“Mine, Diego’s, the bathroom’s. We were all victims that night.”
Zoe’s laughter fills the car again, and something in me eases at the sound. She’s relaxed now, completely different from the tense, mortified woman who emerged from the bathroom this morning.
“You’re almost making me grateful for the burnt pancake,” she says to Diego. “At least it didn’t turn anyone’s vomit neon blue.”
Diego groans. “Please stop. I’m still in mourning for my reputation.”
“Your reputation is safe,” Zoe assures him. “I blame the stove. It’s clearly possessed by the spirit of your vengeful chef.”
She chuckles, and I find myself studying her more carefully. The claiming marks on her neck are visible now that her hair is pulled back in a casual ponytail. They’re not fading. If anything,they look more…there. The sight sends another possessive pulse through me.
“This is it,” Zoe announces as we approach a sprawling parking lot. “Sweetwater Market. Home of reasonable prices and an entire aisle dedicated to breakfast cereal.”
I peer through the window at the bustling store. It’s... ordinary. Fluorescent lighting, faded signage, shopping carts with squeaky wheels. Nothing like the carefully curated organic markets or specialty shops where I usually get groceries delivered from.
“This is where you shop?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, a challenge in them. “Yes, Rett. This is where regular people buy food. You know, the kind that doesn’t require a second mortgage.”
Dane pulls into a parking space, and I try to recalibrate my expectations. This isn’t just a grocery run. This is a chance to connect with Zoe on her terms, in her territory. To be normal. Human. Just men, not alphas.
“Lead the way,” I tell her, swallowing my reservations. “We’re in your hands.”
The hint of surprise in her eyes is worth any discomfort I might feel.
Inside, the market is a sensory assault. Bright lights, competing scents, the squeak of cart wheels, and the constant murmur of dozens of conversations. I feel my shoulders tense instinctively.
“Grab a cart,” Zoe instructs, completely in her element. “Actually, better make it two. We have a lot of ground to cover.”
Dane and I each take a cart while Diego hovers near Zoe, already taking the list from her.
“I can follow the list,” he offers. “Maybe we go by aisle?”
Zoe laughs, gently pushing his hand down. “That’s not how this works. Grocery shopping is an art, not a science. You have to feel it.”
“Feel... groceries?” Dane asks, looking genuinely confused.
“Exactly,” she says, as if that explains everything. “Now, produce first. Always produce first.”
She leads us into a maze of fruits and vegetables, weaving through the crowded aisles without a single misstep. I hang back, watching as she fills a bag with apples, testing each one in her palm before placing it carefully in the bag.
Her familiarity with this mundane task is oddly captivating, and I realize I’m used to seeing women in carefully constructed settings—galas, restaurants, exclusive clubs. Places designed to impress, to create an illusion. But there’s something deeply authentic about Zoe weighing a cantaloupe in her hands, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“You’re staring,” Dane murmurs, suddenly beside me.
I blink, not looking away. “Aren’t you?”
The sight of her explaining the intricacies of avocado ripeness to Diego, who is listening with the intense concentration of a man receiving a divine revelation, makes the corner of my own mouth twitch upward in a smile I don’t even try to fight.
“This is good,” Dane says quietly.
I glance at him. “What?”
He nods toward Zoe.
Before I can respond, a wave of omega scent drifts past as a young couple moves through the produce section. The omega leans into her alpha as they shop. The alpha’s hand rests possessively on the small of her back, guiding her through the crowded aisle.
The scent is sweet, floral. Textbook omega. My gaze slides back to Zoe. A faint, clean fragrance drifts from her as she moves. It’s not a perfume. It’s just… her.
