Chapter 5
Rowan
The house is quiet this early, just soft creaks and the occasional sigh of old pipes. It feels different than my apartment in Heraford—more alive somehow, like it's gently breathing around me.
I slip out of bed, wincing as the floorboards protest. My plan for the day is simple: find a job, like, yesterday.
The small nest egg I have from my severance pay will cover rent for two months, maybe three if I'm careful.
But careful's never been my strong suit, and I'm not about to risk homelessness again.
Fifteen years later, I'm still waiting.
Downstairs, I find the kitchen empty but already showing signs of life. The coffee maker is still warm, and there's a note on the counter in blocky handwriting: COFFEE LEFT. HELP YOURSELF. NOT POISON.
Charming. That has to be Theo.
I pour myself a cup and am pleasantly surprised to find it's actually good—rich and strong without being bitter. Small mercies.
A town map is pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a wine bottle. Vineyard Groves: WHERE EVERYBODY KNOWS YOUR NAME (Whether You Want Them To Or Not).
That's... mildly threatening.
I study the map, trying to get a sense of the layout.
It's small, centered around a town square with shops radiating outward like spokes on a wheel.
The lake is to the east, the vineyard to the west, and residential areas scattered between.
Our house is on the northern edge, close enough to walk to town but far enough to avoid tourist traffic.
Perfect for job hunting on foot.
By 7:30, I'm dressed in what I hope passes for "hire me immediately" casual—jeans, a sweater that doesn't have any suspicious stains, and my one pair of boots that aren't falling apart. I leave a note on the kitchen counter: Gone exploring. Thanks for the coffee. —R
The morning air has that crisp autumn sharpness that makes my lungs feel invigorated.
Vineyard Groves is even prettier by daylight—tree-lined streets with Victorian houses in various states of renovation, flower boxes still blooming despite the season, and actual honest-to-god white picket fences.
It's like someone took every small-town cliché and turned the saturation up to eleven.
I follow the main road toward the town square, passing exactly one coffee shop (Noble Grounds Café, looking moody and mysterious), one bakery (Musings and Morsels, exuding aggressive cheerfulness with pink awnings), and several boutique shops that probably sell things like artisanal soap and wine-themed oven mitts.
On the corner nearest the square, a storefront catches my eye.
Not because it's flashy—it's actually one of the more subdued buildings, painted a soft sage green with large windows—but because of what's inside.
Flowers. Hundreds of them, a riot of color that makes something in my chest loosen just looking at them.
The sign reads "Crystal Clear Florals." A bell tinkles as I push open the door, releasing a wave of humid, fragrant air. It smells like earth and sweetness and growing things.
"Be with you in a minute!" calls a voice from somewhere in the back.
I wander through the shop, trailing my fingers over the edges of buckets filled with dahlias and late-season roses. There's something soothing about being surrounded by living things that don't ask questions or make judgments. Flowers don't care if you're alpha, beta, or omega.
"You're new."
I startle, turning to find a woman watching me from behind a workbench covered in stems and ribbon. She's tall, with tanned skin and close-cropped silver hair, wearing a denim apron splattered with water. Her expression is direct but not unfriendly.
"That obvious, huh?" I ask.
"Small town," she says with a shrug. "I know everyone who likes flowers, and I haven't seen you before." She extends a hand. "Crystal Watson. This is my shop."
"Rowan Whitley," I say, shaking her hand. Her grip is firm, calloused from work. "I just moved here yesterday. From Heraford."
"Heraford to Vineyard Groves," she muses, looking me over with shrewd eyes. "That's quite a change. Running to something or from something?"
I blink, caught off guard by her directness. "I... needed a fresh start."
She nods like this is a perfectly reasonable answer. "Most people do, one way or another."
She gestures to the flowers around us. "See anything you like?"
"All of it," I admit. "I had a window box at my old apartment. Geraniums. They were the only thing I managed to keep alive longer than a month."
"Resilient plants, geraniums," Crystal says, turning back to her arrangement. "Hard to kill, even when neglected."
I get the distinct impression we're not just talking about plants anymore.
"I'm actually looking for a job," I say, deciding to be direct. "I'm an accountant by training, but I'm pretty much open to anything at this point."
Crystal's hands don't pause as she weaves greenery through a frame. "Accountant, huh? Good with numbers?"
"Very good," I nod. "And organized. And I learn fast."
"Hmm." She sets down her clippers, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to check if I have something on my face.
"As it happens, I could use an extra pair of hands around here.
My usual weekend help just left for college, and the holiday season's coming up.
It's not full-time, and it's not accounting, but. .."
My heart leaps. "I'll take it," I say quickly, then try to dial back my obvious desperation. "I mean, I'd be very interested in discussing the opportunity further."
A hint of amusement crosses Crystal's face. "You don't even know what it pays yet."
"It pays?" I quip. "I'm sold."
The bell over the door jingles again, and Crystal's expression shifts to something like resigned affection. "Brace yourself," she mutters. "The Welcome Committee has arrived."
Before I can ask what she means, three women burst into the shop in a flurry of conversation and laughter. They stop abruptly when they spot me, like a sitcom freeze-frame.
"New person!" exclaims the woman. She's wearing a flour-dusted apron and has her dark box braids piled on top of her head in a messy bun, curls escaping everywhere.
She bounces forward, hand outstretched. "I'm Lala.
I own the bakery next door. Are you visiting?
Moving here? Just passing through? Do you like pastries?
Silly question, everyone likes pastries. "
I shake her hand, slightly dazed by the barrage of questions. "Rowan. Just moved here yesterday. And yes to pastries, always."
"I knew it!" she says triumphantly, turning to her companions. "Didn't I say we'd have a new resident soon? The universe told me."
"The universe, or the fact that you eavesdropped on Theo at the clinic yesterday when he was talking about their new roommate?
" says the tallest of the three, a woman with a chic pixie cut and beautiful dark brown skin.
She offers me a more restrained smile. "I'm Avianna.
I run the bookstore attached to Lala's bakery.
She's Morsels, I'm Musings. Don't mind her, she thinks she's psychic. "
"I don't think, I know," Lala corrects, then stage-whispers to me, "I predicted the last three couples in town getting together. It's my gift."
The third woman steps forward, offering a shy smile.
She's the shortest of the three, softer around the edges, with wide eyes and a gentle demeanor that immediately makes me think beta.
"I'm Billie," she says. "I work at the daycare over at The Lake Resort.
You must be the new roommate at Jasper's place? "
Word travels fast in Small Town, USA.
"That's me," I confirm, wondering just how much they already know. "The unwitting fourth wheel."
"Oh, those boys needed some feminine energy in that house," Lala declares. "It's all hammers and spreadsheets and sports channels over there. Tragic waste of alpha potential."
Avianna rolls her eyes. "You'll have to excuse Lala. She thinks everyone in town is one blind date away from true love."
"I can't help it if my nose can smell compatibility from a mile away, that's just the way I was made.
It's a gift and a curse," Lala says solemnly, then brightens.
"But enough about me! Tell us everything about you.
Where are you from? What brings you to our little slice of heaven?
How are you handling the three-headed alpha monster so far? "
There's something disarming about her enthusiasm, but I still feel my guard rising. Living in the city taught me that friendly questions often mask ulterior motives.
"Heraford, job change, and they've been... accommodating," I answer, keeping it vague.
"Heraford!" Avianna perks up. "I love Heraford. Which neighborhood?"
"Frog Hollow," I lie. I actually lived in a tiny studio in Parkville, but the less specific information I give, the better.
"What kind of work did you do there?" Billie asks, her tone genuinely curious rather than probing.
"Accounting," I say, which is technically true even if my last position was more "glorified data entry with occasional spreadsheet manipulation" than actual accounting.
"And now?" Lala presses.
"Now I'm figuring things out," I say carefully. "Starting fresh. Actually, Crystal just offered me some hours here at the shop."
"Trial basis," Crystal clarifies from where she's resumed her arrangement. "She hasn't even filled out paperwork yet."
"Perfect!" Lala claps her hands. "That means you'll be right here in the square with us. We can have lunch breaks together and I can keep you supplied with scones."
"She's trying to fatten up the entire town," Avianna stage-whispers. "It's her villainous master plan."
Something warm and unexpected unfurls in my chest—a feeling I haven't had in weeks. Maybe months. It takes me a moment to recognize it as a tentative sense of belonging.
These women don't know me. They have no reason to welcome me with such immediate acceptance. And yet here they are, folding me into their circle like it's the most natural thing in the world.
It's strange. And nice. And slightly terrifying.
"So, the practical details," Crystal says, cutting through the chatter. "Can you start tomorrow? Ten to four, Wednesday through Saturday. We'll try it for two weeks and see how it goes."
"Absolutely," I nod eagerly. "Thank you. I really appreciate the opportunity."
"Don't thank me yet," she warns, but there's no real bite to it. "You might run screaming after you see the festival order book."
As Crystal walks me through some basics of the job, Lala, Avianna, and Billie browse the shop, occasionally chiming in with comments or questions directed my way. They're nosy, but in that small-town way that seems born more of genuine interest than malice.
Still, I carefully deflect the more personal inquiries, keeping the conversation focused on Vineyard Groves and my new job. The years of being different—of doctors' visits and confused looks from people when I couldn't tell them what I was—have taught me to keep my guards up.
By the time I leave the shop an hour later, I have a job, a small boxed arrangement Crystal insisted on giving me as a "welcome gift" ("Every home needs flowers, especially that bachelor cave you've moved into"), and three new contacts in my phone thanks to Avianna's insistence that I "might need local friends who aren't testosterone factories. "
Standing in the town square, flowers in hand and autumn sunlight warming my face, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time: hope. Maybe this crazy, impulsive move wasn't the disaster my rational brain keeps insisting it is.
I pull out my phone, thumbs hovering over a text to Pops that I've been drafting and deleting for three hours.
I'm okay. Found a place. Found a job. Don't worry.
I stare at it, then delete it again. I'm not ready. Not yet.
This is my fresh start, my chance to figure out who I am outside of their expectations, outside of the medical mystery that's defined so much of my life. For once, I want to be just Rowan. Not the ‘late bloomer’. Not ‘the undetermined one’. Just me.
As I turn to head back to the house, my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Rowan, it's Mom. Please call me. I know you're upset, but there are things you need to know. Things about James, about your condition. Please, bunny. I'm worried about you.
My throat tightens. How did she get this number? I changed it after I left. Must have been one of the Dads.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, ignoring the tremor in my hands.
Not now. Not today. Today is for new beginnings, not old wounds.
But as I walk back through the picture-perfect streets of Vineyard Groves, her words echo in my mind. Things about James, about your condition.
What does my biological father have to do with the fact that I've never presented? And why does it suddenly matter now, after twenty-eight years of nothing?
Whatever it is, it can wait. I have alphas to avoid, flowers to arrange, and a life to rebuild.
One day at a time.