Chapter 9 Savannah #2
Logan moves through the space like he's exploring somewhere new, touching surfaces that are actually clean enough to touch without requiring a tetanus shot. His scent carries notes of surprise mixed with something warmer that might be gratitude.
"The dining room," he says, stopping in the doorway and staring at the table that's now serving its intended purpose instead of functioning as a hardware store satellite office. "I can actually see the wood grain. Griff, your table is beautiful."
"It is, isn't it?" Griff beams with the kind of pride that comes from creating something with your own hands, even if you can't figure out how to keep it clean afterwards. "Reclaimed barn wood from a farm in Texas. Took me three months to find the right pieces."
Xavier appears beside them, adjusting his glasses with the precise movement of someone processing unexpected information. His mint scent carries surprise beneath his professional composure, like he's trying to figure out the appropriate response to coming home to domestic competence.
"This is beyond impressive," he says, his voice carrying the kind of careful neutrality that means he's thinking about something more complicated than furniture arrangement. "But we didn't bring you here to clean."
No, Xavier, you didn't bring me. I volunteered to come, and I regretted it when I saw the state of the place, and I'm regretting it even more with your attitude.
Take a deep breath, Savannah.
"I had time," I say with a shrug, like spending nearly four hours deep-cleaning their house is a normal way to spend an afternoon instead of evidence that I have control issues and possibly unresolved emotional baggage. "Besides, I couldn't function in the chaos."
"You didn't have to do all this," Logan says, and there's something soft in his voice that makes my chest tight with feelings I don't want to examine too closely.
"I did it for me," I lie, because admitting that I did it because taking care of people is apparently hardwired into my DNA would reveal too much about why I'm really here. "I can't think clearly when everything around me is a disaster."
Griff walks over to where I'm standing in the doorway, close enough that I catch his scent more clearly. Sandalwood and sawdust and something warm that makes my omega instincts purr with satisfaction. His warm brown eyes are soft with gratitude and something else I'm not ready to identify.
"Thank you," he says, reaching out to touch my arm with fingers that are calloused from honest work and gentle in a way that makes my pulse quicken. "Seriously. This means more than you know."
Logan joins us, his leather and rain scent wrapping around me like a familiar blanket that smells like safety and strength and all the things I used to associate with home. "We don't deserve this kind of effort."
"No, you don't," I agree, which makes all three of them laugh with the kind of surprised delight that suggests they weren't expecting honesty wrapped in sarcasm. "But you're getting it anyway."
Xavier steps closer, completing the circle of masculine appreciation that's making it hard to maintain professional distance and emotional boundaries. His cool mint scent carries something warmer now, less clinical and more personal.
Seriously, Xavier, still no thank you!
"You must be exhausted," he observes. “Nearly four hours of intensive cleaning and organizing would be demanding even for someone used to this kind of work."
"I'm fine," I start to say, but Griff cuts me off with a shake of his head.
"Nope. You've done enough for one day. Go upstairs, take a bath, relax. We'll handle dinner."
"You'll handle dinner? Xavier said dinner was at seven. But then after cleaning and seeing how different you all are, I’m not sure you can handle it.” I raise an eyebrow, skeptical about their ability to manage meal preparation without turning the clean kitchen back into a disaster zone.
"We'll figure it out," Logan says with the confidence of someone who's used to coordinating emergency responses and probably thinks cooking dinner is less complicated than running into burning buildings. "We're not completely helpless."
"Evidence suggests otherwise," I point out, but I'm smiling as I say it.
Xavier adjusts his glasses again, this time with the kind of precise movement that means he's making a decision about something important. "We want to do this. For you. After everything you've done for us today."
"Are you sure?" I ask, because the kitchen is finally clean and I'd hate to see it destroyed by good intentions and masculine stubbornness.
"Positive," Griff says with the kind of determination that suggests he's made up his mind about something and isn't going to be talked out of it. "Go relax. We've got this."
I look at three faces that are set with the kind of resolve usually reserved for major life decisions or declarations of war, and decide that maybe I'm overthinking this because I'm tired and emotionally overwhelmed and not used to people wanting to take care of me instead of the other way around.
"Fine," I say, backing toward the stairs with my hands raised in surrender. "But if I come downstairs to find the kitchen on fire, I'm moving into a hotel for the rest of my stay."
"Fair enough! And we’ll pay for it,” Logan agrees with the kind of easy confidence that comes from years of dealing with actual fires and probably thinking domestic cooking is relatively low-risk by comparison.
Yes, you will, because I’m borderline broke. Not that I will admit it to them. Nor anyone. Pride and all that.
I head upstairs, listening to the sound of three alphas moving around the kitchen below, the soft murmur of voices discussing meal planning and task division like functional adults who can actually coordinate basic household activities.
Thank you, universe, for three alphas who can apparently function like adults when properly motivated. May this miracle last longer than five minutes.