My body laughs at me.
"So," she says as we walk, "on a scale of serial killer to normal person, where would you rate yourself?"
I glance at her. She's smirking slightly.
"Solid six," I say.
"Out of ten?"
"Out of five."
She snorts. Actually snorts. "Well, at least you're honest about it."
She almost smiles. Almost.
We reach Millie's. Warm light, smell of home cooking, condensation on the windows. Through the glass I can see localsin booths, and I know the second we walk in together, everyone's going to notice.
Small town. Gossip central. New alpha having dinner with Bea Wilson.
Part of me wants that. Wants people to see us together.
Wants what? A not-date?
Bea must be thinking the same thing because she pauses at the door.
"You sure about this?" she asks. "Whole town's gonna talk."
"They're gonna talk anyway. I'm the new tattoo artist. You're the omega who kissed a deputy at a festival." I raise an eyebrow. "Might as well give them something real to gossip about."
She stares at me. "You haven't even been here a full day and you already know about that?"
"Levi's informative."
"Apparently." Then she laughs—short, surprised, but genuine. "Okay. I like you." She pulls open the door. "Let's see if that lasts through dinner."
"No promises."
"Good. I don't trust people who make promises on a not-date."
I can't help it—I grin. This omega is killing me. Funny, snarky, and apparently allergic to bullshit.
Yeah. I'm in trouble.
We walk into Millie's together. Warm air, coffee and pie, and yeah—every head turns. I catch at least three people whispering, two more pulling out phones.
This town works fast.
Bea slides into a booth near the back, and I take the seat across from her. Up close in better light, she's even prettier than I thought. Sharp features that would be intimidating if not for that full mouth. Green eyes with gold flecks, currently assessing me like she's cataloging threats. Dark hair falling out of thatponytail frames her face, and I have the stupidest urge to tuck it behind her ear just to see if she'd let me.
And that scent—cinnamon and apple surrounding me in the small booth—makes it hard to think straight.
"So," she says, leaning back and studying me. "You always ask strangers to dinner?"
"Only when I don't want to eat alone and they look like they could use a break."
"How noble." But her mouth twitches. "And what makes you think I needed a break?"
"You said yes."
