Together again. Like we're a reunited couple instead of two people getting coffee and running errands.
"Hello, Mrs. Henderson," Savannah says with admirable composure, but I catch the way she unconsciously moves closer to me, close enough that her shoulder brushes against my chest. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm wonderful! Just wonderful!" Mrs. Henderson's gaze bounces between us like she's watching a tennis match, taking in every detail of our body language. "And you look lovely, dear. City life must agree with you. That sweater is just beautiful."
Translation: you look expensive, are you successful, and what's your relationship status with the attractive alpha standing next to you?
"Thank you. You look well too," Savannah responds politely, but I notice the way her fingers are gripping her purse strap tighter, the slight tension in her shoulders.
"And Logan, how nice of you to show Savannah around town. Such a gentleman!" The way she says it suggests that gentlemanly behavior is the last thing on her mind. Her eyes dart between us with obvious delight. "I was just telling Margie Patterson that you two always made such a striking couple."
My leather and cedar scent spikes with embarrassment, and I catch Savannah's vanilla bourbon doing the same thing. Heat crawls up my neck as I see where this conversation is heading.
"We're just..." I start, but Savannah cuts me off.
"Catching up," she finishes smoothly, though her voice is strained. "Logan's been showing me how the town has changed."
"Oh yes, so many changes! Some good, some..." Mrs. Henderson's voice trails off diplomatically. "Well, change is part of life, isn't it? Though I must say, some things never change. The way you two look at each other, for instance."
I see Savannah's jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, her brown eyes flashing with something that might be pain or frustration. Her scent shifts, becoming sharper, more defensive.
"We should..." I begin, recognizing the warning signs.
"Savannah Hale, as I live and breathe!"
I turn to see Margie Patterson approaching from the dairy section, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of our interaction. Her scent carries the particular excitement that comes from stumbling across Grade A gossip material, and I can practically see her mental wheels turning.
"Margie," Savannah says with forced cheerfulness, but I notice the way her hands have curled into fists at her sides. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine, dear. Just fine. But look at you! You look absolutely radiant." Margie's voice gets louder, drawing attention from other shoppers. "Doesn't she look radiant, Logan?"
All eyes turn to me, and I feel like I'm being cross-examined by a jury of small-town busybodies. The fluorescent lights overhead feel too bright, too harsh, and I can see other customers starting to drift closer, drawn by the familiar drama of small-town gossip in action.
"She looks good," I manage, but my voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Good?" Mrs. Henderson asks, moving closer with predatory enthusiasm. "Logan Pierce, you can do better than 'good.' She looks beautiful."
"She always looks beautiful," I say without thinking, and immediately regret it when both women practically vibrate with excitement.
Savannah's vanilla bourbon scent spikes with something warm and pleased, but when I glance at her, her expression is conflicted, like she's fighting between gratitude and frustration. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and she's biting her lower lip hard enough to leave marks.
"Well, of course she does," Margie says with obvious satisfaction, her voice carrying to the other shoppers who are now openly eavesdropping. "And you two have such lovely chemistry. Anyone can see it."
"We're not..." Savannah starts, but her voice catches slightly.
"Oh, honey, there's no need to be shy about it," Mrs. Henderson interrupts, reaching out to pat Savannah's arm in a gesture that's meant to be motherly but feels invasive. "Love is beautiful at any age. And second chances are even more beautiful."
Second chances. The words hit me like a physical blow, and I see Savannah flinch as if she's been slapped. Her scent goes sharp and brittle, carrying old pain and fresh frustration.
"We should probably..." I start, desperate to extract us from this situation before it gets worse.
"Let you get on with your shopping," Margie finishes with a knowing smile that makes my skin crawl. "But Savannah, dear, you simply must bring Logan to the church potluck next Sunday. Everyone would love to see you together again."
"Together again," Mrs. Henderson echoes with obvious delight, and now half the store is listening to our conversation. "It has such a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
Savannah's breathing has gotten shallow, her hands trembling slightly as she grips her purse. I can see her struggling to maintain her composure, the professional mask she wears starting to crack around the edges.
"That's very kind," she manages, her voice tight with barely controlled emotion. "We should go."
