My stomach drops. “I smell fine.”
“You smell like you haven’t slept in three days and you’re running on coffee and anxiety.” Her voice is kind but firm. “Take care of yourself, honey. These events will still be here tomorrow.”
She’s wrong. If I don’t handle this venue crisis immediately, the corporate retreat will fall apart, and my reputation will take a hit I can’t afford. But I nod anyway because arguing with Maeve never works. “Thank you for the cookies.”
“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. “I mean it about the suppressants.”
She walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing there with my carefully organized materials and my phone having a meltdown and the scent of lavender and citrus probably betraying exactly how frayed I’m feeling.
Across the room, Milo is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Elijah too, though his gaze is more guarded. Both of them alpha, both of them making my omega biology take notice despite the suppressants, and when did that stop working properly?
Suppressants. Maeve’s right. I need to refill my prescription before this gets worse.
I grab my things and head for the door, already mentally drafting the email to Pine Valley Lodge while simultaneously calculating which vendors I can call in favors from and wondering if I can fit a pharmacy run into tomorrow’s schedule between the florist meeting at nine and the caterer tasting at eleven.
The January air hits me like a slap when I step outside—cold and sharp and exactly what I need to clear my head. Snow blankets the Town Hall parking lot, footprints and tire tracks crisscrossing the white. My breath fogs in front of me as I pick my way carefully across the icy pavement. Ben Wilson’s truck is gone, of course. Not that I care. Ben Wilson and his inexplicable aversion to my clipboard aren’t my concern. The way his scent lingers even after he’s left isn’t either.
Real problems need my attention. Flooded ballrooms. Missing volunteers. A pharmacy prescription I keep forgettingto refill. My phone buzzes again. Right. Venue crisis. That’s the priority.
I unlock my car—a sensible sedan with excellent gas mileage and zero personality—and climb in, cranking the heat immediately. The windshield is frosted over and I let the defroster run while I dial the venue coordinator’s number. The cookies Maeve gave me sit on the passenger seat, still warm through the paper bag. My stomach growls. Later. I’ll eat later.
First, I save the corporate retreat. Then I finalize the Valentine’s fundraiser logistics. Then I tackle the seventeen other items on today’s to-do list. Then maybe—maybe—I’ll remember to take care of myself. But probably not.
The coordinator picks up on the first ring, voice frantic. “Tessa, thank god. It’s a disaster. The insurance company is saying?—”
I put the phone on speaker and start the car, pulling up my backup venue spreadsheet on my tablet. “Take a breath. Tell me exactly what happened, and I’ll walk you through the solution. I’ve got contingency plans for this.”
Because I always have contingency plans. Even if I can’t quite remember when I last ate a full meal, or slept more than four hours, or refilled the prescription that’s supposed to keep my omega biology from interfering with my carefully controlled life. Even if my scent is apparently broadcasting “stressed and running on fumes” to every alpha in a ten-foot radius. Even if Ben Wilson took one look at me and my clipboard and literally fled the building.
I’ve got contingency plans.
That’s what I do.
I plan. I organize. I control.
And I definitely, absolutely, do not think about the way three different alpha scents made me want to breathe deeper in that meeting room.
Because I don’t have time for that.
Work comes first. It always has.
And that’s exactly how I want it.
Probably.
Chapter 2
Ben
The sound started three weeks ago.
I know this because Tessa Lang drives past my shop most mornings, and her car has been making progressively worse noises. Started as a little wheeze. Now it’s a full-on death rattle. I keep waiting for her to pull in, but she just drives by like her sedan isn’t actively trying to die.
I’m under the hood of Mrs. Henderson’s ancient Buick when I hear it—that now-familiar sound of Tessa’s car approaching. Sure enough, her sensible sedan pulls into my lot, makes one final dying-accordion noise, and goes silent. Steam rises from under the hood into the cold January air.
She actually brought it in. Miracles do happen.
I straighten up, wiping my hands on the rag from my back pocket. The driver’s door opens and she steps out, breath fogging as she surveys the damage. All business casual and barely contained stress, bundled in a wool coat that’s more stylish than practical for this weather. Her scent hits me even from here—lavender and citrus, sharp with anxiety—and I have to force myself not to react.
