“You can’t just?—”
“I can and I will. Next.”
“Ben.”
“Tessa.” He mimics my exasperated tone perfectly. “You’re doing that thing where you clench your jaw because you wantto strangle me but you also know I’m right. It’s very cute. Keep going.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him I don’t need his help, that I’ve been handling things on my own for years, that I’m perfectly capable of?—
“Stop spiraling and give me the next problem.” He snaps his fingers. “Chop chop, sweetheart. I’ve got a transmission rebuild waiting and you’ve got a fundraiser to save.”
“Did you just ‘chop chop’ me?”
“I did. It felt weird. I won’t do it again.” He grins. “But seriously. Next problem. Let’s go.”
And that’s how it goes. I give him a problem, he offers a solution—usually with a side of commentary about my control issues or my handwriting or the fact that I apparently make the same face when I’m stressed that I make when I’m about to sneeze. Every time I try to protest that I can handle it myself, he just raises an eyebrow and says, “I know you can. But you don’t have to.” And then he adds something insufferable like, “Also, you have muffin crumbs on your chin. Very professional.”
By the time we’ve worked through half my list, the muffin is gone, I’ve called him an asshole twice, and I’m starting to feel like I can breathe again.
“The programs,” I say, checking my spreadsheet. “They need to go to the printer by Wednesday. I still need to finalize all the bachelor bios and?—”
I stop.
Ben is watching me with an expression I can’t quite name.
“The bachelor bios,” he repeats quietly. “Including Nate Thorn, I’m guessing.”
Right. Nate. Who I recruited in the truck yesterday while fleeing from this man and two other alphas. The awkwardness of that hits me fresh.
“He said yes,” I say, a little defensively. “I needed an eighth bachelor.”
“I know.” Ben’s voice is calm. No judgment. “I’m glad you got your lineup filled.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“Look, Tessa. You kind of ran out of there before I could explain. About the auction. About why I said no.”
My stomach flips. “Ben, you don’t have to?—”
“Yeah, I do.” He stands up, suddenly restless. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk. I can’t have this conversation sitting in your office staring at spreadsheets.”
“I have work?—”
“You have a thousand things on your list and you’ve been staring at the same one for three hours. Your eyes are going to fall out.” He holds out his hand. “Come on. Fresh air. Ten minutes. I promise I’ll have you back before the muffin wears off.”
I should say no. I have emails to send, calls to make, a festival that’s not going to plan itself.
But Ben is standing there with his hand outstretched and that look in his eyes, and I’m tired of fighting this.
I take his hand.
The February airis crisp and cold, but the sun is out for the first time since the blizzard. Main Street is bustling with people digging out from the storm—shoveling sidewalks, clearing cars, calling greetings to each other across the snow banks. Honeyridge Falls in recovery mode.
Ben keeps hold of my hand as we walk, and I let him. His palm is warm and calloused against mine, and I’m hyperaware of every point of contact.
We walk in silence for a minute. I can feel him working up to something, the way he does when he’s about to stop joking and be real.
“So,” he finally says. “The auction.”
