I just ran.
Which is basically an answer, isn't it?
Fuck.
Chapter 10
River
Monday morning, and I'm already fucking this up.
She's late. Only by five minutes, but Bea Wilson has been exactly on time every single day since she started last Wednesday. Three days of working together, and she's never been late—not once.
I'm attracted to you.
What kind of employer says that to someone on their first day?
The kind who ignores Milo's advice, apparently. Milo told me to take it slow, not rush things, and what did I do? Blurted out my feelings on day one like an idiot who's been alone too long and forgot how to act like a professional human being when a beautiful omega walks into his hardware store smelling like cinnamon and apples and making every instinct I have sit up and beg.
The door chimes. I look up from where I'm definitely not anxiously reorganizing paint samples for the third time.
Bea steps inside, cheeks flushed from the cold December air, dark hair escaping from her ponytail. She's wearing jeans anda cream sweater under her jacket, and the sight of her makes warmth spread through my chest. My instincts practically purr.
Down, boy.
"Morning." I aim for casual. Sound almost normal. "Coffee's fresh if you want some."
"Thanks." She's not quite meeting my eyes as she hangs up her coat. Her scent reaches me—that sweet omega combination with a sharp winter-cold edge underneath—and I have to resist the urge to inhale deeper.
She pours herself coffee, and the silence stretches. Awkward. Uncomfortable.
"So." She takes a sip, finally glancing at me over the rim of her mug. "What's the plan today, boss?"
There it is. That teasing lilt on the word "boss" that she's been using since day one just to get a rise out of me.
"Don't call me that," I say automatically, but I'm smiling despite the tension.
"Why not?" She's grinning now too, some of that wariness fading. "You literally are my boss."
"Partner. Collaborator." I shake my head. "Not boss."
"You're so weird about that."
"Because it makes me sound like I'm seventy and yelling at people to get off my lawn."
"You kind of do yell at kids who lean on the paint display."
"That's different. The paint display is—" I stop, realizing she's messing with me. "You're doing it on purpose."
"Maybe." She's fully smiling now, and just like that, the awkwardness breaks. "So what's the actual plan,River?"
Professional. I need to be professional.
We've been dancing around each other since Wednesday. Since I made that confession and then immediately gave her space like a coward. Two shifts of careful politeness at work,both of us pretending there isn't this current running between us every time we're in the same room.
And then Saturday night happened. The Tree Lighting. I was looking for her—wanted to ask for that dance she'd promised to save for me. Found Ben instead.
"She left," he'd said, giving me a look. "Overwhelmed. Just let her be."
