I don’t have time for this.
My phone buzzes in my purse. Then again. And again. I can’t check it while driving, which means three separate emergencies are piling up while I navigate this oversized vehicle through town, surrounded by the scent of an alpha who literally fled thebuilding rather than answer a simple question about community involvement.
The audacity. The absolute audacity of that man, blasting his radio like a child, shouting about acoustics that were perfectly fine, and then just... handing me his keys. Like it was nothing. Like lending someone your truck for days is a completely normal thing to do.
I don’t understand him.
On Maple Street, snow lines the yards in thick white blankets, and I spot a familiar figure up a ladder in Mrs. Patterson’s front yard—Theo Holt, trimming back the dead branches on her old apple tree. His breath fogs in the cold January air as he works.
I slow the truck and roll down the window, letting in a blast of cold. “Theo!”
He looks down, saw in hand. His eyes land on the truck and a grin spreads across his face. “Tessa. Nice ride.”
I choose to ignore that. He climbs down and walks over, tucking his work gloves into his back pocket. “You missed the town hall meeting.”
“Had a job in Pine Valley.” He leans against the ladder. “What’d I miss?”
“Bachelor auction. Valentine’s fundraiser. I need volunteers, and you were great last time.”
Theo laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Even though Mrs. Henderson won?”
“She had a lovely time. Told everyone at the Honey Crumb for weeks.”
“She made me fix her fence. And her gutters. And that loose step on her porch.” He’s still grinning. “Woman got her money’s worth.”
“Community service at its finest.” I tap the window frame. “You in?”
“Count me in, Tessa.”
“Perfect. I’ll email you the details.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Three bachelors confirmed. Milo, Elijah, Theo. Five more to go. I roll up the window and pull away, already mentally composing the follow-up email.
Elijah’s place is on Cedar Lane—a converted barn behind his house that he uses for his furniture business. Snow crunches under the tires as I pull into the gravel driveway and park next to his pickup. For a moment I just sit there, staring at the chaos inside Ben’s truck.
I can’t. I physically cannot leave it like this.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m gathering the empty coffee cups and stacking them neatly in the cup holder. The receipts go into a pile, sorted by date. The wrenches get corralled into a plastic bag I find under the seat. It’s not perfect—nothing about this truck is perfect—but at least it’s not actively offensive anymore.
The flannel shirt sits on the passenger seat, watching me.
It smells like him. Even from here, I can tell. Leather and musk and something warm underneath, like sun on skin.
I shove it into the back seat and get out of the truck.
Elijah’s workshop doors are open, golden light spilling out. Even from here I can smell sawdust and something warmer—honey and cedarwood, rich and grounding. That’s him. That’s Elijah.
I grab my tablet and head inside.
The interior is bigger than I expected. High ceilings with exposed beams, natural light through skylights, workbenches lining every wall. Everything is covered in a fine layer of sawdust, but there’s an order to it—tools on pegboards, lumber sorted by type, projects arranged in what looks like stages of completion.
And Elijah’s scent fills the whole space. Cedarwood and honey, warm and steady, like a cabin in the mountains where someone’s been baking.
“Tessa?”
He comes around from behind a large bandsaw, rag in hand, sawdust caught in his dark blonde hair. Worn jeans, a gray henley pushed up past his elbows.
