“I noticed.”
Dylan leans forward, elbows on the table, coffee mug in hand like he’s settling in to read me. “So, what really brings you to Mistberry for a job? Why not stay in the city?”
Right. Time for the casual-guy routine.
I shift in my seat and try to copy how Mason sits, solid, one arm resting on the table, shoulders loose. I pick up my mug and take a sip the way Dylan does, like it’s no big deal, like I’m not desperately trying to seem like I belong here with these two very real Alphas and their very real arm hair and competence.
“I needed a change,” I say, keeping my tone low, breezy. “City life started feeling… crowded, I guess. Too many people, not enough space. Everyone rushing around like it’s a competition no one’s winning.”
Mason nods like he gets it.
“And honestly?” I add. “I think this will be good for my sister too. Fresh start. Slower pace. Just us now. Our parents aren’t with us.”
The space quiets for half a beat, respectful. Most of that isn’t a lie.
“She’s lucky to have you,” Mason says simply.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, well. She’ll say otherwise when I finish all the snacks.”
That earns the faintest twitch of a grin from Mason and a full smirk from Dylan.
“She’ll settle in fast,” Dylan says. “Nina’s got a good setup with the café. Omegas around here stick together.”
I nod like I totally know what that means.
“And yeah,” I say, stretching a little, trying to take up space without looking like I’m doing it on purpose, “there’s something about a place like this, quiet harbor, smaller community, breathing room.”
Mason studies me for a second, then stands. “You’ll fit in fine here,” he says.
Dylan stands too, stretching his arms overhead. The movement makes his flannel shirt ride up, exposing a strip of tanned skin and the edge of what might be a tattoo.
I force myself to look away.
“You ready to see where you’ll be working?” Mason asks.
“Ready,” I answer and mean it.
We head toward the door, and I catch Nina’s eye from behind the counter. She waves, blowing a kiss, and I awkwardly wave back.
Outside, the morning air is crisp and clear, the sun bright on the water. We stroll down the main street toward the docks, and I’m acutely aware of both men flanking me. They’re taller, broader, and their presence is almost overwhelming.
We reach the docks, and I’m gobsmacked by the view, snow on the edges of the streets and the shore glinting in the sunlight.
Boats stretch out in every direction, tied in neat rows. Fishing vessels. Private crafts. A couple of older boats with chipped paint and rusted trim. And then four that stand out from the rest.
Charter boats. Sleek, well-maintained. Dark navy hulls with crisp white trim, polished metal rails gleaming in the sunlight. Names painted in bold block letters along the sides:Silverfin,Orca’s Reach,Hollow Wind, andThe Wilder. All lined up at the end of the main pier like they belong there. Like they know it.
The air smells like salt and diesel, the kind of scent that settles into your clothes and hair and makes everything feel like it belongs near the ocean.
In front of the boats, a wide wooden pier stretches out, sturdy and worn smooth. At the far end, steps lead up to a massive blue building with a peaked roof and tall windows. The wordsWilde Chartersare stenciled across the top in clean white letters. The whole place looks like it came straight off a travel brochure. Except bigger. Busier. More established than I expected.
Mason stops beside me and gestures toward the building. “Welcome to Wilde Charters. This is where we work.”
I nod, unable to hide my reaction.
They built something serious here. Real boats, business, and an operation that doesn’t just survive out here in the middle of nowhere. It seems to thrive.
And despite the layers of deception I’m standing in, despite the panic tightening under my ribs, I feel it. A flicker of excitement.
