Chapter 1
DANGEROUS DISTRACTIONS
~WENDOLYN~
The last mug slides into place on the glass shelf with a satisfying clink—a vintage piece from a diner in Tulsa, cherry-red with a chip on the handle that somehow makes it perfect.
Finally.
Two weeks of unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, pretending this little rental house ten minutes from Cactus Rose Ranch could become home.
Two weeks of keeping my hands busy so my mind wouldn't wander back to smoke and flames and Gregory's laughter echoing through my nightmares.
The morning sun streams through the kitchen window, catching the glass shelves and turning my mug collection into a rainbow of ceramic memories.
Each one tells a story—the navy blue one from that truck stop in Nevada where I'd stopped during my exodus from LA, the delicate floral piece from an estate sale in town, the ridiculous hot pink monstrosity Willa had given me as a joke that somehow became my favorite.
Forty-seven mugs.
Forty-seven reasons to stay put…
Will this make me stop running from reality?
The apron I'm wearing—mint green with tiny strawberries, cinched tight at the waist—makes me feel armored regardless of its delicate appearance.
Vintage clothing has become my uniform, my rebellion, my way of saying I'm still here despite everything.
The matching skirt hits mid-thigh, which shouldn't be scandalous but apparently is when you've got curves that refuse to be minimized.
I step back to admire the display, hands on my hips, letting myself feel the tiniest spark of satisfaction. The house isn't much—a two-bedroom cottage that probably hasn't been updated since the seventies—but it's mine.
Well, rented, but close enough.
And in ten minutes by tractor, I can be at Cactus Rose Ranch where I'll be spending the next few months playing temporary forewoman while Willa and her pack take their desperately needed vacation.
Nobody in town knows she's pregnant.
Smart girl, keeping that secret close.
Small towns feast on that kind of gossip, picking apart every detail until there's nothing left but bones and speculation. She deserves to have this moment, this new beginning, without Sweetwater Falls dissecting every symptom and craving.
Besides, I need this.
Need the distraction of dawn feedings and fence repairs, need the rhythm of ranch work that my body still remembers from childhood. Need something to focus on besides the fact that the investigation into the fire is "ongoing"—police speak for "we're not going to do shit about it."
They'll get away with it.
Gregory and his pack will walk free, maybe pay a fine if the insurance company pushes hard enough.
Attempted murder reduced to vandalism, if anything at all.
That's how it works when you're an Omega going up against an established pack.
Justice is a luxury reserved for those with the right designation.
I could leave. Pack up these forty-seven mugs, the vintage wardrobe, all the stuff back at the cafe, give up on the pursuit of cozy bookshops and amazing smelling coffee vibes, and head back to the city where at least the discrimination is more subtle.
Find another department willing to take a chance on an Omega fire chief, pretend the past six months never happened…
Who am I kidding?
There's nothing for me anywhere.
No pack, no family, no future that doesn't taste like ash—
Arms circle around my waist from behind, and my entire body goes rigid for exactly two heartbeats before that scent hits me. Pine and bourbon and woodsmoke, wrapping around me like a promise of safety that my body believes even when my mind knows better.
"Called your name three times, Wendy," Calder murmurs against my ear, his breath warm enough to make me shiver. "Had to resort to physical contact. You know how I hate having to touch you."
The lie is so blatant I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. His hands are already spreading across my stomach, fingers tracing the bow of my apron like he's memorizing the texture.
Calder Hayes had never hated touching me a day in his life.
He would have died before admitting it, but he was starved for contact, just as much as I was desperate to believe there was such a thing as safe hands.He didn’t just hug from behind.
He enveloped. Palms wide, strong enough to lift a hay bale one-handed, curling slow and gentle around my waist like I was made of porcelain or spun sugar instead of muscle and bone.
His thumb feathered along the edge of my apron’s bow, not tugging loose but massaging the knot like he was coaxing a spell into it—one that might have had the power to keep me here, in this moment, instead of drifting off into the memory of sirens and shattering glass.
“Liar,” I breathed, leaning back until the top of my head was tucked perfectly beneath his chin.
the house was all quiet, save for the fridge’s humming and the faint ticking of the wall clock. But Calder radiated heat, and I soaked it up like a cat in a patch of sunlight, savoring every second I was allowed to pretend I belonged to someone.
He hummed, deep and unhurried.
“Lying would be saying I’m not obsessed with the way you smell like vanilla and burnt sugar,” he countered, voice so quiet it felt like another kind of embrace. “Or that I don’t want you melting in my arms every morning before the coffee’s even brewed.”
God, the man was shameless.
And I was weak from it.
He nuzzled the curve where neck met shoulder, his nose buried in the tumble of my hair.
The sensation should have set me on edge—a year ago, any Alpha getting this close would have gotten a fist to the solar plexus—but with Calder, it was just…
familiar. Dangerous, yes, but familiar. Safe by degrees.
Sometimes I thought if he wasn’t careful, I’d end up addicted to him the same way I was addicted to scouring thrift stores for the perfect dress or collecting battered mugs from weird corners of the country.
I tried to play it cool, keep the mood light and teasing, but my body wasn’t interested in games. My breath hitched and he caught it, of course, the bastard. I could feel the grin against my skin, sharp and self-satisfied.
"Sorry," I manage, taking a deep breath that does nothing to slow my suddenly racing heart. "Lost in thought."
"Dangerous territory, that." His lips brush against my neck, barely a touch but enough to send goosebumps racing down my spine. "Lucky for you, I specialize in distractions."
His hands drift lower with deliberate patience, each inch of movement a private revelation.
The rough calluses of his fingertips—earned from years of ranch work—create exquisite friction against the silky fabric of my apron as they trace the curve of my waist. When they reach the flare of my hips, they hesitate, a question in their stillness before continuing their journey.
His touch leaves a trail of warmth that blooms beneath my skin like wildflowers after rain.
The morning light filtering through the kitchen window catches the dust motes dancing in the air around us, turning them to gold as they spiral in our shared breath.
Time stretches, elastic and honey-slow, as his hands finally settle at the tops of my thighs where the mint-green skirt creates a boundary—fabric bunched slightly beneath his grip, the hem riding up just enough to make my pulse quicken.
I feel the weight of his consideration in the slight pressure of his fingertips, the way they curl ever so slightly into the soft flesh where thigh meets hip.
The boundary of fabric between his skin and mine suddenly feels both impossibly thin and frustratingly substantial.
His thumbs trace small, hypnotic circles just below the hem, each rotation sending ripples of sensation up my spine.
The kitchen's morning quiet amplifies every sound—the soft catch in my breath, the barely audible rustle of fabric as he shifts behind me, the distant ticking of the clock that seems to slow with each passing second.
The scent of pine and bourbon intensifies as his body temperature rises, mingling with the lingering aroma of coffee and the sweet vanilla notes of my skin.
A sound escapes my throat—starting low and breaking into something vulnerable and wanting, vibrating between us in the still air. It's embarrassingly close to a moan, raw and honest in a way words could never be. The sound seems to hover in the space between us, a confession I hadn't meant to make.
Against the sensitive skin of my neck, I feel his lips curve upward.
His smile presses into me, not just the physical sensation but something deeper—pride, satisfaction, desire—all communicated through that simple change in the contour of his mouth.
His beard scratches gently against my skin, the slight sting a counterpoint to the softness of his lips.
His chest expands against my back as he draws in a deep breath, pulling my scent deeper into himself.
The expansion presses me more firmly against him, a reminder of how perfectly we fit together, how easily our bodies communicate what our words dance around.
I lean back further, surrendering another fraction of weight into his support, trusting him to hold me steady as desire makes my knees less reliable.
The moment hangs between us, suspended in amber light and shared breath—a perfect tableau of restraint and want, of boundaries considered but not yet crossed, of friendship teetering on the edge of something far more consuming.
"Such a horny Alpha," I breathe, trying for stern but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
"Can you blame me?" His thumbs trace circles on my thighs, each pass going slightly higher. "You're standing here in this fucking apron, this skirt that should be illegal, looking like every wet dream I've ever had about domestic bliss with a side of sin."