Tessa Lang has outdone herself. Garland wraps every lamppost, white lights dangle from bare tree branches, and that massive twenty-foot tree dominates the town square like some kind of evergreen monument to holiday excess. The air smells like cinnamon, chocolate, and wood smoke. Kids are already hyped on sugar. Adults clutch paper cups of hot cider. Everyone's bundled up and rosy-cheeked and looking forward to the main event.
Meanwhile, I'm contemplating faking a sudden illness.
"You look nauseous," Mom observes, adjusting my scarf. Again. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Perfect. Never better."
"That's your lying voice," Ben adds. He's crunching through a candy cane with unnecessary aggression. "The flat, dead one that fools absolutely nobody."
I flip him off. Mom doesn't see because she's already waving at the Hendersons.
Here's my problem. I can see all three of them.
River's manning the hardware store booth—my boss, technically, though he hates when I call him that. Dark green flannel, sleeves rolled up despite the cold, surrounded by the toy drive donations I've been promoting all week. That golden retriever energy is out in full force as he helps some kid pick a toy truck, making everyone around him smile.
Seth's on patrol, all professional in his uniform. Guiding traffic near the parking area with that careful, competent patience. Every so often his eyes sweep the crowd—looking for trouble, looking for me, I'm not sure which anymore. Not after Wednesday night. Not after sitting in the dark at that overlook, his confession hanging between us, the moment before the emergency call when we almost?—
I shake my head. Not thinking about that.
And Grayson—fuck, Grayson's leaning against a lamppost near the coffee cart. Dark coat, darker stare, watching everything with that intensity that made dinner at Millie's so unsettling. He's not trying to blend in. Just observing, cataloging, existing in a way that makes my hindbrain sit up and take notice even though we've only talked once.
Three alphas. One town square. And me, standing here with my family, trying to pretend I'm not tracking all three like my life depends on it.
My scent's already betraying me—that telltale sweetness creeping into my usual cinnamon-apple.
Ben wrinkles his nose and takes a step back. "Oh god, no."
"What?"
"You." He gestures vaguely at all of me, looking genuinely pained. "Your scent. I'm your brother, Bea. I don't need to—" He shudders. "Just no."
My face floods with heat. "I don't know what you're?—"
"Yes, you do. And I'm choosing to live in denial about it." He points across the square. "But for the record, you said you weren't into any of them."
"I'm not."
"Your biology is calling you a liar and I hate that I know that." He shoves his candy cane at me like a barrier. "Go. Get hot chocolate. Preferably in another zip code until you get that under control."
"You're the worst."
"And you smell like a romance novel. We're both suffering here."
I escape into the crowd before he can psychoanalyze me further. Families are everywhere—couples holding hands, packs clustered together, kids running wild.
That actress, Lila James, is here with her pack. She's visibly pregnant now, one hand resting on her rounded belly while Dean the firefighter hovers protectively at her side. They look happy. Settled. Like they have their whole lives figured out.
Everyone's paired up. Everyone's settled.
Everyone except me, spiraling at a tree lighting ceremony because I can't stop tracking three different alpha scents like my life depends on it.
"Bea! Hey!"
River's voice. I turn, and there he is—leaving the booth with that easy jog, dark green flannel rolled up despite the cold. His pine-and-sawdust scent hits me before he does, warm and familiar after a week of working side-by-side.
"Hey, boss." The nickname slips out, and he grins.
"Not your boss. Your collaborator." He's slightly breathless, cheeks flushed. "The toy drive's killing it. We hit goal an hour ago."
