Page 20

Lila

D ean's truck smells exactly like the opposite of my careful plans to stay unattached.

I settle into the passenger seat and breathe in his scent that wraps around me like a warm embrace. The cab feels smaller than it should, intimate in a way that makes my skin feel too warm. It's masculine and comforting and entirely too appealing for someone who swore off alphas barely a week ago.

"Seatbelt," Dean says with a grin, starting the engine. His voice is rougher this morning, like he hasn't been awake long, and the sound does things to my pulse that seatbelt safety really shouldn't.

"Can't have you flying around the cab if I have to brake for deer."

I watch his hands as he shifts into reverse—large, capable hands with calluses that speak of real work. When he drapes his arm across the back of my seat to look over his shoulder, I catch his scent more directly, and have to resist the urge to lean closer.

"Are deer a legitimate concern?" I ask, clicking the belt into place and trying not to notice how his t-shirt stretches across his chest when he reaches for the gear shift.

"In Honeyridge Falls? Always." He backs out of my driveway with easy competence, one hand on the steering wheel, the other draped casually over the back of my seat. "Plus, my insurance doesn't cover omega projectiles."

I snort with laughter. "Omega projectiles?"

"Technical term," he says solemnly, though the grin tugging at his mouth gives him away. "Very dangerous. Especially when they're pretty and smell like green apples."

The casual compliment catches me off guard, sending something fluttering through my chest. Dean delivers it without expectation, like he's just stating a fact about the weather, but there's something in his voice that makes me glance at his profile.

He's focused on the road, that easy smile playing at the corners of his mouth, completely relaxed in a way that makes the space between us feel intimate instead of awkward.

This is exactly what I didn't want, I think as we turn onto the main road. Getting distracted by attractive alphas who make me feel things.

But I can't deny that sitting here, surrounded by Dean's scent and his easy warmth, feels dangerously right.

"So," Dean says, glancing over at me, "what's the game plan? Full furniture haul or just the essentials?"

"Depends on what you consider essential," I say, settling deeper into the passenger seat. "But I figure we start with the big pieces—couch, maybe a dining table. Work our way down to the details."

"Very practical."

"I try to be." He turns onto the main road that leads out of town, and I watch his profile, noting the strong line of his jaw, the way his hands move confidently on the steering wheel. "Though I have to admit, I'm curious to see what kind of stuff catches your eye."

"What if I have terrible taste?" I ask.

"Then I'll help you carry terrible furniture up your front steps with a smile." He grins at me. "That's what friends do."

Friends. The word should be reassuring, a clear boundary that keeps this shopping trip in safe territory. Instead, it makes something twist in my chest that feels like disappointment.

The drive to Pine Valley takes forty minutes through mountain roads that wind between forest and farmland.

Dean keeps up easy conversation the whole way, asking about my plans for the house, sharing stories about growing up in Honeyridge Falls, making observations about the changing scenery that reveal someone who genuinely loves this place.

"There," he says, pointing to a distant peak as we round a curve. "That's where my brother Caleb and I used to go camping when we were kids. Thought we were such badasses, hiking up there with our little backpacks and sleeping bags."

"How old were you when you went on these adventures?" I ask.

"Twelve, maybe thirteen? Old enough to think we knew everything, young enough that Aunt Maeve still packed us sandwiches." His smile turns fond with memory. "We'd build these elaborate forts out of fallen branches and convince ourselves we were surviving in the wilderness."

"While eating Maeve's sandwiches."

"Hey, wilderness survival doesn't mean giving up good food." Dean laughs. "Though I'll admit, her chocolate chip cookies probably aren't traditional camping fare."

The easy way he shares pieces of his past makes me want to do the same, to offer stories of my own childhood. But most of my memories from that age involve acting classes and auditions, a childhood carefully constructed around a career that started before I was old enough to choose it.

"What about you?" Dean asks. "Any wilderness survival experience in your background?"

"Does getting lost in a mall count?"

"Absolutely. Malls are basically concrete jungles. Very dangerous." He glances over at me with mock seriousness. "How'd you survive?"

"Hot Topic and a cell phone." I find myself smiling at the memory. "I was supposed to be shopping for a premiere dress with my publicist, but I wandered off and spent two hours in the music section instead."

"Sounds like you had your priorities straight." Dean's tone is warm with approval. "Band t-shirts over ball gowns any day."

The casual way he dismisses the glamorous aspects of my old life, like he genuinely believes band t-shirts are a better choice, makes something in my chest loosen.

"I still have some of those t-shirts," I admit. "Packed away somewhere. Probably don't fit anymore, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them."

"Good. T-shirts like that are meant to be kept. History in cotton form."

The Pine Valley Furniture Warehouse sits on the outskirts of town like a converted airplane hangar, all concrete floors and fluorescent lighting and overwhelming selection. Dean takes one look at the maze of displays and rolls his shoulders like he's preparing for battle.

"Okay," he says, grabbing a shopping cart that looks ridiculously small next to his frame.

I can't help but giggle. "You can't fit a couch in that."

"It's for pillows and smaller things you might want," he says with a grin. "Trust me, I've done this before. So what's the first priority?"

"Couch," I say without hesitation. "Something I can actually relax on instead of perch on like I'm waiting for a job interview."

"Firm or soft?"

"Firm enough that I don't sink into it and disappear, but soft enough that I can fall asleep reading without my back punishing me for the next week."

Dean nods seriously, like I've given him crucial intelligence. "Right. We're looking for the Goldilocks of couches. Got it."

He guides the cart toward the living room section with confidence, weaving between displays with easy efficiency. I follow behind him, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders move under his shirt.

Focus, Lila. You're here to buy furniture, not ogle your helpful neighbor.

But it's hard to focus when Dean looks like that and smells even better.

"Okay," he says, parking the cart and crossing his arms. He studies the couch options like a general surveying a battlefield.

"That one's too soft. You'd need a crane to get out of it.

" He gestures to a sleek modern piece. "That one's too firm.

Looks like it was designed by someone who thinks comfort is a character flaw. "

"And this one?" I ask, settling onto a mid-sized couch in warm brown leather.

Dean tests it by sitting down next to me, close enough that our thighs almost touch.

I catch his scent mixing with the smell of new leather, and my pulse kicks up in response.

He bounces slightly, testing the cushion give, then leans back and stretches his arms along the back, one arm nearly brushing my shoulders.

"Structural integrity seems sound," he says in an exaggeratedly serious tone. "Cushion resilience is within acceptable parameters."

"Very scientific."

"I take couch testing seriously." He grins at me, and suddenly I'm very aware of how close we're sitting, how his arm behind my shoulders creates an intimate bubble of space. "But the real test is comfort during extended use."

"Extended use?"

His voice drops slightly, taking on a teasing edge that makes something flutter low in my belly. "You know. Movie marathons. Lazy Sunday afternoons." His eyes hold mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "Post-heat recovery when you need something that'll support you properly."

The way he says it, like he's imagining me in that vulnerable state. Like he'd want to take care of me through it makes my breath catch and my scent warm in response.

Don't think about that. Don't think about Dean taking care of you during heat.

"Dean," I start, not sure what I'm planning to say.

"Too much?" he asks, immediately backing off. "Sorry. Sometimes I forget that not everyone appreciates my sophisticated furniture analysis."

"No, it's..." I search for words that won't reveal how much his casual acceptance affects me. "It's nice. That you think about practical things like that."

"Of course I do." His expression turns serious for a moment. "Comfort matters. Especially when you're dealing with biology that doesn't ask permission."

The understanding in his voice, the complete lack of judgment about omega physiology, makes something warm and dangerous unfurl in my chest. When was the last time someone discussed heat like it was just another fact of life instead of something embarrassing?

"So," I say, clearing my throat, "does this couch pass the test?"

"For you? Absolutely." Dean stands up and offers me his hand. "But we should probably test a few more. You know, for comparison purposes."

The next hour passes in a blur of testing chairs and examining dining tables, with Dean providing running commentary that's equal parts helpful and entertaining. He tests the structural integrity of every piece like he's planning to personally vouch for its durability.

"This one," he says, settling into a reading chair upholstered in deep blue fabric. "This is the one."

"How can you tell?"