Page 28

Lila

I stand on my front porch staring at two shirts that shouldn't make my heart race this much.

Callum's flannel and Julian's button-down lie draped over the railing, positioned deliberately side by side.

The fabric still holds the shape of their bodies, and both shirts carry the concentrated scent of their owners—cedar and sawdust mixing with black tea and bergamot in ways that make my mouth water and my thighs clench involuntarily.

I reach for Callum's flannel first, lifting it to my face before I can stop myself.

The worn fabric is soft against my cheek, saturated with his scent in a way that sends heat racing through my system.

Cedar and honest work, the lingering ghost of his skin, something indefinably masculine that makes my omega instincts practically purr with satisfaction.

Just checking the fabric quality, I tell myself, even as I breathe deeper, letting his scent fill my lungs and settle into my chest like a warm weight.

Julian's shirt is next, and when I unfold it, the precision of the creases tells its own story.

Black tea and bergamot wrap around me like an embrace, sophisticated and complex, with an underlying warmth that speaks of careful attention and quiet intensity.

The fabric is still warm from his body, still holds the evidence of his presence in my space.

My scent responds immediately, green apple and white musk blooming sweeter, richer, advertising exactly how affected I am by these tokens of attention.

The slick that's been building between my thighs since this afternoon intensifies, and I have to press my legs together to contain the evidence of my body's enthusiasm.

This is ridiculous, I think, clutching both shirts against my chest. They're just being neighborly. This doesn't mean anything.

But my body knows better. My body understands exactly what it means when alphas leave scent-saturated clothing in omega spaces. It means interest. It means claiming. It means they want to be part of whatever comfort I'm building for myself.

And God help me, I want them to be part of it too.

I carry both shirts inside and head straight upstairs to the small blue room where my definitely-not-a-nest waits in the afternoon sunlight.

The mattress looks inviting covered in cream blankets and carefully arranged pillows, Dean's stolen t-shirt still tucked along the edge where I left it yesterday.

I add Callum's flannel to the arrangement, spreading it across one side where its scent can mingle with the green apple and white musk that's already claimed this space. Julian's button-down gets folded and placed where my head will rest, close enough that I can breathe him in while I sleep.

The sight of all three shirts integrated into my nest does something complex to my chest. Pride, maybe. Satisfaction. The deep contentment that comes from having evidence that alphas I care about want to surround me with their presence.

"Not nesting," I say aloud to the empty room, adjusting a pillow that doesn't need adjusting. "Just... keeping things tidy."

The lie tastes bitter even as I'm saying it, but I'm not ready to examine what it means that I've created a space specifically designed for comfort and security, filled with the scents of three alphas who've somehow become central to my daily thoughts.

I'm not ready to acknowledge that my body's been preparing for something I swore I didn't want.

My phone buzzes with a text from Dean: 645 Woodlands Road - the yellow farmhouse on the right. Can't miss it! See you at 7.

By the time I'm dressed and ready, the late afternoon heat has settled into something thick and oppressive that makes my summer dress cling to my skin. The wine I picked up as a thank-you gift sits on my passenger seat, condensation beading on the glass despite the air conditioning.

Following Dean's directions, I find Maeve's farmhouse on the outskirts of town, surrounded by gardens that look like they've been tended with love for decades.

Flowers spill over stone borders in carefully managed chaos, and the herb garden near the kitchen door releases the scent of rosemary and thyme when I brush past.

Before I can knock, the door swings open to reveal Maeve in a flour-dusted apron, her silver hair pulled back and her face bright with genuine pleasure.

"There you are, sweetheart," she says, pulling me into a hug that smells like fresh bread and maternal warmth. "Right on time. The boys are already here, making themselves useful in the kitchen."

The casual way she says "the boys" makes something flutter in my chest. Like this is normal, like having dinner with three alphas who've spent the day working on my house is just another Sunday evening in Honeyridge Falls.

I follow her into the kitchen and immediately understand why people fall in love with farmhouse living.

The space is warm and honey-colored, with exposed beams and copper pots hanging from hooks, windows that overlook rolling fields dotted with wildflowers.

The air is thick with the scents of roast chicken, rosemary potatoes, and bread that's clearly been baked from scratch.

But it's the sight of three familiar figures that makes my breath catch.

Dean stands at the large wooden table, distributing plates with easy competence. When he sees me, his face lights up with that devastating smile, and he gives me a playful wink that sends warmth racing down my spine.

"Hope you brought your appetite," he says, his voice carrying that warm, teasing note that makes me want to step closer instead of maintaining safe distance. "Aunt Maeve's outdone herself tonight."

At the stove, Callum stirs something that smells incredible while managing to look unfairly appealing in clean jeans and a white t-shirt.

The simple outfit shouldn't be attractive, but the way the fabric stretches across his broad shoulders makes my mouth go dry.

When he glances up and nods in my direction, the brief eye contact sends electricity racing along my nerve endings.

Julian moves between the island and the table, arranging silverware with careful attention.

I catch him watching me as he works, those dark, perceptive eyes that see too much.

He's changed into a fresh shirt—dark blue that brings out his eyes—and his scent of black tea and bergamot mingles with the kitchen aromas in ways that make me want to move closer.

"Lila," he says quietly, his voice low and thoughtful. "You look lovely."

The simple compliment makes my cheeks flush. There's something in how he says it that settles warm in my chest.

"Thank you all for having me," I manage, offering the wine to Maeve. "I brought this as a small thank-you."

"Honey, you didn't need to bring anything except yourself," Maeve says, accepting the bottle with obvious pleasure. "But this is lovely. Perfect for tonight's meal."

She bustles around with confident energy, directing traffic and conversation with equal skill. Dean helps carry serving dishes to the table, Julian sets out wine glasses, and Callum transfers the gravy to a ceramic boat that probably belonged to Maeve's grandmother.

I try to help, but Maeve waves me toward the table with firm instructions to sit and let myself be taken care of. The command should feel patronizing, but coming from her, it feels like love.

The table is set for five with mismatched dishes that somehow work perfectly together, water glasses, ceramic plates in various patterns, cloth napkins that look hand-sewn. It's the kind of table setting that speaks of history and care, of meals shared with people who matter.

"Sit anywhere you like, sweetheart," Maeve says, but Dean is already pulling out the chair at the end of the table.

"Best seat in the house," he says with that easy grin, his hand briefly touching my shoulder as I settle into the chair. The contact is light, casual, but it sends heat racing down my arm and makes my scent flare in response.

The men arrange themselves around the table with unconscious ease.

Dean to my right, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

Callum beside him, his steady presence grounding.

Julian to my left, far enough away to be proper but close enough that his scent reaches me every time he moves.

Maeve loads my plate with portions that could feed a small army. Roast chicken that falls apart at the touch of a fork, potatoes crispy on the outside and fluffy within, green beans that actually taste like vegetables.

"You need feeding up, girl," she says with the authority of someone who's been nurturing people for decades. "Moving house takes it out of you."

"I'm perfectly healthy," I protest, but I'm already cutting into the chicken, which releases steam that carries the scent of herbs and perfectly rendered fat.

"Healthy, maybe, but not properly fed," Maeve insists. She settles into her own chair, then suddenly claps her hands together with obvious distress.

"Oh, dear," she says, looking genuinely apologetic. "I completely forgot about the charity blanket drive tonight! The quilting circle will be waiting on my batting squares and coffee cake."

That's... convenient, I think, watching as she starts bustling around with renewed energy. Very convenient timing.

"I thought you did quilting on Mondays?" Dean says, looking puzzled.

"Yes, but this is charity quilting," Maeve says quickly. "Completely different schedule."

"Oh," Dean says, and I catch the moment understanding dawns in his eyes. "Well, yes, that's important. Don't worry about us—we'll be fine here."

"You're angels, all of you," Maeve says, pressing a kiss to my cheek. I catch the hint of mischief in her eyes despite her apologetic tone. "You're in good hands, honey. These boys will take care of you."

The way she says it makes it crystal clear this departure is anything but accidental.

"Have a good night!" she calls, and the front door closes with a decisive click.