Page 11

Julian

I should be working on quarterly reports, but instead I'm sitting in Levi's bookstore, staring at a spreadsheet that might as well be written in Latin for all the attention I'm paying it.

The problem is green apples and white musk. More specifically, the way Lila's scent changed when I stood close enough to crowd her space, and how I've been replaying that moment for the better part of an hour.

This is not like me. For five years, since I moved to Honeyridge Falls after my own relationship imploded, I've been content with careful distance.

No complications, no messy emotional entanglements, no one expecting me to be something I'm not.

I came here to escape the kind of alpha everyone expected me to be in the city and to forget the kind of alpha my own pack decided I wasn't.

It wasn't just that my ex-omega called me "emotionally intense" and "too much work" before she left.

It was that she took the rest of our pack with her.

Apparently, a nerdy accountant with controlling tendencies wasn't what any of them had signed up for.

"You're not what we need," she'd said, like I was a piece of furniture that didn't fit the aesthetic they were going for.

"We want someone more... straightforward. "

The other two alphas hadn't even had the courtesy to disagree with her assessment. They'd just packed their things and left, leaving me alone in an apartment that still smelled like the life I thought I was building.

So I came here, where no one expects me to be part of a pack, where I can be useful without being wanted, where my particular combination of analytical mind and need for control doesn't make anyone uncomfortable because I keep it carefully contained.

I haven't been attracted to anyone since moving here, haven't even been tempted. Until this afternoon, when Lila James walked into Levi's bookstore and turned my understanding of myself upside down.

Five years of careful distance, undone by the scent of green apples and the way she looked at me like I was worth figuring out.

"You're thinking too loud," Levi calls from behind the counter, where he's processing stock with methodical efficiency.

"I'm working," I say, which is technically true if you count staring at numbers without actually processing them as work.

"You're brooding. There's a difference." Levi doesn't look up from his task, but I can hear the amusement in his voice. "Want to talk about whatever's got you pacing around here like a caged wolf?"

"I'm not pacing."

"You've reorganized my quarterly receipts twice, alphabetized the reference section, and I'm pretty sure I saw you dust something earlier. That's not normal behavior, even for you."

He's right, which is irritating. I've been restless since Lila left, unable to settle into my usual pattern of focused work and controlled productivity.

Instead, I've been finding excuses to move around the store, to stay busy, to avoid thinking about the way her breath caught when I stood too close, or the fleeting moment when she looked at me like she was seeing something she hadn't expected.

"Just trying to be helpful," I say, turning back to the computer screen.

"Uh-huh." Levi's tone suggests he's not buying it. "This wouldn't have anything to do with our new resident omega, would it? The one who smelled like she'd been thinking some very interesting thoughts when she left here earlier?"

I don't answer, which is answer enough.

"Julian." Levi sets down his stack of books and glances toward where I've been restlessly organizing things. "You know, she seemed like someone who might appreciate thoughtful gestures. The kind that don't come with expectations."

"I know," I say quietly.

And I do know. Not from today's brief interaction, but from the entertainment news that's been impossible to avoid for the past month.

The tabloid photos of her ex-pack with their new omega.

The speculation about what went wrong. The carefully worded statements from publicists that said everything and nothing about a relationship that ended very publicly and very badly.

I recognized her the moment she arrived in town, though she looked smaller in person than on screen, more fragile somehow. The kind of fragile that comes from having your private pain turned into public entertainment, from being forced to rebuild your life while everyone watches and judges.

And then there are the stories that have been circulating around town since she arrived.

Dean mentioning the smoke emergency when she burned dinner, River talking about her determination to fix things herself, the general consensus that she's taken on more than she bargained for with the Anderson place but is too stubborn to ask for help.

It's why I arranged for the flowers to be delivered to her.

Not because I was interested, I barely knew what she looked like in person then.

But because I remembered what it felt like to start over in a new place.

I thought she might appreciate knowing someone was glad she was here, even if they were too much of a stranger to say so directly.

I had no idea that meeting her would affect me like this. Had no idea that her scent would bypass every wall I've built around my emotions and make me want things I've been perfectly content to live without.

"Books in the bag seem like the thoughtful gesture type," Levi observes, glancing at the canvas bag beside my desk.

"Just some things that might be useful."

"Useful," Levi repeats with a slight smile. "Right. Well, for what it's worth, I think she'd appreciate someone who pays attention to what she actually needs instead of what most people think she should want."

The irony is that Lila saw more than I intended her to this afternoon.

The way I couldn't quite keep my composure when her scent flared in response to my proximity.

The moment when recognition dawned in her eyes, and she realized I'd sent the flowers and the satisfaction I couldn't hide when that understanding passed between us without words.

The deliberate way I chose to stand closer than necessary when reaching for that book, testing her boundaries and my own self-control in ways I'm still processing.

"She's figuring things out," I say finally. "And I'm the last person who should be making that more complicated."

There's truth in that. My ex made it clear that my need to understand everything, to connect on levels that go deeper than most people are comfortable with, wasn't what she wanted in an alpha. "You want too much," she'd said. "You make everything so complicated. Can't you just be like them?"

Them being the other alphas in our pack, who were content with surface-level dynamics and didn't need to understand every thought, every feeling. Who were, apparently, what she actually wanted. What anyone would want, compared to someone like me.

I'm not normal. After five years of accepting that no one will ever want the particular combination of traits that make me who I am, the last thing I should do is burden someone who's trying to rebuild her life in peace with my particular brand of emotional complexity.

"Maybe," Levi agrees. "Or maybe what she needs is an alpha who's patient enough to let her figure things out at her own pace."

The comment hits closer to home than I'm comfortable with, so I turn my attention back to the computer screen and pretend to focus on numbers that still refuse to make sense.

But Levi's right about one thing. I am thinking too loud. And what I'm thinking about is the stack of books I selected for Lila after she left, currently sitting in a canvas bag next to my desk. Three carefully chosen volumes that I've been debating whether to deliver for the past two hours.

It's probably too soon. We barely know each other, and I've already sent flowers. Adding books to the equation might cross the line from thoughtful into presumptuous, especially since she's clearly trying to establish her independence.

On the other hand, the books are practical. She needs information about home renovation, and I happen to find more after she left. The poetry book is... less practical, but I have a feeling she might appreciate words that aren't about fixing things.

I've read that particular poem about building something beautiful from broken pieces at least a dozen times since I pulled it from the shelf.

There's something about the metaphor that feels right for someone who's starting over in a place where no one knows her story.

Something about the way it talks about strength through transformation rather than despite it.

If I'm being honest with myself, which I'm trying to be, despite how uncomfortable it makes me, the books are an excuse.

What I really want is to understand what makes her feel safe, what makes her laugh, what she thinks about when she's alone in that house she's trying to make into a home.

I want to know if she likes her coffee black or with cream, if she reads before bed, if she's the kind of person who talks through problems or needs silence to process them.

I want to know everything about her, which is exactly the kind of thinking that drove my ex away and exactly why I should probably keep my distance.

"I'm heading out," I announce, closing the laptop and gathering my things with perhaps more abruptness than necessary. I wrap the books carefully in brown paper, not because they need protection, but because there's something about a wrapped package that suggests intention rather than impulse.

"Those books going somewhere specific?" Levi asks with barely concealed amusement.

"Just returning something I borrowed," I lie.