The roads are clearer now, the snow tapering off into flurries as I roll down Main Street, following Coach’s directions: past the post office, a few shuttered storefronts, a sign advertising the Frost Fair with a cartoon moose on skates, and then, there it is.
Wolfe’s Hardware.
The building is old and charming in that hasn’t-changed-for-thirty-years kind of way. There are big windows full of snowshovels and faded signs, and a hand-painted logo on the glass door. Below it, in smaller font:
If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.
I park out front, kill the engine, and let the silence settle in. For a second I just sit there, my hands still on the wheel as I stare at the warped sign.
It’s weird howrealit all suddenly feels. There’s no going back now—no job waiting in a big-city clinic where I pretend not to hear the sexist comments from across the weight room, and no tiny apartment with peeling walls and a neighbor who communicates exclusively through passive-aggressive post-its about hallway noise and recycling etiquette. It’s just me and my car, along with…
Well.
Whatever the hell this next chapter is supposed to be.
I flex my fingers, crack my neck, and swallow down the tight lump that’s been living in my chest for weeks. I don’t have a fallback plan or a safety net; only sheer stubbornness and enough professional credibility to bluff my way through the small-town nonsense I’m about to walk into.
With that in mind, I take a breath, pop the door open, and step out into the cold.
The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the heavy warmth that hits me like a gut punch. The place isbaking—the kind of heat that makes my scalp itch and my bones ache, probably powered by an ancient wood stove and the sheer willpower of a man who doesn’t believe in central air.
Under the heat, scent hits me too: sawdust, metal, and oil, as well as something heavier that’s threaded through it all. This alpha’s scent isn’t sharp, like Beau’s had been. There’s no pine-and-ice bite. This is older and denser, soaked into every board of the place.
I tug off my gloves and take a look around.
The store is packed with all sorts of practical...things.There are arrays of power tools, garden shears, hunting knives, and snow shovels lined up in a wall of quiet threats. There’s no flair or branding, certainly no trendy packaging; just the kind of front where things work, or they’re not stocked. It’s both functional and dependable, and I can’t help but think of how that’s a little like the town itself.
“Be with you in a minute,” a deep, clipped voice calls from somewhere in the back.
A moment later, he emerges, and even if I haven’t been warned, I would have known without a doubt that this alpha is Beau Wolfe’s father.
He looks to be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties; built like a slab of granite—and just as expressive. He’s all broad shoulders and moves like a man who’s never rushed a damn thing in his life, with the kind of quiet weight that fills the space before he even speaks.
He’s dressed in a threadbare flannel with a gray beard that’s trimmed close: no style or softness, but a piece of armor, and his eyes are the exact same shade of blue as Beau's.
“You lost?”
His scent rolls ahead of him as he comes closer, threaded with the same stubborn backbone I felt radiating from his son in thediner. He looks me over as he approaches, though his gaze isn't curious, nor kind.
“No.”
My instincts want me to dip my chin, but I ignore them, squaring my shoulders instead.
“My name’s Emery Tate. I was told my rental keys were left here?”
“Ah,” he says after a beat. “The physical therapist.”
I nod.
“That’s me.”
He pivots toward the counter, grunting as though this whole interaction has already worn out its welcome. I watch as he ducks behind it. It’s clear he’s the kind of man who thinks silence is a perfectly acceptable conversation, and with that alpha presence behind it, it’s meant to press, to push.
“Front key and back key are inside,” he says when he re-emerges with a plain white envelope, my name scrawled across the front in blocky, no-nonsense handwriting. “The heat kicks in slow, so don’t wait to turn it on, or you’ll regret it.”
I nod, tucking the envelope into my coat pocket.
“Appreciate the warning.”
