Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Mia
Morning in Sweetwater Pines is supposed to be quiet.
Birdsong. Sprinklers ticking. An elderly alpha walking a geriatric golden retriever at a pace that suggests both of them have nowhere to be and all day to get there.
That’s what I ordered when I moved here.
So when I shuffle to the front window fresh out of bed and see my lawn… my brain stalls out like an old computer trying to load a file too big.
There is stuff everywhere.
Not leaves. Not a kid’s soccer ball that bounced over the hedge.
Packages.
Dozens of them.
A whole gaming chair sits in my grass like it fell from the sky. It’s one of those expensive ones with the racing stripes and the aggressive posture that looks like it’s meant to support a man through the emotional ordeal of losing a match in a video game.
Next to it: a tower of boxes marked FRAGILE in screaming red tape. Several smaller packages from , FedEx, something that looks like it came from a specialty electronics store all clustered near the walkway.
And, draped over my baby hydrangea bush, is a black leather jacket.
I stare so hard my eyes go dry.
I turn my head toward the side house. The neighbor’s driveway is empty. Their porch is clear.
I look back at the boxes.
I squint at the label on the nearest one.
DELIVER TO: 126 PINE LANE.
I live at 124.
The delivery driver must have dumped the entire pack’s life onto my lawn instead of theirs.
I exhale through my nose, long and slow.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “Okay.”
This is a test. This is the suburbs’ way of seeing if I’m the kind of neighbor who posts a passive-aggressive photo on the community app with the caption Does anyone recognize these items? :) :)
Or if I’m the kind of neighbor who handles things like a functional adult.
I rub my forehead.
Functional adult. That’s me. I can do that.
I head back inside, pull on leggings and an oversized shirt, shove my feet into sneakers, and toss my hair into a bun. I don’t bother with makeup because I’m going outside for a minute, not presenting myself to society.
The morning air is crisp when I step onto the porch, but the scent of them is faint today. Just the lingering trace of leather and electronics on the boxes.
I start gathering.
The smaller boxes are easy. I stack three against my hip and march them across the grass to their driveway.
The gaming chair is another story.
It weighs as much as a small vehicle.
I squat, grip the plastic strapping, and heave. It moves three inches.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I hiss.
I drag it.
It makes a sound like a dying robot as I haul it over the property line, sweating in the cool air. By the time I’ve moved the monitor stands, the crate, and the jacket to rescue my hydrangea, which looks traumatized I might add, I’m out of breath and awake enough to regret my life choices.
I stand on their porch, surrounded by their stuff, and hesitate.
It’s 8:00 AM. Knocking feels aggressive. But leaving thousands of dollars of equipment on their porch in plain view feels negligent.
I adjust my grip on the leather jacket. It smells like black espresso and expensive cologne. Then I knock. Softly.
No answer.
I knock again, harder.
A thump inside. A muffled curse. The sound of someone tripping over something hollow.
The door swings open.
It’s the strawberry-blonde. He is wearing low-slung gray sweatpants and absolutely nothing else.
His hair is sticking up in four different directions like he slept in a wind tunnel and there’s a pillow crease on his cheek. His moss-green eyes are half-lidded, bright with confusion, until they land on me.
Then they sweep over the mountain of boxes behind me.
His eyes go wide.
“Oh my god,” he breathes. “Did we…did we leave that?”
“Delivery guy,” I say, breathless. “He missed your driveway by about twenty feet.”
He stares at the pile, then at me. His expression morphs into pure horror.
“You carried all this?”
“I dragged the chair.” I gesture to the tracks in the grass.
“Oh my god,” he says again. “You’re a literal angel. They weren’t supposed to deliver this stuff until eleven.”
He steps back, ushering me in. “Please come in. If I let you walk away after you hauled a server rack across the lawn, I’m going to hell.”
“I should—”
“Coffee,” he interrupts. “We have the good stuff. Please. It’s the least I can do. I’m Declan, by the way.”
He offers a hand, realizes he’s holding the door, and grimaces.
“I’m Mia,” I say, holding out the leather jacket. He takes it with a wince, draping it over a nearby crate.
He looks so genuinely distressed that my resolve cracks. Plus, my caffeine headache is starting to throb.
“Okay,” I say. “Just for a second.”
I step inside.
The house is gorgeous. High ceilings, dark wood. But the vibe is pure chaos.
And pure pack.
We walk into the living room, and I stop dead.
It’s a nest.
There’s no other word for it.
The furniture is still wrapped in plastic, but it has been pushed to the edges of the room. In the center, on a massive plush rug, is a tangle of blankets, pillows, and men.
The twins are asleep.
One is sprawled on his back, shirtless and snoring softly. The other is curled on his side, his face pressed into a pillow, a dark t-shirt riding up his torso.
It’s intimate. Unfiltered.
It’s the most pack thing I’ve ever seen.
And standing in the kitchen doorway, watching them with a mug in his hand, is the beta.
Unlike the others, he’s fully dressed in jeans and a black shirt. He looks awake, composed.
He looks at Declan. Then at the open door. Then at me.
His eyes widen slightly.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is the same rough, warm timbre from last night, but clearer now.
“Hi,” I say, feeling suddenly incredibly underdressed in my leggings and bun.
“The delivery guy dumped the load on her lawn,” Declan whispers loudly. “She brought it over. She dragged the chair, Eli. The chair.”
Eli. Okay. The beta is Eli.
Eli’s gaze snaps to me. A flicker of genuine pain crosses his face.
“He did what?”
“Wrong address,” I say quickly. “It’s fine.”
“It is not fine,” Eli says. He sets his mug down and walks toward me.
He moves with a steady, grounding grace that is completely different from the alphas’ sprawling energy. He stops in front of me, close enough that I catch his scent again.
Oats. Freshly baked bread. Warmth.
“I apologize,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “I was tracking the shipment. It’s supposed to come at eleven. It’s not even marked as delivered yet.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Really.”
On the floor, the twin on his back stirs.
He stretches, arms reaching up, and blinks his eyes open. He sees Declan. Then Eli.
Then me.
His eyes go huge.
“Rhys,” he hisses, kicking his brother’s leg. “Rhys. The hot neighbor is here.”
I feel my face catch fire.
Rhys, the one curled on his side, groans, a low, gravelly sound. He cracks one eye open, and his gaze lands on me. He takes in my messy bun, the oversized shirt I’m drowning in, the blush I can feel spreading down my neck.
He closes his eye again.
“Smells good,” he rumbles.
“EXTREMELY good,” the first twin agrees, sitting up and raking a hand through his hair. He grins at me, sleepy and charming and dangerous. “Hi. I’m Knox. Ignore the drool. That lump is Rhys.”
“I’m Mia,” I squeak.
Eli sighs, and it’s the sound of a man carrying the weight of the world.
“Coffee,” Eli says firmly, steering me toward the kitchen and away from the alphas waking up on the floor. “Come. Before they start asking you to marry them.”
I follow him, heart pounding.
Declan follows us, leaning against the counter as Eli pours a fresh mug.
“Black?” Eli asks.
“Please.”
He hands it to me, fingers avoiding the rim so I don’t burn myself.
“Thank you,” I say.
Eli leans his hip against the counter, watching me over the rim of his own mug. “So. You’ve met the chaos.”
“I have.”
“We run a location-sharing app,” Declan explains, grabbing a granola bar from a box on the counter. “It went viral. We’re scaling. Hence the servers. Hence the lack of sleep.”
“And the drilling,” Eli adds dryly.
“And the drilling,” Declan nods.
“You guys are…intense,” I say.
Knox appears in the doorway, pulling a t-shirt over his head. “We’re brilliant. And rich. And charming.”
Rhys wanders in behind him, looking like a thundercloud that needs caffeine. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He doesn’t speak, just watches me with dark, heavy charcoal eyes.
“We are loud,” Eli corrects. “And disorganized.” He looks at me, his light-blue eyes serious. “We’re usually better than this. Launch week destroys us.”
“It’s fine,” I say, sipping the coffee. It’s perfect. “I work freelance. I understand deadlines.”
“See?” Declan says. “She gets it. She’s one of us.”
Eli shoots him a warning look.
That’s when a knock on the back door makes everyone jump.
Eli moves to answer it. It’s Tom, the older neighbor from down the street, holding a Tupperware container. He came by to meet me when I had visited the house weeks ago to make sure I got my measurements right. Now he has the same genuine smile on his face that he offered me then.
“Morning!” Tom chirps. “Saw the trucks. You boys alive?”
“Barely,” Eli says.
Tom spots me. “Ah! Mia! Good to see you meeting the neighbors.”
I wave awkwardly.
“Just reminding you all,” Tom says, “Neighborhood barbecue is this Saturday. You boys promised to host.”
Silence falls over the kitchen.
Eli closes his eyes for a brief second.
“Right,” Eli says. “Hosting.” He turns back to the room, gaze sliding over the mess, his half-awake pack, then stopping on me.
He exhales.
“We’re having a barbecue,” he says, voice flat.
Knox snorts.
Eli ignores him. “Mia. Please come.”
My stomach does a nervous little flip.
“To the barbecue?”
“Yes,” Eli says. “So there is at least one normal person there to buffer us from the HOA.”
“We’re normal.” Declan takes a bite out of the granola bar.
“You answered the door naked,” Eli points out.
Declan looks down at his sweatpants. “I’m wearing pants.”
Eli looks back at me. His gaze is steady. Safe. But there’s a glint of humor in it that makes something in my chest tingle.
“I promise we’ll be…” He pauses.
“Professional?” I offer.
Eli smiles. It’s a slow, devastating thing that transforms his tired face.
“I was going to say ‘wearing shirts,’” he says. “But professional works too.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll come.”
“Good.”
“Looking forward to it!” Tom beams, then points a finger at Declan. “And glad to see you boys wasting no time. You only asked me yesterday if the ‘pretty brunette at 124’ was single, and look at you now! Coffee already.”
The silence that hits the kitchen is absolute.
Vacuum-sealed.
Deadly.
Declan chokes on his granola bar.
Knox freezes halfway through pulling his t-shirt down.
Rhys, still leaning against the doorframe, goes completely still, his dark eyes snapping to Tom.
Eli sighs. A long, suffering sound of a man whose pack has zero chill.
Tom, bless his oblivious heart, just smiles. “Alright, see you kids Saturday!”
He leaves and the door clicks shut.
I am standing in the middle of their kitchen, holding a mug of coffee, while my face slowly turns into a supernova.
Asked if the pretty brunette was single.
Yesterday.
I look at Declan. He is fascinated by the wrapper of his granola bar.
My gaze shifts to the twins. Knox is suddenly very busy straightening his shirt. Rhys just watches me, his gaze heavy and hot.
Then my gaze shifts to Eli. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mia…”
“I should go,” I say, my voice an octave higher than usual. “I really should go.”
“Mia, wait—”
“I’ll see you Saturday!” I squeak.
I set the mug down on the counter with a clatter and basically sprint for the front door.
“I’ll walk you out,” Eli says immediately, matching my pace.
On the porch, I look back. Eli is at the front door, filling the space with his broad shoulders, looking down at me. He doesn’t look embarrassed. He looks… intent.
“Tom has a big mouth,” he says quietly.
“It’s fine,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself like a shield. “Neighbors talk.”
“We asked,” Eli admits, his voice rough. “Because we noticed you. And we wanted to know.”
My breath stops in my chest.
Eli watches me, the morning sun catching the ash-blond of his hair. He smells like safety and fresh bread, and for a second, I want to lean in.
I step back instead.
“See you Saturday, Eli.”
“See you, Mia.”
I walk back to my house, my heart beating a staccato rhythm by the time I reach inside and lock the door. I lean against it, taking a deep breath of my lemon-cleaner air.
Asked if she was single.
They are chaotic. They are messy. They are loud.
And they are interested.
I push off the door and head for my laptop.
I have emails to answer. I have a content calendar to plan. I have rent to pay.
I am going to work. I am going to be professional.
And I am absolutely, one hundred percent, not going to panic about the fact that the pack next door was asking about me before they even knew my name.