Chapter 1
Chapter One
CARYS
“So more amaranthus than this one,” I say, double checking what we’ve decided over the last hour of our meeting.
“With a couple splashes of purple calla lilies to add just a bit of color. You need three bridesmaid bouquets, your own with the waterfall edge along the front, and then for your centerpieces we’re doing short but full, and you’ll need about twenty of them. ”
The woman across the small table nods and tucks her highlighted brown hair behind her ear, a light flush darkening her cheeks.
“That sounds perfect,” she says, her voice still hesitant.
I jot down the notes and then tape in the examples she brought in, making sure everything stays together in her order file.
I notate the date of her wedding and then the date I’ll need to have the flowers ordered from the vendors to make sure everything gets delivered in time.
It’s a bit outdated to use paper files, but I learned my lesson when I was in the middle of the Colorado Rockies without internet access and had to do everything by memory.
While I work, I run through my practiced speech about deposits and delivery windows and timelines for any additional changes. The young woman nods through it all and then offers me her credit card without comment.
I try to ignore the fact that it’s a Centurion.
It’s not that I haven’t brushed elbows with the rich and famous.
My father being on the coaching staff of one of the professional hockey teams has made that impossible for most of my life.
Even my business model caters to and attracts the upper echelon of society.
But there’s rich, and then there’s black amex rich.
It’s clear that she’s not used to it, either.
“Do you have any other questions?”
It’s an automatic question I ask to break the awkward silence while I run her card for the deposit.
Well, it’s awkward for me, at least. The money part is always the worst. If I could arrange flowers for free, I probably would.
Except then I’d still be living with my dad and not in the modest little apartment down the street from my own floral shop, Blush & Bloom.
The discomfort over charging for my bouquets is worth it for the view I have of the city lights at night.
The young woman shakes her head, a shy smile curving her lips.
“Your work is beautiful. I’m so excited.”
I flush at the small bit of praise and give her card back.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “And congratulations!”
Her smile is much brighter this time, and her shoulders are relaxed as she leaves my tiny shop and steps toward the parking garage down the street.
I tuck her event file in the small organizer under the counter, making sure it’s in the right month for her wedding next spring.
Leaning a hip against the counter, I take a moment to breathe, taking in the space I’ve put together in the last three months since graduating from college.
The bright white walls and dark-stained woods let all the flowers take center stage without the room feeling sterile, each arrangement a splash of color that speaks to my soul.
It’s a small shop, but I’ve managed to make every single inch count.
My gaze catches on the vintage clock I keep on the old chest of drawers behind the counter, and I frown. How is it already almost noon? I glance toward the wall of windows that looks out on the busy Nashville street.
At least Timber isn’t here yet.
I push off the counter and scramble through my closing checklist, quickly wiping down the counters and table and locking the small bit of cash I keep on hand in the safe in the back.
I triple check that all of my coolers are set to the right temperature and that the arrangements for tomorrow’s delivery haven’t mysteriously fallen over.
My phone vibrates as I’m grabbing my purse and sliding into the light jacket I’d brought this morning.
Dad’s text sits in lone splendor.
You still coming by today? Marilyn said the new girl will be here.
Yes, Timber’s picking me up any minute.
Tell him to be careful.
By the time I get back to the front of the shop and flip the sign to closed, Timber’s bright green monstrosity of a truck is idling at the curb, cars irritatingly cutting around it while honking.
He isn’t bothered in the slightest, his hand slung over the wheel as he waits for me to get the small alarm set and the door to my shop locked.
“Hey, ‘Rys.” His calm voice doesn’t match his hurried movement as he rushes out to open my door, ignoring the very dramatic eye roll I give him.
Timber has been around me for most of my life at this point, the longest continuous player on my dad’s hockey team, the Scented Scorpions. Despite the twenty years between us, he’s like the bigger brother I never actually had.
“You really don’t need to do that,” I say.
I don’t bother trying to throw any bigger of a fuss, though.
He’s always adamant that he opens doors for me.
He’ll just dig in his heels if I try to insist, and there are not many people more stubborn than Timber when he decides to make a stand about something.
He just shrugs, waiting until I’m settled before he closes the door and slides back into the driver seat. He drops the car into gear and swerves toward the highway before I’ve managed to get my seatbelt buckled.
“And my dad texted me just now to warn you to be careful,” I say in a fake dry tone.
Timber scrunches his nose as he looks over at me even as he merges with the traffic trying to get onto the highway. “Ares knows I would never risk your safety. He’s just trying to be a mother hen.”
I snort. “Dare you to tell him that to his face.”
“I’m not stupid.”
I can’t help but grin as I run my fingers through my hair, breathing deeply to shake off the nerves I always get when going to the practice arena. The smell hits me like a ton of bricks. I can’t help but frown and look over at Timber. He taps the steering wheel and then grunts.
“You just going to stare at me the rest of the drive?” he asks, more gruff than before.
“No…” I say, trying to decide if I should even ask. I don’t really want to know if Timber was hooking up with someone right before picking me up, honestly. That is way too much information that I do not need to know.
He raises an eyebrow, not satisfied at all with that answer.
My cheeks flush as I clear my throat. “It’s just… You smell like an Omega.”
Now both eyebrows raise, his shock a palpable sensation in the small space.
“Excuse me?”
I shift a bit in the seat, though I try to keep my breathing shallow.
“I know your sense of smell has been messed up for a long time, but can you seriously not smell that at all?”
It’s so intense, it’s disconcerting.
Timber frowns. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” His hands clench around the steering wheel for several seconds. And then, much quieter, he asks, “What does it smell like?”
I take a deep breath on instinct, and then my cheeks flush. It feels like I shouldn’t be witness to whatever must have happened in this car with him. Because the intensity of this scent? It’s like when I use my vibrator when all of my body’s reactions become too much.
“Maple syrup,” I manage to say.
Timber tenses. I can’t help but explain just how strong it is in here just in case he’s going to have another of the players catch a ride.
“It’s more than just you, though. I’m pretty sure I can smell older perfume in here, too.
” It’s buried, but there is a thread of it.
Honestly, it feels like an Omega right at the crest of their heat.
I lean against the window to try and cut the intensity of it.
“Are you sure you’re not hooking up with an Omega?
Or, wait. Did Marilyn manage to set you up with someone?
Dad mentioned she’s been on a war path the last month or so with all of you. ”
Since preseason, actually.
The team’s been awful the last year or two, and upper management put down an ultimatum this year: get better or risk being dissolved and the team sold for parts.
Somehow, the plan morphed from attracting more talent into trying to get all the guys happy and in love.
Marilyn’s been hatching plans for months now, trying to move everyone around until the Alphas on the team are more settled.
It’s part of why I haven’t been around the arena as much as when I was in high school.
The floral shop and wedding season have been nice excuses, of course, and there’s definitely still a lot to be done at the shop most days even now that the busiest of the wedding season is behind me.
But, really, I don’t want to accidentally get pulled into one of Marilyn’s plans.
Dad would lose his mind if she tried, and I know his irritation would come out at practice with the team rather than directed at me.
“No.” He’s quick to snuff out the possibility. “I’ve heard she’s set her sights on Rhett next.”
Butterflies twist my stomach, but I ignore them.
Who wouldn’t react to hearing Rhett’s name?
He’s sex appeal personified—not just on the Scorpions, but across the entire league.
Like, literally. Some sports entertainment website named him the Sexiest Player of the Year the last three seasons.
They’re not even wrong. Tall and powerful with soulful brown eyes and red hair that curls after games.
He’s managed to not lose a single tooth yet, either. And his smirk?
My thighs clench.
Distraction time before my own scent gets added to whatever the hell has been happening in here with Timber.
“Dad mentioned you already had a meeting with Marilyn?”
I intentionally phrase it as a question to try and get him to answer. His shoulders are still stiff, though, his jaw clenched tight.
I try again.
“Is that why you smell… like that?”
He clucks his tongue in derisive dismissal. “Do you honestly think I’m going to start anything with an Omega? I stopped by the convenience store before picking you up. An Omega was behind the counter.”
I can’t help but raise an eyebrow in disbelief.
“Timber, it’s way more intense than a random encounter.” My cheeks burn with another blush. Way, way stronger. “If someone’s scent marking you without your consent, that’s a really big problem.”
It’s also backwards from how most of those abusive situations form. Omegas tend to be the victim, not the Alphas, but Timber’s never been usual with that type of stuff. No, it had been his ex-wife that had abused him, manipulating him with her scent until he was powerless to resist her.
I manage to control my shudder, but it’s a near thing. To be that powerless? To have your ability to consent and reason stripped away because of the base urges of our designations? Absolutely terrifying.
Timber’s reply pulls me from the depressing thoughts.
“Don’t worry about it.” His voice is gruff, an effective end to the conversation.
I don’t push him, settling into the seat of his truck and closing my eyes before my motion sickness can kick in.