Chapter 24 Three Alphas & Chaos #2
Shock gives way to indignation, which rapidly transforms into pure, unadulterated fury.
"YOU'RE NOT THE HOTTEST AT ALL!" I shout after him, completely forgetting where I am or who might be listening or the fact that I'm supposed to be a professional influencer.
"You're at the bottom of the food chain!
THE BOTTOM! The absolute lowest rung! I-I-I LIKE GRAYSON WAY BETTER!
He's exponentially more attractive than you!
Like, by a significant margin! Scientifically measurable amounts hotter! "
I'm completely breathless by the time I finish my rant, having made an absolute spectacle of myself in the middle of this quiet, peaceful small town.
My chest is heaving.
My face is probably redder than Santa's suit.
Several people have stopped to stare at the crazy Omega shouting about Alpha attractiveness rankings.
A woman with a baby carriage has frozen mid-step to watch the show.
Two teenagers are definitely filming this on their phones, probably already uploading it to TikTok with captions like 'unhinged omega loses it on main street.
' An elderly man walking his dog has his mouth hanging open.
Great. Just absolutely wonderful. Perfect. Now I'm the crazy Omega who has public meltdowns about Alpha hotness rankings. This is fine. Everything is completely fine. My influencer career is definitely not ruined. Nope. Not at all.
I huff and actually stomp my foot like a child having a full-blown tantrum, my boot making a satisfying thump against the pavement.
"I'm so going to get that asshole back for this! He can't just—just manipulate me into saying—ugh!"
Then I feel it—a gentle pat on my head. Like someone patting a puppy who's being particularly dramatic and needs to calm down.
I freeze completely. Every muscle locks up.
Wait. Hold on. Nash is in front of me. I can see him down the sidewalk. He's too far away to reach me. So who's behind me? Who just patted my head? Oh god what if it's a stranger? What if it's one of those teenagers filming? What if—
I lift my phone with shaking hands, intending to use the front camera app as a mirror to see who's behind me without having to turn around and face more embarrassment, and realize something absolutely horrifying.
The little red LIVE indicator is still glowing brightly in the corner of my screen.
Still broadcasting.
Still streaming to thousands of people.
"AH!" I shriek, staring at the screen in absolute horror. "Oh my god, I'm still live?! Did you guys just witness all of that?! The entire meltdown?! Everything?!"
The comments are absolutely losing their collective minds. Scrolling so fast they're barely readable—just a blur of text and emojis and chaos.
THIS IS BETTER THAN ANY TV SHOW
TEAM GRAYSON LETS GOOOOO
bottom of the food chain lmaoooo poor nash
THE DRAMA I LIVE FOR THIS CONTENT
scientifically measurable amounts hotter IM CRYING
The viewer count has jumped from one thousand to FIVE THOUSAND.
Five. Thousand. Actual. People.
Five thousand people just watched me have a complete and total public meltdown about Alpha hotness rankings in the middle of Millbrook's main street while stomping my feet like a toddler denied candy.
My career is over. This is it. This is how I go down in internet history. 'Omega influencer loses mind over fake boyfriend's teasing.' They'll make memes. So many memes.
I groan dramatically, covering my face with one hand while trying to keep the camera steady with the other.
"Please don't put that on replay. I'm literally begging you. Have mercy on my soul. I'll never emotionally recover from this."
But the comments keep flooding in, and now there's a new pattern emerging.
A specific word repeated over and over.
horse horse horse HORSE
LOOK BEHIND YOU
cowboy alert!! COWBOY!!
omg is that a HORSE behind her
TURN AROUND
I pout, tilting my head in genuine confusion as I read the comments.
"Horse? What horse? There aren't any horses near me right now. You guys are seeing things. Maybe the stream is glitching? There's no—"
A huff comes from directly above my head.
Warm, hay-scented breath that definitely doesn't belong to a human ruffles my hair.
I lift my head very, very slowly—like in a horror movie where you know something scary is about to be revealed—and find myself face-to-face with the biggest, most beautiful white horse I've ever seen in my entire life.
She's beautiful—pristine white coat, intelligent dark eyes, a small star-shaped marking on her forehead. Her mane is braided with what looks like tiny bells that jingle softly when she moves.
I gawk in complete surprise, my brain trying to process how a whole entire horse snuck up behind me without me noticing.
Then the horse makes a sound.
It's not quite a whinny. More like... a chuckle? A snorting, huffing sound that could only be described as equine amusement.
"Guys!" I turn the camera to capture the horse. "THE HORSE LAUGHED AT ME! I'm being mocked by a horse! This is a new low!"
The comments exploded with laughter emojis and jokes about the horse having better judgment than me.
Then the chuckling sound happens again—except this time it's definitely not coming from the horse.
It's coming from above the horse.
From the rider.
The rider leans forward in the saddle, and familiar honey-hazel eyes lock onto mine with obvious amusement.
"I'm glad to know you like me better than Nash, Reverie."
My jaw drops so hard it probably hits the pavement.
"G-G-GRAYSON?!"
He swings down from the saddle with practiced ease that speaks of years of experience, landing on the ground with barely a sound despite his size. The white mare—his horse, apparently—nuzzles his bare shoulder affectionately, her nose leaving a damp spot on his skin.
And then I see him.
Really, truly see him in all his glory.
Grayson is shirtless.
Completely, gloriously, ridiculously, absolutely shirtless in the middle of November, where it's cold enough to see your breath.
He's wearing worn jeans that sit low on his hips—and I mean low, showing that V-line that should probably be illegal—dusty brown cowboy boots that have clearly seen years of ranch work, and a black cowboy hat that he pulls off as he approaches, revealing honey-colored hair that's slightly damp with sweat.
That's it. That's the entire outfit. No shirt. No jacket. Just skin, denim, and boots.
His chest is broad and perfectly defined, muscles shifting under golden skin with every movement he makes.
Abs that look like they were personally carved by Michelangelo himself catch the weak winter sunlight filtering through the clouds.
His arms are strong and corded with muscle from ranch work—the kind you can't get in a gym, only from actual physical labor.
There's a light sheen of sweat coating everything despite the cold, making his skin glisten like he's in some kind of cologne commercial.
The maple-honey scent of him is significantly stronger than usual, mixed with horse and hay and leather and saddle soap and pure concentrated Alpha pheromones that my Omega hindbrain is practically purring about.
Brain.exe has officially stopped working.
Please restart system.
Error 404: coherent thoughts not found.
"What are you doing here?" I manage to ask, my voice coming out higher than normal.
Grayson gestures to the white mare.
"This beauty was being stubborn with the other ranchers back home, so I drove over to assist and ride her around town to get her adapted.
She and my other horses are going to be staying up here in Millbrook for the winter since the weather isn't as brutal as Oakridge, and I've got more help available. "
He continues talking, but I'm not hearing a single word.
I'm too busy checking him out from head to toe—shamelessly, obviously, with my phone probably capturing my slack-jawed expression for five thousand people to witness.
"Damn," I breathe out. "You're a hot cowboy rancher, Grayson."
He smirks—this confident, pleased expression that makes him even more attractive somehow.
"Well, yeah, the shirtless thing does it for most people. But it's not intentional, I promise. It's just really hot when you're training and riding horses all day. Had to take my shirt off about an hour ago."
I'm staring at his abs, completely mesmerized.
"Yup. Hot. Mhmm. Very hot. Like... extremely hot."
He chuckles—the sound warm and genuinely amused.
"Did you even hear what I said? About the horses?"
I finally manage to drag my eyes up to his face, feeling my cheeks burn.
"Not a damn thing. Sorry. You were talking, and there were words but also abs and I'm only human."
He laughs even harder, his whole face lighting up with genuine amusement.
"Well damn. Looks like we should absolutely write this scene into that book you wanted to create earlier. What was it called again? You mentioned it at the diner."
"Knotty Christmas Wish!" I say immediately, my enthusiasm returning full force despite my total inability to form coherent sentences around shirtless cowboys.
"But I have to be completely honest with you, Grayson—I can't write for shit.
Like, seriously. My prose is terrible. I use too many commas, and my sentences run on forever, and I can't do dialogue tags to save my life.
BUT!" I hold up one finger. "I can come up with loads of cozy ideas and plot points and character arcs! I'm totally sold on this concept!"
He nods thoughtfully, his expression shifting into what I'm learning is his 'author brain' mode.
"The title is witty. I like it. Very clever with the double meaning and wordplay. Makes you wonder if it's all innocent Christmas magic and wishes like the cover will probably suggest with snowflakes and mistletoe and fairy lights."
I laugh, feeling bold and reckless.
"Hell no! It can't be innocent! The Omega protagonist has to be whipped left, right, and upside down with steamy, epic, absolutely filthy, mind-blowing—"
I pause.