Chapter 45
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Zoe
“No, no, no, you’re holding it all wrong.”
I look up from the massive, graffiti-style painting we’re all trying to hang in the main living area. Tristan is standing with his hands on his hips, a look of profound artistic suffering on his face as he critiques Dane’s technique.
“It’s a hammer, Tristan,” Dane says, his voice a low, patient rumble. “Not a Fabergé egg. You hit the nail with the metal part.”
“But you’re lacking finesse!” Tristan insists. “Your swing is all brute force.”
“It’s a nail,” Dane repeats, his expression unchanging.
From my spot on the floor, where I’m trying to direct this chaotic operation, I can’t help but laugh. This has been my life for the past two weeks. This loud, chaotic, and surprisingly wonderful madness.
The disastrous date at Solitude feels like a lifetime ago. Since our do-over at The Anchor, the formal, stilted performances are gone, replaced by... this. By real, messy, everyday life.
We don’t do “dates” anymore. We do... hardware store runs that turn into intense debates over the merits of different types of drywall anchors.
We do late-night arguments over which movie to watch that are more entertaining than the movie itself.
We do mornings filled with the comfortable, overlapping scents of Dane’s precise coffee and Diego’s soulful cooking.
“Zoe’s right,” Diego says, siding with Tristan for once. “You need to feel the spirit of the nail, Dane.”
Dane just looks at the two of them, then at me, a silent, deadpan plea for sanity in his pale blue eyes.
I just grin back at him. “Sorry, big guy. You’re on your own with this one.”
He sighs, a long-suffering sound, and turns back to the wall, hammer in hand. The familiar, comfortable bickering washes over me, and I realize with a jolt that this chaotic, insane penthouse is starting to feel more like a home than any place I’ve ever lived.
And that is a terrifying, thrilling, and completely undeniable truth.
But… The alphas are still in pain.
I can see it in the tight lines around their eyes when they think I’m not looking, in the way they sometimes press their fingers to their temples when a wave of static hits particularly hard. But they’re coping.
More importantly, they’re not pretending to be perfect. They’re just being themselves. Loud, ridiculous, sometimes annoying, always fascinating.
And I’m starting to think that might be exactly what I need.
The thought is still echoing in my head a few days later, on a bright Saturday morning.
The pack has a rare, unscheduled day off, and a restless energy is humming through the penthouse.
Tristan is trying to teach Dane how to play a video game, an endeavor that is resulting in a lot of stoic silence from Dane and a string of creative curses from Tristan.
Rett is on a conference call in his office, and I’m sitting at the kitchen island, nursing a coffee, when Diego comes in, a look of profound dissatisfaction on his face as he peers into the now-well-stocked refrigerator.
“It’s no good,” he says with a sigh.
“What’s no good?” I ask.
“The tomatoes,” he says, his tone deeply tragic. “They’re from the grocery store. They look like tomatoes, but they have no soul. No... sol.”
I can’t help but laugh. “No soul?”
“The sun,” he clarifies, a passionate fire lighting up his eyes. “You can’t get real, sun-ripened tomatoes from a chain supermarket. For that, you need to go to the source.” He turns to me, his eyes bright with a sudden, brilliant idea. “We should go. All of us. To the farmer’s market downtown.”
Before I can even answer, he calls out. “Tristan, Dane, get your shoes on!” He then marches to Rett’s office and knocks once before sticking his head inside. I can’t hear what he says, but a moment later, Rett emerges, already shrugging on a light jacket, a look of resigned amusement on his face.
And that’s how, twenty minutes later, I find myself in the middle of the crowded, chaotic Sweetwater Farmer’s Market, surrounded by my four alphas.
“No, absolutely not,” Diego says, holding up a perfectly ripe heirloom tomato and glaring at Tristan. “I am not putting pineapple on pizza.”
“It’s sweet and savory,” Tristan argues, already tossing the offending fruit into our shopping basket. “Tell him, Zoe.”
I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “I’m staying out of this one.”
They bicker like a very dysfunctional family.
Not that I’m complaining. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching my alphas—
I stop mid-thought, my brain stumbling over the two words. My alphas. Where in the hell did that come from?
I force the thought away, my cheeks flushing with a sudden, unexpected heat. It’s just a slip of the tongue. A mental typo. It doesn’t mean anything.
I try to refocus, watching them navigate the crowded, chaotic market.
Rett moves with purpose, checking items off a list on his phone as if this is a business meeting.
Dane is on constant alert, his eyes scanning the crowd, his body positioned to shield me from the press of people.
Tristan flirts shamelessly with every vendor, charming them into giving us samples and discounts.
And Diego... Diego is in his element. His hands move over produce with reverence, fingers testing firmness, bringing items to his nose to inhale their scent.
His face lights up when he finds something perfect.
A bunch of fresh basil, a wheel of artisan cheese, a loaf of crusty bread still warm from the oven.
“Here,” he says, breaking off a piece of the bread and holding it to my lips. “Try this.”
I take the offered morsel. The bread is perfect—crisp on the outside, soft and warm on the inside. But it’s the look on Diego’s face as he watches me taste it that makes heat pool in my belly. His eyes are warm, attentive, as if my enjoyment is the only thing that matters.
“Good?” he asks, his voice low.
I nod, swallowing. “Amazing.”
His smile is slow and satisfied. “I’ll make crostini with it tonight. With that goat cheese and those figs.”
It’s such a simple thing. Bread and cheese. But the easy way he says it. Like it’s a given. Like of course, he’s going to cook for me tonight. It makes my stomach do a slow, warm flip.
Rett appears at our side, glancing at his watch. “We should get the seafood last, so it stays fresh.”
Diego rolls his eyes but nods. “Yes, alpha,” he says, the teasing clear in his voice.
Rett’s eyes narrow, but there’s a slight smile on his lips.
We move through the market like a strange five-person organism.
I can feel the eyes on us. The four Sterling alphas are not exactly subtle, especially when they’re flanking a single, unmarked beta.
I see the whispers, the nudges, the furtive glances from a pair of omegas at a flower stall, their eyebrows raised in silent, gossipy question.
A month or two ago, it would have sent me into a spiral of mortification.
Now? I just don’t care.
Let them look. Let them whisper. They don’t know the full story.
They don’t know about the quiet comfort of Diego’s cooking, or the way Tristan’s real, non-performative laugh can light up a room.
They don’t know about Rett’s surprising, secret vulnerability, or the steady, grounding presence of the man walking silently beside me.
We’re halfway down the third row when it happens: the air changes. A hush pulls across the vendor chatter like someone turned down the volume.
Dane senses it first. His hand finds my lower back. “Two o’clock,” he murmurs, not looking. “Long lens. Second at four o’clock.”
Tristan’s smile doesn’t falter, but his shoulders shift subtly. “Ah, Sweetwater’s finest. Wonder which fruit stand they’ll credit with breaking the internet.”
Diego makes a soft sound in his throat. Rett’s eyes go midnight.
I inhale. It would be so easy to let them build their alpha diamond around me, hustle me to the car, disappear in tinted glass. Except that’s not who I am, and it’s not who I want us to be.
“Okay,” I say quietly, smoothing my palm down the leg of my jeans. “We do this my way.”
Four big bodies pivot to me like I just called a play.
“If it’s okay with you…we just…ignore them,” I keep my voice calm. “We look boring. We’re here for tomatoes. That’s the story.” I look up at Rett last because he’s the hardest to sway when his hackles are up. “Let me steer.”
There’s the smallest beat of resistance, then his jaw loosens. A short nod. “You steer.”
“Great.” I turn to the basil vendor nearby and raise my voice just enough to carry. “Do you have any Genovese?”
Her eyes flick from my face to the men flanking me, widening with a mix of nerves and delight. “Oh! Of—of course.” She slides a crate forward.
“Perfect,” I say, leaning in to sniff a handful like it’s the only thing in the world. I angle my body just slightly so the nearest photographer’s line of sight captures basil, not my throat.
The first shutter starts. Then another, catching up. A few passersby realize what’s happening. Phones appear. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, but I hold steady.
Diego catches it instantly. He laughs, warm as sunlight, and tips his head to the vendor. “You have to watch her,” he tells her, loud enough to carry. “If she’s allowed to smell basil for more than two minutes, we leave with the whole crate.”
The vendor laughs, visibly relaxing. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
“Add the basil,” I say, handing cash to her. “And… could we grab two of your heirlooms?”
Rett steps in. He picks up some parsley, turns it in his hand like it’s the market’s Mona Lisa, and then drops into easy small talk about how rich it is and how the vendor must have really perfected their farming technique.
Tristan grins like he’s been waiting for this his whole life. He gasps, eyes huge. “Is that—oh no—are those kumquats?” He claps a hand over his heart. “My one weakness.” Then he peels off in a trail of charm as he peppers the citrus vendor with absurd, irresistible questions.
Dane doesn’t move more than an inch. One large palm stays at the middle of my back.
I take one last breath and turn toward the closest camera with a look that says: get your shot. And then we’re going back to our shopping.
The shutter chatter spikes, then drops when they realize I’m not going to flinch or sprint or sob.
I give them ten seconds of basil and polite nothing, then I turn back to the vendor and ask about recipes for pesto without pine nuts because “we have a nut allergy in the family,” and out of the corner of my eye I see Rett’s mouth twitch.
The crowd ripple softens. The paparazzi get bored and slowly file away. Tristan returns with a paper cup of kumquats he paid three times market price for. He presses one into my palm, murmurs, “You were perfect,” and pops one into his own mouth like he earned it.
“You were loud,” Dane mutters to him, but there’s a ghost of a smile in his eyes.
When we turn down the next aisle, I feel the tiny tremor in Rett’s hand as his fingers brush mine. I lace them together. He exhales, quiet, like I just let out a stitch he didn’t realize he had.
Diego bumps my shoulder gently. “She steered,” he tells Rett softly, as if he still can’t quite believe it. “We followed.”
“We’ll keep doing that,” Rett says.
A blush creeps up my cheeks.
By the time we leave the market, our arms are full of bags, and Diego is practically vibrating with excitement about the meal he’s going to prepare. The sun is high overhead, the day warm and bright, and I feel a contentment that goes bone-deep.
This is good, I think, watching Diego and Tristan bicker about olive oil while Rett tries to organize our haul and Dane silently takes the heaviest bags. This is really, really good.