Chapter 3 Sharon
SHARON
My stomach rumbles again, and I ignore it.
I could do with losing a few pounds anyway, and the only thing I want to eat is croissants, brownies, and anything that isn't good for me.
Pine Hollow has one too many bakeries, and they all make my mouth water just looking at them. I gain pounds just driving past them.
I headed back to the hotel after the disastrous meeting, forgetting to check my watch because I didn't put my clock back when we changed the time a few weeks ago.
I'm a complete chaotic disaster ever since I learned I'm planning Ben's wedding, and I have no idea why Savannah thought this was a good idea.
I'm sitting in my hotel room at Pine Inn, staring at my laptop like it's going to magically solve all my problems. It won't. My spreadsheets are everywhere.
The wedding timeline. The vendor list. The budget breakdown that makes me want to cry.
The RSVP tracker that shows almost every single person Ben and Penelope invited said no. Thirty-eight out of forty people.
I hate my ex, but even I’d show up to his wedding just to judge it in person.
The room is small. Generic. One of those paintings that could be anything or nothing on the wall.
The bed is neatly made because I haven't actually slept in it.
My clothes are still in my suitcase in the corner because apparently I'm not staying long enough to bother unpacking.
Or maybe I'm just subconsciously preparing for the moment when this all falls apart and I have to run away.
My phone buzzes. It's Savannah.
"Jett's coming to help. Let him."
I stare at that text for way too long.
Jett Burnside. Ben's brother. I haven't seen him in five years.
And now he's coming here because, apparently, I had a meltdown on a phone call and told Savannah that Jett walks around showing off his scars like he invented fire.
Which, to be fair, is accurate. But also not something I should have said where other people could hear it.
I look down at myself. Coffee stain on my sweater.
My hair is doing that thing where it's trying to escape the bun I put it in this morning.
Probably. I'm not actually sure what time it is anymore.
My lip gloss is completely gone, worn away by stress-chewing.
I look like someone who's been having a prolonged emotional crisis for the last several hours.
Which I have been.
There's a knock on the door.
My heart does something weird. Jumps. Stays jumped. I'm suddenly very aware that I look like a disaster and Jett Burnside is apparently about to see me looking like this.
My scent spikes before I can control it. Strawberry panic mixing with honey and something that smells like wildflower anxiety. The scent of an omega who is definitely not fine but is trying very hard to pretend she is.
I take a breath. I can do this. I'm a professional wedding planner. I've handled worse than Jett Burnside showing up at my hotel room door. I haven't actually, but I can pretend.
I open the door.
And suddenly there's Jett Burnside, and Jesus, he got even hotter.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "Did you get hotter, or did I just forget how to look at attractive men without short-circuiting?"
His dimple appears. "Both."
God, I hate that he's right.
He's wearing a burgundy henley shirt that fits him in ways that should be illegal.
His dark hair is styled back but not in a way that looks like he spent time on it.
More like he just ran his hands through it and decided that was good enough.
His forearms are covered in tattoos. I count at least three new ones I don't recognize.
There's one on his inner wrist that looks fresh.
Something intricate. Something that probably means something.
His warm brown eyes are looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen all day.
His scent hits me. Cedar and sweat and gunpowder. It's so strong in the doorway that I can barely breathe without inhaling all of him. It settles into my lungs, and my body reacts immediately. My scent spikes again. More strawberry. My skin gets warmer.
"Sharon," he says. His voice is exactly how I remember it. Low. Direct.
"Jett," I manage, trying to sound professional instead of like I just had a minor cardiac event. "You didn't have to come here."
"Savannah called," he says, stepping into the room without waiting for invitation. He moves with that casual confidence of someone comfortable taking up space. "Said you were spiraling. Said the wedding was chaos. Figured you could use help."
I close the door behind him, suddenly very aware that my scent is probably announcing every single emotion I'm having right now. Panic. Attraction. Shame about the state of my hotel room. Confusion about why he's here.
"I've got the situation under control," I say, which is a complete lie, and we both know it. My hotel room is covered in papers. Empty coffee cups line the desk. There's a half-eaten sandwich from yesterday that I should probably throw away.
He looks around the room, taking in the mess. Then he looks at me. His warm brown eyes drop down to my coffee-stained sweater and back up to my face. His dimple appears and disappears as he tries not to smile.
"Right," he says. "Totally under control. Your scent smells like a strawberry panic attack wrapped in wildflower desperation."
I flush immediately. Of course he noticed. Alphas always notice. It's one of the things about them that's both terrifying and weirdly comforting. They notice everything. They see past the lies you tell yourself.
He moves further into the room, looking at the spreadsheets scattered across the desk. He picks up one page and scans it. Then another. He's standing over my work like he's trying to understand the scope of the disaster.
My stomach rumbles. Loudly. Right there in front of him.
I want to die.
"When's the last time you ate?" Jett asks, not even looking up from the papers.
"I had coffee this morning," I say defensively. "And maybe some of a sandwich yesterday. Or was that the day before?"
He turns to look at me. Really looks at me. His warm brown eyes are serious now. Not cocky. Not playful. Just serious in a way that makes my heart do that weird jumping thing again.
"We're going out," he says. It's not a suggestion. His tone doesn't leave room for argument. "There's a bakery a few blocks from here. We can grab food, sit, talk about the wedding. But first, you're eating."
"I can't," I say immediately. "I mean, I could, but I probably shouldn't. I've been stress eating since I got here, and I could really stand to lose a few pounds. Ben used to always—"
I stop. I didn't mean to say that out loud.
Jett sets the papers down carefully and turns to face me fully. His jaw tightens. His scent shifts. Cedar gets sharper. Gunpowder becomes more pronounced.
"Ben used to always what?" he asks quietly.
I shrug, trying to play it off. "He'd mention that I was gaining weight. That I should probably cut back on carbs. That I'd look better if I was smaller. You know how he is."
Jett crosses the room in a few strides. He's suddenly very close to me. Close enough that his scent completely surrounds my strawberry panic and turns it into something else. Close enough that I can see the intensity in his warm brown eyes.
"You're perfect the way you are," he says, and it's not like he's trying to be smooth or charming.
It's just a statement. A fact. Like he's telling me the sky is blue.
"Your size. Your shape. The way you take up space.
It's all perfect. And if Ben couldn't see that, then that's his problem. Not yours."
I stare at him.
He doesn’t look away from me, not even for a second.
“I mean it,” he says, and then he hooks a finger under my chin and tips my face up.
His touch is gentle, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s looking at me.
“Your curves are beautiful, Sharon. All of them. Your hips, your thighs, the way your body moves when you walk. You’re an omega.
You’re meant to be soft. You’re meant to have a body that feels like this.
” He brushes his thumb along my jaw, slow and certain.
“Ben making you feel otherwise just proves he never understood a damn thing.”
My scent shifts. Less wildflower panic. More honey sweetness. My throat gets tight.
"I don't know what to say to that," I admit quietly.
"Say yes to food," he says, stepping back slightly but still holding my gaze. "Say yes to croissants and brownies and whatever else Pine Hollow bakeries have to offer. Say yes to not starving yourself because some asshole made you feel like you needed to be smaller to be worthy."
He's vulnerable now. I can see it underneath the gruff exterior. He cares about this. About me. And that's terrifying in a way I don't want to examine too closely right now.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Okay, let's go eat."
His dimple appears as he smiles. A real smile. Not cocky or charming. Just genuine.
"Good," he says. "Because your stomach's going to stage a full mutiny if you don't feed it soon."
My stomach chooses that exact moment to rumble again, and despite everything, I laugh. It's slightly hysterical but it's genuine.
"Come on," Jett says, moving toward the door. He grabs his jacket from where he set it and turns back to me. "Let's go get you some carbs. Lots of them. The good kind that Ben said you shouldn't eat."
As we head out of the hotel room, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I still look like a disaster. Hair still frizzy. Sweater still stained. But something in my expression has shifted. There's a softness there now. A slight smile.
And for the first time since I found out I was planning Ben's wedding, I don't feel completely alone.