Chapter 19 #2
Nash is the perfect middle ground between Grayson's sugar addiction and Theo's ascetic tendencies.
Only one cream and one sugar in his coffee—not sweet but not bitter.
Balanced. He ordered the gingerbread pancakes which are festive and fun but not overly sugary.
They come with a good mix of protein and carbs.
Practical but still enjoyable. That tracks perfectly with his personality from what I've seen so far—the smooth-talking lawyer who knows how to find middle ground.
Confident but not overbearing. Charming but not fake.
We pause the conversation to eat. There's something really nice about this—just enjoying food together in comfortable silence broken only by the ambient sounds of the diner.
The clink of forks on ceramic plates. The sounds of chewing and occasional satisfied hums when someone tastes something particularly good.
Grayson makes this little noise of contentment when he tastes his pancakes that makes me want to smile—it's adorable and genuine and unselfconscious.
The peppermint mocha is absolutely amazing.
Sweet and minty and chocolatey in perfect proportions with real whipped cream on top—not that artificial stuff from a can.
There's crushed candy cane sprinkled over the whipped cream that adds this satisfying crunch.
The pancakes are fluffy and light—that perfect texture where they're cooked all the way through but still have that pillowy softness.
The bacon is crispy exactly how I like it with just a hint of maple sweetness.
The sausage is seasoned perfectly with sage and pepper.
This might legitimately be the best breakfast I've had in months.
Maybe years. When you're broke, you eat a lot of ramen and off-brand cereal and whatever's marked down in the clearance section.
Day-old bread. Dented cans. The bruised fruit nobody else wants.
Sitting here with actual hot food cooked fresh and good coffee that doesn't taste like burnt water feels like absolute luxury.
Like I'm living someone else's life for an hour.
I watch the three of them eat too. Grayson cuts his pancakes into perfect little squares before eating them—methodical and precise.
Theo eats his plain pancakes with military efficiency—fork, cut, bite, repeat, no wasted movements.
Nash is more relaxed, occasionally stealing glances at his phone between bites like he's checking work emails even during breakfast.
Their scents are all mixing together with the diner smells and it's surprisingly pleasant instead of overwhelming.
Maple-honey from Grayson. Cedar-smoke from Theo.
Motor-oil-and-leather from Nash. Combined with coffee and syrup and bacon and cinnamon it creates this cozy atmosphere that makes me feel safe and comfortable in a way I haven't felt in a really long time.
We eat in companionable silence for maybe ten minutes. Long enough to take the serious edge off our hunger. Long enough for me to feel more human and less like I'm going to pass out from low blood sugar and stress and general life chaos.
But then I notice we're all just kind of playing with our food. Pushing it around our plates. Making patterns in syrup. Clearly full enough that eating more feels like work.
Time to get down to business.
"Okay," I say, setting down my fork with finality. "Let's talk details. Because I need to understand what I apparently agreed to without actually agreeing to it."
Nash pulls out his phone, swipes a few times, then holds it up. "I took photos of the contract. Want me to read it?"
He took photos of the contract. That's actually smart. Lawyer brain in action.
"Yes please."
He clears his throat, squinting at his phone screen. "'The contracted pack'—that's us—'agrees to participate in no less than twelve documented Christmas activities with the Omega influencer over the course of the six-week contract period.'"
Twelve activities. Six weeks. That's... actually not that bad? Two activities per week basically.
I think about it, looking at each of them in turn. Grayson with syrup on his bottom lip that he hasn't noticed yet. Theo sitting perfectly still like he's on guard duty. Nash with his phone held up like a shield.
"Okay, so three activities each," I say, doing quick math in my head. "That's easy. We can figure that out. Next."
Nash scrolls. "'All activities must be documented through photos or video and posted to the agreed social media platforms within forty-eight hours of completion.'"
So they want proof we're actually doing this. Makes sense from a business perspective. Can't fake Christmas content if there's no content.
"Easy enough," I say. "I already post to Instagram and TikTok daily. This just gives me more material."
Nash continues. "'The Omega influencer will continue her established content schedule, including but not limited to book recommendations, holiday aesthetic content, and the Twelve Days of Christmas campaign running December thirteenth through the twenty-fourth.'"
The Twelve Days of Christmas thing. That's my biggest series—where I recommend twelve different romance books with holiday themes and give away copies to followers. I've been planning it for months. Good to know they're not asking me to change my whole content strategy.
"Got it," I nod. "I'm already doing that anyway."
"'The contracted pack will make themselves available for content creation as needed,'" Nash reads, his voice getting slightly higher like he's realizing what he signed up for. "'Including but not limited to photos, videos, live streams, and potential television appearances if opportunities arise.'"
Theo shifts beside me. "Television appearances?"
"Potential television appearances," I correct. "Probably won't happen. But Charlotte likes to keep options open in case some local news station wants to do a feel-good holiday story or whatever."
"Christ," Theo mutters into his black coffee.
"Keep going," I tell Nash. "What else?"
“Advance payment will be processed, but it will take some time to be cleared with the banking process of Oakridge, especially with the holidays. Could take a few days or weeks.”
I frown, feeling insecurity creep up my spine. That familiar anxiety about money and timing and everything going wrong.
"I'll have to think about the repairs then," I say quietly, staring at my half-eaten pancakes. "For the apartment. Since the payment won't come right away."
Theo shifts beside me.
"Actually, about the repairs."
Oh god. What now? Is it worse than I thought? Is my landlord going to sue me? Am I going to be homeless?
"We came by to inspect the damage this morning," he continues, his voice carefully neutral. "While you were getting ready for the doctor's appointment. Called in a contractor friend to take a look."
They did what? When I was getting ready? How did I not notice them bringing a contractor into my apartment? Oh right, I was in my bedroom trying to make myself look presentable and panicking about the doctor visit. They must have been quiet.
"And?" I ask, bracing myself for bad news.
"The water damage is significant," Theo says. "The hardwood is warped beyond repair in most of the main room. There's potential water damage to the ceiling of the apartment below yours. The subflooring might need to be replaced. It'll take about four to five weeks to fix properly."
I gawk at him. Actually gawk. My mouth falls open and I just stare.
"Four to five weeks?" My voice comes out higher than intended. "Like, it won't be done before Christmas at this rate?"
Nash nods, looking apologetic. "Maybe after Christmas. The contractors are overly booked during the holidays. Everyone wants repairs done before family visits and parties. We'd have to wait in line."
Four to five weeks. December would be already half over by the time repairs even start. Add four weeks minimum and that's into January. After Christmas. After New Year's. After all the festivities I'm supposed to be documenting.
"Wait." I hold up a hand, my brain catching up to the implications. "If they're fixing the apartment for that long—ripping up floors, replacing subflooring, all that construction—doesn't that mean I can't live there?"
The three of them exchange looks. One of those silent Alpha communication moments where they're clearly having a whole conversation without words.
Then they all nod in unison.
"Fuck." I drop my head into my hands. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Okay. Okay. Don't panic. Don't spiral. There are options. There have to be options. I always figure things out. That's what I do—I survive and I figure shit out even when everything seems impossible.
I don't have any savings for a hotel though.
That's not an option. My bank account is sitting at exactly $47.
32 right now—I checked it this morning out of masochistic curiosity.
Hotels in Oakridge Hollow during Christmas season are expensive because of all the tourists who come for the festive atmosphere.
Easily $100+ per night for even the crappiest motel on the edge of town.
For four weeks minimum that's... I can't even do the math right now.
Over $2,800. Might as well be a million dollars for all the good it does me.
Maybe I can ask my friends? I have friends. Good friends who care about me. I'm not completely alone in the world even if it feels like it sometimes.
Hazel would probably help if I asked. She's got that big soft heart and she'd never say no to someone in need.
But she just got officially together with her pack—like, just made it Facebook official last week.
They're all in that lovey-dovey honeymoon phase where they can't keep their hands off each other.
I've seen the Instagram posts. The heart-eyes emojis.
The couple photos that are cute but also make me feel like a third wheel just looking at them.
And she's getting married. Soon. Like, they're already talking about venue options and dress shopping and cake tastings.
She sent me fifteen dress options in our group chat last week asking for opinions.
This is her moment. Her happy ending. I'm not going to intrude on that by showing up like 'hey I know you're planning your dream wedding but can I crash on your couch for a month because I flooded my apartment? '
Then there's Rosemarie and Mila. Both amazing friends who I love.
But they're both focusing on building their careers and businesses here in Oakridge Hollow.
Rosemarie just opened her bakery expansion—added a whole second room for custom cakes and wedding desserts.
She's working sixteen-hour days trying to keep up with holiday orders.
Last time I saw her she looked like she hadn't slept in a week.
Mila's designing websites for half the town and building her portfolio to attract bigger clients.
She's finally getting recognition for her work.
Finally making decent money. Finally not living paycheck to paycheck like the rest of us.
They don't have room in their lives for a displaced roommate right now. They barely have room for themselves.
I can't interfere with their lives. Can't impose on their success. They've all worked so incredibly hard to get where they are and I'm not going to be the friend who shows up begging for favors and making them feel guilty if they can't help. That's not fair to them.
But what are my actual options here? Sleep in my car?
It's December in Canada. It gets below freezing at night.
That's legitimately dangerous. I could die of hypothermia.
Sleep at the bar? Marcus would definitely fire me for treating the workplace like a homeless shelter.
Sleep in the library? They close at nine PM and I'm pretty sure they have security cameras.
Sleep in a church? Do churches even let people do that?
The panic is rising in my chest like water filling a sinking ship.
That all-too-familiar tightness that makes it hard to breathe properly.
The anxiety that tells me I'm failing at being an adult and everyone can see it and I'm going to end up homeless and alone and it's all my fault for forgetting to turn off the goddamn bathtub tap.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the table, trying to ground myself.
Breathe. Just breathe. There's always a solution. Always a way forward. I've survived worse than this. I can figure this out.
But then I feel warmth on my thigh. A large hand settling there with gentle pressure.
Grayson.
He leans in close enough that I can smell his maple-honey scent mixing with the syrup still on his lips. Close enough that I can feel his breath against my cheek.
Then he kisses me. Just a light press of lips against mine. Soft. Sweet. Grounding.
He pulls back slightly and licks the corner of my mouth—where I apparently still have maple syrup from my pancakes—and the gesture is so casually intimate that it makes my brain short-circuit momentarily.
"You need to calm down," he murmurs, his hazel eyes locked on mine with concern. "Before you trigger another migraine. Your scent is spiking with stress and that's not good for your recovery."
My scent is spiking? I didn't even realize. But he's right—I can feel the tension headache starting to build behind my eyes. The familiar pressure that says I'm pushing too hard, stressing too much.
I nod slowly, taking a deep breath. Let it out. Another breath.
Okay. Better. Still panicking internally but at least I'm not visibly hyperventilating.
"We'll figure something out," Grayson says softly, his thumb rubbing small circles on my thigh through my jeans. "I promise. You're not going to be homeless."
He looks across the table at Nash and Theo. Something passes between them—another one of those silent conversations that I'm not privy to.
Theo nods first. Then Nash.
"We have a proposition," Grayson says, turning back to me.
A proposition. That sounds ominous. Or hopeful? I can't tell if I should be worried or relieved.
"What's that?" I ask cautiously.
Nash clears his throat. Sits up straighter. His lawyer posture activating.
He looks me straight in the eye and says, "You can stay with us for the holiday season."