"I'm not..." How do I explain this? "The whole dating thing isn't really my strong suit."
"Why not?"
"I get awkward. Tongue-tied. Women don't usually..." I trail off.
"Don't usually what?"
"Notice me." The admission tastes bitter. "I'm not like other alphas. The confident ones who know how to flirt, how to make women feel—I just freeze up and say the wrong thing and?—"
"You're talking to me just fine right now."
And like that, I'm hyperaware of every word leaving my mouth. Of her sitting there, watching me. Of how close she is, how her scent is everywhere, how I can hear her breathing.
My throat closes up. "I... that's... different..."
She laughs, but it's not mean. "There it is."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. It's kind of endearing." She settles back against the seat. "So you really don't date? At all?"
"Not really, no." I turn onto Oak Street, grateful for something to do with my hands. "Most women want an alpha who's, I don't know. More alpha. Confident and commanding and?—"
"That's bullshit."
"What?"
"Complete bullshit, Seth." She twists to face me. "You think women only want that hypermasculine alpha nonsense? The guys who strut around marking territory and acting like they own everyone?"
"I—"
"Because I don't." Her voice is firm. "That's not attractive. You know what is attractive? Someone who remembers my coffee order and writes it down in a little notepad so he doesn't mess it up. Someone who came to check on me after the festival thing. Someone who actually gives a damn."
Heat floods through me. Her scent shifts too—sweeter, warmer, that change that makes every alpha instinct I possess take notice.
"You're just being nice."
"I'm not being—" She stops abruptly. Her scent spikes—sharp and anxious, like she just realized something. "I mean. I'm just saying. In general. Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically," I repeat, not sure what just happened.
"Right. Hypothetically." Her voice is higher now. "Not about you specifically. Just... as a general observation about what people—what some people—might find appealing. In theory."
Did I say something wrong? I replay the conversation, trying to figure out where I messed up.
"Okay," I say carefully.
"Anyway." She shifts in her seat. "The point is, you shouldn't put yourself down. That's all I meant."
I'm still not entirely sure what just happened, but her tone says the subject is closed. The words hang between us, and I don't know what to do with them. Don't know if that was just friendly encouragement or if she meant?—
No. Don't go there, Monroe.
We pass the town square, where Tessa's got half the decorations up. Giant wreaths on the lampposts, lights draped but not yet illuminated, a massive Christmas tree waiting to be decorated. She's standing in the middle of it all with a clipboard, directing two teenagers hauling boxes of ornaments.
"She's terrifying," Bea murmurs.
"She got the fire department to commit to caroling at the tree lighting."
