze already drifting back to the prep list on the counter.
“I have to get going,” Jean says, checking her phone. “I need to be on the road by noon if I want to beat the next storm front.”
She kisses Fallon on the cheek, a quick, chaste gesture promises nothing more than a fond memory. “Keep in touch, okay?”
“You have my number,” Fallon replies, walking her to the door. He leans against the frame as she heads out to her car, watching until she drives away. Then he locks the door and turns back to us, a satisfied grin on his face.
“What?” he asks, catching Knox staring at him.
“I don’t understand it,” Knox says, setting his mug down with a definitive clink. “Pourquoi? It’s always someone different. Always passing through. It seems… exhausting.”
Fallon laughs, a bright, booming sound that fills the high ceilings. He walks over to the coffee maker, pouring himself a cup.
“Knox, you have your running, your chess games, your obsession with making everything perfect. Eli has his garden and his pastries. We all have our outlets. Sex is mine. It’s fun. It feels good. And unlike your running, it doesn’t make my knees hurt.”
“That’s gross.” I laugh.
“It’s natural!” Fallon defends himself, taking a long sip. “We’re Alphas. We have needs. I just prefer to meet those needs with enthusiastic consent and no strings attached. It keeps things simple.”
“Simple is not a word I would use to describe your love life,” Knox retorts. He pushes off the counter, rolling his shoulders. “De toute facon, since Eli is going to the market, I’ll take the opening shift. That puts you on the close again, Fallon.”
Fallon groans, tipping his head back. “Again? Come on, man! I closed last weekend. I’m tired of scrubbing the grease traps at midnight.”
“Then maybe don’t stay up until three a.m. entertaining tourists,” Knox says, his voice dry. “Besides, you somehow manage to find these women despite the workload. If you have that much energy, you can scrub the floor.”
Knox starts walking toward the bathroom, stripping off his shirt as he goes. “Eli, make sure le batard washes his hands before he touches any food. I don’t want whatever he caught in town contaminating my kitchen.”
“I washed them!” Fallon calls out to Knox’s retreating back.
“With soap!” Knox shouts back, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him.
Fallon looks at me, feigning a hurt expression. “He’s just bitter because he hasn’t gotten laid in six months. All that pent-up energy goes into yelling at me.”
“He’s not bitter,” I say, though I’m smiling. “He’s just… focused. You know that.”
“He needs to get focused on something other than work,” Fallon grumbles, finally taking a drink of his coffee. “So, market run? What are we thinking for the special today? Maybe those lamb chops we got last week?”
“I was thinking a rustic berry tart for the dessert special, using the ones I hope to find,” I reply, turning my attention to the mixer. “And maybe a savory galette for lunch if the greens look good.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Fallon finishes his coffee and sets the cup in the sink. He actually does go to the sink and washes his hands thoroughly, scrubbing them with the industrial soap we use in the restaurant.
“I’ll get the meats prepped,” he says. “If I’m on close, I might as well get the heavy lifting out of the way now.”
I watch him work for a moment, the easy way he moves through the kitchen, his tattoos shifting with his muscles. We are a strange trio—the prickly intellectual, the tattooed playboy, and the quiet baker.
But as the hum of the refrigerator fills the silence and the smell of coffee mingles with the scent of flour, I can’t imagine it any other way.
This is my pack, this is my home, and today, just like every day, we have a restaurant to run.