Page 4 of Autumn be His Wife (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #4)

Piper

For the first hour, I try my best to be patient. I mean, I don’t want Dusty to know how easy it is for me to start stirring. I don’t think he understands that the chairs in the waiting area aren’t meant for sitting for long periods of time.

People bring in all sorts of animals, and some dogs are more excited than others. Even better, some of the owners encourage me to pet them. So, I’m entertained for the most part. However, there’s only so much drooling and kisses I can take.

Soon, my body demands I leave the uncomfortable seats and stretch my legs.

The clinic is small, and it would feel weird to do a few laps around without being a nuisance or a distraction.

Figuring some fresh air would do me good, I leave the clinic. From the looks of it, we’re in the middle of Forest Grove. As long as I’m careful and remember where I walk, I shouldn’t get lost.

I just need to keep track of time. The last thing I want to do is be a pain for Dusty. Even if he encourages me to do what I want, I have a feeling he doesn’t want me to go too far from the clinic.

A crisp autumn chill nips at my exposed cheeks, and the scent of damp earth rises from the pavement.

The dried leaves beneath my sneakers don’t just crunch; they shatter like brittle bones with every step I take down the long, cracked sidewalk.

My breath fogs in the air, a tiny, private cloud. I hop over a small puddle left by yesterday’s rain, its surface reflecting the flat, gray sky.

It’s funny. I didn’t get a lot of time to look around this town. I just started walking, letting my feet carry me, a stranger in a strange place.

Then it hits me. A sweetness so rich and warm it seems to warp the very air. It cuts through the chill, a ribbon of vanilla and baking crust, of sugar and fruit so potent it feels like a physical tug.

One deep lungful is all it takes. My mission—my aimless wandering—is instantly forgotten. Now, there is only the source.

My steps slow as the aroma intensifies, a siren’s call that makes my mouth pool with saliva. I finally stop, tilting my head back to take in the sign swinging gently on wrought-iron hinges. Sweet Temptations. The words are spelled out in looping, sugary pink script.

My stomach gives a violent, hollow clench, a painful reminder that my breakfast was nothing but a cup of coffee. I don’t decide to move; my body does it for me. The brass door handle is cool under my palm. A tiny bell tinkles overhead as I pull the door open and step into a wall of heavenly warmth.

The world outside vanishes. The air itself is thick and edible, tasting of butter and powdered sugar.

Colors of pastel pink, dusty rose, and cherry red surround me, but it’s not the cute, diner-esque aesthetic that holds me captive.

It’s the cathedral of pies spread out in a gleaming glass display case.

Oh my goodness. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Whole pies with lattice tops woven like golden baskets, their fillings bubbling up between the cracks. Plump blueberries glistening under a glossy, violet glaze. A deep, dark pecan pie that looks sticky and dense.

Before I know it, I’m all but pressing my nose against the cool glass.

The fillings—a vibrant crimson cherry, a golden peach—are trying their hardest not to ooze from their delicate shells, the sugar acting as a delicious glue.

Just breathing in this deeply feels dangerous, like I’m risking cavities with every inhale.

A deep, aching want coils in my chest. I can almost taste the flaky, buttery crust dissolving on my tongue, the tart-sweet burst of cherry exploding in my mouth.

When was the last time I ate a pastry? One that came fresh from an oven? I can’t remember.

My right hand flexes, and I feel the sad, familiar weight in my pocket. A few crumpled bills left over from buying the bus ticket. The last of my escape fund. Hardly enough for a single slice. The warmth of the shop suddenly feels a little cooler.

The memory of how I got money to begin with makes my stomach clench more with dread than from hunger.

The part-time job stocking shelves, the ache in my back, the money that never stayed in my wallet for more than a day before my uncle’s hand was out. Every skipped meal, every hungry night, was a coin saved for this chance, for this very freedom.

If only I had a few extra dollars.

“Is there something that’s catching your attention?”

The voice is like warm honey, smooth and sweet, pulling me from the bitter past. It comes from just a couple of feet in front of me.

On the other side of the gleaming glass, a woman stands framed by the bounty of pies.

She’s small, with eyes the rich, warm brown of dark maple sugar, and a crown of short, springy curls the color of cinnamon-dusted pastry.

She’s wiping her hands on her apron, and a faint, kind smile plays on her lips.

“I’m just looking.” Shoving my hands flat out in front of me, there’s no denying the panic in my voice. It’s like I’m making the act of looking feel like a crime.

The woman, Izzy, by her name tag, doesn’t try to hide her amusement. A little snort goes a long way, and before I know it, my face is hot.

“I haven’t seen you around.” Tilting her head, her curls bounce as she drifts to the side. “New to town?”

I’ve heard everyone knows everyone in small towns, but I didn’t expect to be called out the first time I stepped out in public.

Nodding my head, her eyes seem to grow brighter.

“Would you like to try a sample?” Tilting her head, her smile softens as her question seems more like a demand than a request. “Pick a flavor.”

Maybe I’ve made some silly mistakes lately, but I’m not an idiot. I know when to seize an opportunity when it presents itself. Still, asking for a handout is tougher than I thought it’d be.

When I struggle to do as I’m told, she encourages me once more, a little softer this time.

All these flavors, and she just wants me to pick one?

Barely avoiding pressing my forehead against the glass this time around, I drink in a slice that is oozing chunks of apple and covered in specs of cinnamon.

“The apple one, please.” I swallow, already imagining the taste of caramelized chunks of fruit.

Izzy lets out a small laugh, one that’s full of amusement. Right now, she’s looking like an angel without the glow.

I love this woman, and I don’t even know who she is.

“Coming right up.” Disappearing to snag me enough to taste absolute bliss, she returns with more than I expect her to.

She gives me a styrofoam container, topping it with a fork and a napkin.

Aren’t samples supposed to come as little bite-sized offerings? This seems like a bit much.

“Isn’t this piece a little big?” I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I feel bad. The piece has some weight to it. I don’t want her to get in trouble.

Izzy winks at me, hardly caring. “If you’re sticking around, it’s worth it. Once you try a bite of our pies, you’ll be hooked. We’ll get your business in the future, I’m sure of it.”

My chest tightens at her confidence, and I nod. “I’ll bring more than myself next time.”

My jaw aches from smiling, but I thank her again for what feels like the tenth time before I slip out of the shop. I can’t risk turning off customers by watching a woman get emotional over a slice of pie.

Once I’m out, I crack open the container and get hit with steam that makes my stomach clench and my mouth water.

Taking a look at the pie shop one more time so that I can engrave it in my memory, I take a bite.

Flavor explodes—deep, resonant, and impossibly familiar.

It’s the familiar taste of honeycrisp apples, sweetened not just with sugar but with the caramelized depth of something baked with patience.

Nutmeg and a hint of allspice bloom on my tongue, followed by the warm embrace of cinnamon that coats my throat as I swallow slowly to appreciate it.

It’s the faintest backnote of bourbon or vanilla—I can’t tell which—that makes it extraordinary, a sophisticated secret in a humble slice. For a moment, I’m not on a cold street; I’m in a sun-drenched kitchen, safe and loved.

The taste is so potent, so perfect, it threatens to undo the composure I just managed to claw back.

Dusty and Eli have to come here if they haven’t already. Whatever it takes, I’ll find the money and buy an entire pie.

Considering devouring the whole slice right then and there, I think about Dusty, about everything he’s done for me so far.

I want him to have some of this bliss.

As hard as it is, I only devour half as I make my way back to the animal clinic.

Once I reach the building, it’s perfect timing. Dusty’s already slipping out from the back, a bag in hand.

He notices me as I step inside, and his body visibly relaxes. Did he think I’d get lost? With how distracted I was with the pie, it’s something that could’ve happened, actually.

Joining me in the lobby, he asks if I’ll be joining him as he does his runs around the town.

“Of course. I want to see the animals.” The words rush out of me like I’m afraid he’ll leave me behind.

His mouth curves, and he notices the container in his hand. His head tilts, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. I can see the curiosity in his eyes.

“I saved you some.” Cracking open the container, I hold it out to him. “But I don’t have anything to give you to eat it with.”

There’s no way I’m giving him the fork I slobbered all over.

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he takes in my offering. “I see you’ve made your own rounds. Picked one of the best pie shops in the state.”

Heat creeps up my throat as he plucks up the small chunk of pie with his fingers and lifts it to his lips. My eyes follow every movement, and I swallow right along with him as he enjoys the bite.

Then, his tongue flicks out to catch the leftover sweetness on his fingertips, and something twists deep inside of me, leaving behind a hot trail of something leading straight between my thighs.

Oh boy. Here we go again.