Chapter 20 Wells
Wells
I’ve never had a problem letting people go.
I am excellent at maintaining distance. It's a skill that has served me well both professionally and personally—the ability to assess situations objectively, to make decisions based on facts rather than feelings, to keep messy emotions from clouding judgment.
So why can't I stop watching her?
Across the town square, Rowan stands on a ladder, carefully hanging paper lanterns from tree branches while Lala steadies the base below.
Avianna passes up more decorations, their laughter carrying across the busy festival grounds as they work.
Rowan's hair is pulled back in a messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face, catching the late afternoon sunlight with hints of bronze and gold.
She looks... happy. Relaxed in a way I rarely see at home, where tension has been building like a summer storm these past few days. Her smile is genuine, her movements easy, her scent carrying notes of contentment that make something in my chest tighten unexpectedly.
"Earth to Wells," Mayor Tillie's voice breaks through my reverie. "The vendor approval forms won't sign themselves."
I drag my attention back to the clipboard in my hands. "Right. Of course."
Tillie follows my gaze, her expression softening with understanding that makes me immediately uncomfortable. "She's fitting in beautifully, isn't she? Almost like she's always been part of our little town."
I make a noncommittal sound, deliberately turning away from the sight of Rowan descending the ladder, laughing at something Lala has said.
"You know," Tillie continues, undeterred by my obvious reluctance to discuss the topic, "sometimes the best things in life are the ones we don't plan for."
"Is there a reason you're waxing philosophical instead of reviewing the fire safety protocols?" I ask, more sharply than intended.
She just pats my arm, unfazed by my tone. "The protocols are fine, dear. Your heart, on the other hand..."
She walks away before I can formulate a suitably professional response, leaving me with the unsettling sensation of having been seen far too clearly.
I return to my duties, forcing myself to focus on the endless details that need attention before the festival officially opens tomorrow.
It's easier when I'm moving, checking items off lists, directing volunteers, solving the small crises that inevitably arise when organizing an event of this scale.
But my eyes keep finding her.
I never expected this. When Theo first suggested renting out the spare room, I saw it as a simple financial transaction—a necessary evil to help us meet the balloon payment. A temporary inconvenience at worst, a neutral presence at best.
I never anticipated Rowan Whitley with her dry humor and stubborn determination and the way her scent fills our house like it belongs there. I never anticipated how natural it would feel to have her at our breakfast table, how empty the place seems when she's not there.
I never anticipated attachment.
A movement across the square catches my attention. A man I don't recognize—tall, dark-haired, with the unmistakable confident stance of an alpha—is watching Rowan with undisguised interest. Festival season always brings tourists, some less welcome than others.
I tell myself it's nothing to be concerned about. Rowan is perfectly capable of handling unwanted attention. She's made that abundantly clear, especially after the coffee shop incident with Ben the beta.
But when the strange alpha starts moving in her direction, something primal and protective flares in my chest.
Before I've made a conscious decision, I'm crossing the square, moving through the crowd with purpose. I reach Rowan just as the stranger approaches, sliding smoothly into her space as if we've been in the middle of a conversation.
"The lanterns look perfect," I say, placing a hand lightly on the small of her back—a casual touch that nonetheless sends a jolt of awareness through me.
"Mayor Tillie will be thrilled."
Rowan glances up at me, one eyebrow raised in question, but she doesn't pull away from my touch. "I'm sure she has a spreadsheet somewhere tracking optimal lantern placement."
"Three, actually," I confirm, allowing a small smile. "Color-coded by festival zone."
The stranger has paused a few feet away, clearly reassessing the situation now that another alpha is present. When Rowan's scent mingles with mine—the result of my proximity and the light touch at her back—he takes a step back, then turns and melts back into the crowd.
Mission accomplished. I should remove my hand, step away, return to my actual responsibilities.
I don't.
"What was that about?" Rowan asks, her voice low enough that only I can hear.
"What was what about?" I counter, feigning ignorance even as my thumb traces a small circle against the fabric of her shirt, almost of its own volition.
She gives me a look that says she's not buying it for a second. "The territorial alpha routine. Complete with scent-marking."
"I wasn't—" I begin, then stop myself. No point in lying when she's clearly aware of exactly what I was doing. "There was an alpha watching you. He looked... predatory."
"So you decided to stake a claim?" Her tone is challenging, but there's something else beneath it—a warmth that suggests she's not entirely displeased.
"I decided to discourage unwanted attention," I clarify, though we both know it's more complicated than that.
"And if it wasn't unwanted?" she presses, her gaze steady on mine.
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. I'm saved from having to answer by Lala's theatrical throat-clearing.
"Not to interrupt whatever is happening here," she says, her expression gleeful, "but we do have about fifty more lanterns to hang before sunset."
"Right," Rowan says, stepping away from my touch with obvious reluctance. "Back to work."
Lala sidles up to me as Rowan returns to the ladder. "So," she says in a stage whisper, "when's the mating ceremony? Should I start designing the cake now, or...?"
I nearly choke on air. "There's no—we're not—it's not like that."
"Uh-huh," she says, clearly unconvinced. "That's why you're looking at her like she hung the moon instead of just some paper lanterns."
"Don't you have decorating to do?" I ask, desperate to end this conversation before Rowan overhears.
"Fine, fine," Lala says, holding up her hands in surrender. "But just so you know, denial isn't a good color on you. It clashes with your aura."
She flounces away, leaving me unsettled and off-balance. I retreat to the safety of my clipboard and vendor forms, trying to forget the feeling of Rowan's warmth beneath my palm, the way her scent seemed to reach for mine.
It doesn't work.
By the time I get home that evening, the house is quiet. Theo's working late at the clinic, and Jasper's truck is missing from the driveway. It should be a relief—space to decompress after a day of constant interaction, time to center myself before tomorrow's festival chaos.
Instead, it feels hollow until I hear soft humming from the kitchen.
Rowan stands at the counter, Gerald perched on her shoulder like a tiny furry parrot as she prepares his evening meal.
She's still in her festival volunteer clothes, her hair now completely loose from its earlier bun, falling in waves down her back.
The domesticity of the scene hits me with unexpected force—this image of her in our kitchen, at home, belonging.
"Hey," she says, glancing up when she notices me in the doorway. "I didn't hear you come in."
"Just got back," I say, setting down my keys. "Festival preparations all on track?"
"According to your very efficient color-coded spreadsheets? Yes." She offers a small smile as she uses a tiny syringe to feed Gerald, who kneads her shoulder enthusiastically.
"Though Lala is lobbying hard for 'just one more' string of fairy lights on the gazebo."
"Of course she is," I sigh, but there's no real irritation behind it. Lala's excessive decorating tendencies are as much a part of Vineyard Groves festivals as Mayor Tillie's opening speeches.
I should leave her to it—go upstairs, review tomorrow's schedule, maintain the careful distance I've been trying to reestablish since our moment at the festival grounds yesterday.
Instead, I find myself moving closer, drawn by the simple intimacy of the scene, by the way Gerald purrs in contentment, by the softness in Rowan's eyes as she watches him eat.
"He's getting big," I observe, reaching out to gently stroke the kitten's head with one finger.
Our arms brush with the movement, another small point of contact that feels far more significant than it should.
"Almost doubled in size since you all let me keep him," she agrees, her voice warm with affection. "Though Jasper still pretends to be annoyed when he climbs on the furniture."
"Jasper pretends a lot of things," I say quietly.
She looks up at me, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes. "Don't we all?"
The question hangs in the air between us, weighted with all the things we've been carefully not saying these past weeks. All the feelings we've been pretending don't exist. All the possibilities we've been refusing to acknowledge.
What if we stopped pretending? What if she never left?
The thought materializes fully formed, dangerous in its appeal—Rowan staying beyond her trial month, becoming a permanent part of our household, our lives. Her scent mingling with ours not just temporarily but indefinitely. Her presence filling the spaces we didn't even realize were empty.
It's an impossible fantasy. She has her own life, her own plans, complex family issues waiting to be resolved.
The text from her father still hangs over her like a cloud, though she's refused to discuss it with any of us.
And even if she wanted to stay, the complications of three alphas and one omega under one roof are. ..significant.
And yet.
Gerald finishes his meal and mews contentedly, breaking the moment. Rowan sets the syringe in the sink and lifts him from her shoulder, cradling him against her chest.
"I should get him settled," she says, her voice slightly unsteady. "Big day tomorrow."
I nod, stepping back to give her space. "Yes. The festival."
"Right. The festival." She hesitates, then adds, "Thank you, by the way. For earlier. With the alpha. It was... considerate."
"Anytime," I say, meaning it more than I should.
She smiles, a small, private thing that makes my chest ache, then slips past me and up the stairs, leaving me alone with thoughts I have no business entertaining.
I tell myself to be rational. To remember that this was always temporary. To focus on the practical realities rather than impossible what-ifs.
But as I move through the quiet house, preparing for bed, I can't shake the image of Rowan in our kitchen, Gerald on her shoulder, humming softly as if she's exactly where she belongs.
Seven days left in her trial month. Seven days to figure out what happens next.
Seven days to decide if I'm brave enough to acknowledge what I've been feeling—what we've all been feeling—before it's too late.