Right. Work. I have work to do.
I shower, dress, do my makeup with hands that are only slightly unsteady. The flannel is still on my bed when I leave, and I tell myself I’ll deal with it later.
I’ll wash it.
I’ll definitely wash it.
Chapter 4
Milo
Tessa Lang walks into my bar at 2:47 in the afternoon, cheeks pink from the January cold, and I know three things immediately.
One, she hasn’t eaten today. I can tell by the sharp edge to her scent—lavender buried under citrus, all stress and no softness. She’s running on caffeine and stubbornness, same as always.
Two, she’s here to work, not drink. The laptop bag over her shoulder and the determined set of her jaw give that away before she even sits down.
Three, she smells like Ben Wilson.
That last one makes me pause mid-pour. I set down the glass I’m cleaning and watch her navigate between the empty tables, heels clicking on the hardwood. The Barn Bar is quiet this time of day—just old Pete nursing his usual whiskey by the fireplace and a couple of college kids sharing nachos by the window. The fire crackles low, taking the edge off the January chill, and the whole place smells like woodsmoke and old leather. Plenty of seats available, but Tessa chooses the one at the end of the bar, closest to the outlet.
Of course she does.
She sets up her laptop, pulls out a notebook and three different colored pens, and doesn’t look at me once.
I give her two minutes before I wander over.
“Tessa Lang.” I lean against the bar, keeping my voice low and easy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She glances up, and there it is—that little flicker of heat before she shuts it down. I’ve been watching for that flicker since she moved to town. She has no idea she does it. No idea how it makes me want to lean closer, crowd her space, see how long it takes before she stops pretending she doesn’t notice me.
“Milo. I needed somewhere quiet to work, and my office felt...” She trails off, waving a hand vaguely.
“Suffocating?”
“I was going to say distracting.”
“Same thing, sometimes.” I grab a menu and slide it toward her, letting my fingers brush the bar close to hers. Not touching—I’m not that obvious—but close enough that her scent shifts. More lavender, less citrus. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Food?”
“Just water, thanks. I won’t be here long.”
She won’t order food. She never orders food when she’s working. It’s like she thinks eating will slow her down, take precious minutes away from whatever impossible task she’s set for herself.
I’ve been trying to feed this woman for two years, and she makes it harder than anything I’ve ever done.
“Water it is.”
I fill a glass and set it in front of her, and Ben’s scent hits me again. Leather and musk, clinging to her coat, her hair, her skin. Like she’s been wrapped up in him.
Interesting.
“The fundraiser keeping you busy?” I ask, even as my alpha instincts are busy with the fact that she’s covered in anotherman’s scent. I want to know what it would take to replace it with mine.
“Always.” She’s typing something on her laptop, but her attention isn’t fully on the screen. I can tell by the way her shoulders are angled slightly toward me, the way she keeps almost-glancing in my direction. “I still need five more bachelors, and Ben Wilson is avoiding me like I’m carrying the plague.”
“Ben’s avoiding everyone lately. Don’t take it personally.”
“I’m not.” She says it too fast. “I just need him to answer a simple question. Yes or no. It’s not complicated.”
