Chapter 2 #2
"Thank you!" I bounce on my toes, unable to contain myself.
"C'mon, it would be a bestseller! Think about it—cozy, small-town romance with an Omega who just wants to be in love.
Real love. Not the bullcrap we see on TV where Omegas are just there to look pretty and be claimed.
I want the slow burn, the groveling, the tension, the sexual epicness! "
I'm pacing now, gesturing wildly, and Mei is watching me with the resigned expression of someone who's seen this show before.
"The Omega would be someone who's had fallout after fallout with packs, right?
She thinks love is hopeless. Thinks maybe she's the problem.
But then—" I spin around dramatically, nearly knocking over a display of bookmarks, "—she runs into an Alpha at the cafe.
Classic meet-cute. Maybe she spills coffee on him?
They're both apologizing, patting him down with napkins, their hands touch, there's this moment—"
"Is Reverie going on one of her plotting sprees again?"
I whirl around to see another coworker, James, leaning against the romance section with a knowing smirk.
He's a Beta in his fifties who treats the bookshop like his personal kingdom and me like his chaotic younger sister.
"It's not a plotting spree," I huff, putting my hands on my hips. "It's creative vision."
"Sure it is," Mei says, but she's grinning now. "So what happens after the coffee incident?"
Oh my god, they're enabling me. I love them so much.
"Well, obviously they keep running into each other," I continue, warming to my theme.
"The cafe becomes this neutral ground where they can just be themselves.
No pack politics, no expectations, just two people connecting over pastries and terrible puns about coffee beans.
And slowly, so slowly it hurts, she starts to believe that maybe love isn't hopeless. Maybe she isn't broken. Maybe—"
"Maybe you should write this yourself," James suggests.
I laugh, sharp and a little bitter.
"I can't write for shit. Trust me, I've tried. My prose reads like a caffeinated squirrel had a nervous breakdown on the keyboard."
"That's... surprisingly accurate," Mei says.
"But mark my words," I point at both of them with the intensity of someone making a prophecy. "I'm gonna find someone to write this idea, and it'll be amazing. Better than the Bakedverse series everyone is going gaga for!"
Mei and James exchange glances, then both start laughing.
"We believe you," Mei says, patting my shoulder. "But maybe table the literary revolution for now and go get your sugar cookies before they're all gone and you're crying in the storage room."
"Again," James adds helpfully.
"That was one time," I protest, but I'm already heading toward the back of the shop, the three books clutched in my hands. "And they were chocolate chip! You can't blame me for having priorities!"
Their laughter follows me as I make my way through the stacks, past the mystery section and the local authors display and the reading nook with the overstuffed armchairs that I've definitely napped in during slow shifts.
Sugar cookies. Focus on the sugar cookies. Everything else can wait.
But then I glance down at the books in my arms, and reality crashes back in like a bucket of ice water.
Oh no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
I can't actually buy these books until my next paycheck.
I did the math this morning—rent, utilities, groceries, the emergency fund I'm desperately trying to build because being broke and alone is terrifying. Books, as much as it pains me to admit, are a luxury I can't afford this week.
Manifestation is great and all, but it doesn't pay the bills.
With a resigned sigh, I turn around and head back toward the cozy reads section, planning to return the books to their proper spots before I get too attached.
Too late. Already attached. These are my book children and I'm a terrible mother for abandoning them.
I'm so focused on my internal melodrama that I don't see the person until I've already crashed into them.
The books go flying. My phone nearly follows. I stumble backward with a very attractive yelp of surprise, and suddenly there are hands—large, warm hands—steadying me by the shoulders.
And then the scent hits me.
Oh.
Oh no.
It's like walking into a bakery on a cold morning—warm maple wood and golden honey, with an undertone of something earthy and grounding like hay that's been dusted with snow. There's ginger too, spicy and sweet at the same time, like fresh-baked cookies cooling on a rack.
The scent wraps around me like a blanket, comforting and delicious and so distinctly Alpha that my brain short-circuits for a second.
This is what home smells like?
Or…safety smells like. This is heavenly…I think—
Reverie.
Focus.
You literally just assaulted this man with your entire body.
Apologize.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" I blurt out, my face immediately flooding with heat. "I wasn't watching where I was going, I was having an existential crisis about book budgets, and I just—"
I finally look up.
And immediately forget how words work.
Damn, it's rare to see a handsome yet soft-toned Alpha.
The man standing in front of me is tall—not overwhelmingly so, but enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
Those eyes are warm, a soft golden-brown that matches the honey notes in his scent, and they're crinkled slightly at the corners like he smiles a lot. His hair is sandy blonde with hints of ash brown, slightly tousled in a way that looks effortlessly perfect.
But it's the overall aesthetic that really gets me.
He's masculine—broad shoulders, strong jaw, the kind of build that suggests he does actual physical labor—but there's something soft about him too.
His skin is perfect, smooth and golden like he spends time in the sun but also takes care of himself.
He's wearing a cream-colored cable-knit sweater that looks impossibly cozy and dark jeans that fit just right, and there's a flannel shirt tied around his waist because apparently he walked out of a cozy romance novel and into this bookshop.
He looks like a popstar who decided to become a rancher. Or a rancher decided to moonlight as a popstar.
Either way, it's working for him.
"Don't worry about it," he says, and his voice matches his scent—warm and smooth with a hint of something sweet underneath.
He bends down to pick up the books I dropped, and I notice his hands. They're calloused but clean, the hands of someone who works hard but takes pride in the details.
He straightens up, holding the three books, and glances at the covers with genuine interest.
"These weren't to your liking?"
Oh, he thinks I'm returning them because they're bad. That's actually adorable.
I laugh, and it comes out a little breathless because apparently my body has decided we're doing the whole 'flustered Omega' thing.
"Oh, no! They're amazing. I literally just spent twenty minutes on TikTok Live telling everyone to read them.
I just—" I make a vague gesture that's supposed to convey 'financial instability' but probably just looks like I'm having a small seizure.
"I don't have book money like that yet. But I'm manifesting it. "
I wink at him, trying to reclaim some semblance of composure, and then take the books from his hands.
Our fingers brush, and there's this little spark of something that makes my breath catch.
Nope. Not thinking about that. Not going there.
This is a stranger in a bookshop, not a meet-cute from the cafe story I literally just invented five minutes ago.
"These are my top three recommendations," I tell him, holding up the stack with renewed enthusiasm. "And I'm totally going to read them eventually, so you should too. Consider it a professional opinion from someone who definitely knows what she's talking about."
He smiles, and it's devastating.
Soft and genuine and a little amused, like I've just said something unexpectedly charming.
I'm in danger. This is dangerous. Abort mission.
"I'll take your word for it," he says.
"Good! You should!" I'm backing away slowly, trying to make a graceful exit before I do something embarrassing like ask him if he wants to smell my hair or tell him about my cafe story idea.
"Also, make sure you go to Hazel's cafe on Maple Street and try the new holiday menu.
The gingerbread latte is life-changing. I'm not even exaggerating—it's like drinking Christmas. "
Why am I promoting Hazel's cafe? I don't know.
My brain is malfunctioning.
Maple-scented Alphas are apparently my kryptonite.
"What's your name?" he asks, and there's something in his expression—curiosity mixed with genuine interest—that makes my heart do a little flip.
I spin around dramatically, my skirt flaring out in a way that definitely looks intentional and not at all like I'm fleeing the scene of a crime.
"Reverie!" I call over my shoulder, grinning. "I'm on TikTok sometimes. You know, if you're into chaotic book content and aggressive positivity."
I don't wait for his response.
I just giggle—actually giggle, like I'm twelve years old with a crush—and spin away again, letting my skirt twirl one more time because apparently I'm committed to this theatrical exit.
I practically run to the staff room, clutching the books to my chest, my face burning.
What was that?
What just happened?
Why is my heart racing like I just ran a marathon?
Why do I want to go back and ask him literally everything about his life?
The staff room is blessedly empty when I burst through the door. It's a small space—just a table with mismatched chairs, a mini fridge, a coffee maker that's seen better days, and a microwave that only works if you hit it at exactly the right angle.
But right now, it feels like a sanctuary.
The scent of sugar cookies hits me immediately, sweet and buttery and perfect. Miss Bea has left them on a plate in the center of the table, still warm, sprinkled with colored sugar that catches the light.
Okay. Focus on the cookies. Cookies are safe. Cookies don't make your heart race or your palms sweat or your brain turn into static.
I dump the books on the table—I'll deal with returning them later when I'm not having whatever this is—and grab a sugar cookie.
There are only three left, and I send a silent thank you to the universe that I'm not too late.
The coffee maker gurgles to life as I start brewing a fresh cup. The familiar sounds and smells help ground me.
Coffee, cookies, the faint scent of old books that permeates every corner of this place.
This is my life.
Not handsome Alphas with maple-sweet scents who smile like they know something you don't.
I pour my coffee, add an obscene amount of cream and sugar because I like my coffee to taste like dessert, and finally sit down at the table. The chair creaks under me in a familiar way, and I take my first bite of cookie.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Buttery and sweet with just the right amount of crunch around the edges.
I let out a long breath, feeling some of the chaotic energy drain away. This is my life—working multiple part-time jobs, living in a tiny attic apartment, making people smile on TikTok, and stealing quiet moments with sugar cookies in bookshop break rooms.
It's not glamorous.
It's not what I imagined when I ran away from Kael and his pack.
But it's mine.
I built this from nothing, from the wreckage of who I used to be, and that counts for something.
That counts for everything.
I pull out my phone, opening TikTok to check the notifications from my live. The numbers are good—better than usual, actually.
Lots of new followers, comments still rolling in, people tagging their friends and sharing screenshots.
But there are other notifications too.
The kind I try to ignore but can't quite manage to delete.
“This is so cringe.”
“Why is she so desperate for attention?”
“Omega behavior lmaooo.”
I scroll past them quickly, looking for the positive ones. The people who said I made their day.
The Omegas who thanked me for the recommendations. The readers who felt seen.
You're so genuine it makes me smile
Thank you for always promoting omega stories!
Your energy is contagious
Focus on these. Focus on the good.
The negative comments don't matter…they're just noise.
But I can feel my smile starting to slip.
I try to hold it, to keep it bright and genuine, but there's this nagging voice in the back of my head that sounds suspiciously like Kael.
You're too much.
Too loud.
Too needy.
This desperate attempt at connection is pathetic.
I set my phone face-down on the table and take another bite of cookie.
I'm not letting him win, not even in my own head.
I'm allowed to be enthusiastic.
I'm allowed to share what I love. I'm allowed to take up space and be loud and connect with people.
I'm allowed to exist exactly as I am.
I take a sip of coffee, letting the warmth and sweetness ground me. The staff room is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of customers in the shop. Safe. Peaceful.
I glance at the three books I dropped on the table—my future purchases, my temporary friends. The covers are beautiful, promising stories of Omegas who find their happy endings, who learn to love themselves before they love anyone else, who build lives worth fighting for.
I can have that too.
Maybe not today, maybe not this week, but someday.
Someday I'll have the kind of love those books promise.
The kind that doesn't hurt.
The happy ever after that feels like coming home after longing to return where you rightfully belong...
I finish my cookie and smile—a real smile this time, one that reaches my eyes.
Today is a good day.
I did my shift, made people smile on the internet, crashed into a devastatingly attractive Alpha, and scored sugar cookies before they were all gone. That's a win in my book.
Tomorrow I'll work my shift at Hazel's cafe, maybe pick up some extra hours helping Mrs. Chen at the flower shop.
I'll keep building this life, piece by piece, sugar cookie by sugar cookie.
And hopefully with time, I'll figure out what to do about the fact that I can still smell maple wood and honey, even though that Alpha is nowhere near me.
But that's a problem for future Reverie.
Present Reverie has cookies to eat and coffee to drink and a whole afternoon to convince herself that she's absolutely not thinking about soft smiles and warm eyes.
I lean back in my chair, cradling my coffee mug, and let the contentment wash over me.
The day will continue to be grand, one sugar cookie at a time.