She takes one look at me and frowns.
“Sit. Eat. Warm up,” she orders. “You’ve got that big-city, omega-in-regret energy.”
I slide onto the stool at the counter, still half-frozen and entirely too tired to argue.
“Wow. Do you offer that level of emotional readjustment to everyone?”
“Only the cute ones,” she winks, then vanishes into the kitchen again.
“Shelikesyou,” Rob says, disbelief in his voice as he pockets his phone. “That’s rare. Usually she makes new people cry first, then decides if they’re worth feeding.”
“Good to know,” I laugh. “I feel very seen. Deeply judged, but seen.”
I lift the mug and take a sip of the coffee. It’s too hot, slightly bitter, and probably older than my last relationship, but it’s also the best thing that has happened to me in the last two hundred miles.
“You’ll get used to it,” Rob nods as he leans his elbows on the counter. “Iron Lake’s got its quirks. It’s a little rough around the edges, a little too invested in the Moose’s third line, and you will definitely get called ‘hon’ by strangers twice your age, but... it grows on you.”
I smile into my mug.
“I hope so,” I tell him.
He gives me that soft, amused look again.
“Well, Emery Tate: welcome to Iron Lake. You’re officially the most exciting thing to happen here since we ran outta wings on game night and nearly started a town riot.”
I’m mid-sip again when I feel it: a low hum of instinct deep in my chest.
My senses sharpen, and then, I seehim.
He steps through the door, then makes his way across the diner toward one of the corner booths in the back left, hidden in shadows. I watch with narrowed eyes as he slouches deep into the vinyl seat with one arm folded across his chest. I can't help it: I squint at the sling over his shoulder, unable to hide my natural interest as his alpha-heavy scent hits me.
Pine. Smoke. Cold metal.
His hair falls in thick, dark waves that brush his shoulders, slightly tousled in that effortless way that means he’s eitherraked a hand through it too many times or hasn’t touched it all day. Either way, it suits him.
The rough stubble shadowing his jaw definitely isn’t the curated kind, though: it’s pure neglect, and the overall effect is the kind of ruggedness that suggests he could fix your truck, build you a cabin,andruin your peace of mind; all without saying a word.
Everything about him tugs at my instincts, but he doesn’t move, or even seem to notice my presence. Instead, he simply stares across the table, locked in a silent, simmering focus, as if sheer will alone can make the ketchup bottle in the center combust.
He’s wearing a dark, oversized hoodie, worn in the way that says he wanted to disappear; and judging by the sharp set of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, and the sheer volume ofdon’t talk to meradiating off him, he’s succeeding.
Still, something about him pulls at me: a loose thread I know better than to touch, but can’t stop myself from reaching for.
I’m just about to turn away, and it’s then that he looks up; and oh,hell: thoseeyes. They’re blue, sharp, and icy in a way that isn’t cold so much as careful.
Our gazes lock for one beat, two—
and then he looks away.
I lean toward Rob and tilt my head in Captain Broods-a-Lot’s direction.
“Let me guess,” I frown. “One of the Moose?”
Rob follows my line of vision, takes one look, and makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a snort.
“Oh yeah. That’s Beau Wolfe,” he says. “Team captain, local legend, and world-class sulker.”
Huh.
