Chapter 8
Seth
I've driven past Brooks Hardware three times in the last hour.
Not because there's trouble on Main Street. Not because I'm patrolling this area specifically. But because her shift ends at five, and it's 4:47, and apparently I've become the kind of alpha who circles blocks like a stalker hoping to catch a glimpse of the omega who kissed him three days ago.
Nate would lose his mind if he knew.
I should head back to the station. There's paperwork waiting. Reports to file. Literally anything more productive than this.
Then I see her.
She steps out of the hardware store, breath fogging in the December cold as she pulls her coat tighter. The afternoon sun is low on the horizon, that golden hour light casting long shadows, and she's got at least two miles to walk home.
My hands tighten on the wheel.
Before I can overthink it, I'm pulling the patrol car alongside her.
She startles, hand flying to her chest. "Jesus, Seth. You trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Sorry." Heat crawls up my neck despite the cold. "You're walking?"
"That's what legs are for." But she's grinning, leaning down to peer through my window.
Her scent slams into me.
Cinnamon and baked apples and something warm and sweet that makes every alpha instinct I possess sit up and beg. It's stronger than it was at the general store—richer, more complex. Like she's been working hard, body warm, scent intensifying in the enclosed space of the hardware store all day.
My mouth goes dry. The patrol car suddenly feels too small, the air too thick.
"It's freezing," I manage. "And getting dark. I could drive you home."
"That's out of your way." But she's considering it, not outright refusing.
"I've got a few more patrol rounds anyway. You could ride along."
She studies me, and I'm convinced she'll say no. That she'll laugh and keep walking and I'll have to move to Alaska to escape the humiliation?—
"Alright. Sure."
Wait. "Really?"
"You rescinding the offer already?" She's walking around to the passenger side.
"No! I just—hold on—" I'm frantically shoving paperwork off the passenger seat, grabbing empty coffee cups, the candy wrapper from my stress-eating earlier. Real smooth, Monroe.
She climbs in.
The patrol car shrinks by half.
Her scent floods every corner of the space, mixing with my rain-and-cedar until the air feels charged. My hands grip thesteering wheel hard enough to hurt. She's in my space. My car. Close enough that I could reach across the console and?—
Not helpful.
"So." She buckles in, and I force myself to focus on pulling back onto the road. "What exciting crimes are we investigating tonight?"
The radio's playing something low and country—a station I never bother changing. I reach over and turn it down until it's just background noise.
