Page 7

Lila

D ay three in Honeyridge Falls, and I'm waking up without checking my phone for damage control messages from my publicist. The quiet mornings are taking some getting used to after years of LA's relentless pace, but there's something deeply satisfying about starting the day without crisis management.

More importantly, there's something satisfying about waking up in a house where I handled yesterday's problems myself. Well, mostly myself. With some neighborly guidance that I'm choosing to see as educational rather than rescue.

I dress in yesterday's jeans and the cleanest sweater I can find, a soft gray cashmere that's probably too nice for hardware shopping but is the most casual thing I packed. The walk into town will do me good, and I need to start figuring out where to buy the basics of small-town life.

Today's goal is to prove I can venture into public without requiring emergency services.

The Honey Crumb is exactly what I expected from Maeve.

Warm yellow walls, mismatched furniture that somehow works perfectly together, and the kind of smell that makes your mouth water before you've even seen the menu.

There are already a few customers scattered around the small tables, nursing coffee and reading newspapers like they have all the time in the world.

Maeve is behind the counter, wearing another floral apron and the kind of smile that suggests she's been expecting me.

"Well, look what the morning dragged in," she says, not unkindly. "You look like you wrestled with that house and lost."

"The house won this round," I admit, approaching the counter. "But I'm planning a comeback."

"Coffee first," she says decisively, already reaching for a large mug. "Then we'll talk strategy."

The coffee is perfect. Strong enough to wake the dead but smooth enough that I don't feel like I'm drinking motor oil. I order a blueberry muffin and settle at a small table by the window where I can watch the town wake up.

I'm halfway through my first cup when the bell above the door chimes and a woman in her sixties bustles in, wearing a purple cardigan and the kind of smile that suggests she knows everyone's business.

"Maeve, darling," she calls out, then spots me and makes a beeline for my table. "And you must be our new resident! I'm Margie Winslow, head of the Honeyridge Events Committee and unofficial welcome wagon."

She settles into the chair across from me without being invited. There's something so genuinely warm about her enthusiasm that it's hard to be irritated.

"Lila James," I say, extending my hand.

"Oh, I know exactly who you are," Margie says with a wink. "Small town, remember? We've all been dying to meet the mysterious woman who bought the Anderson place sight unseen."

My stomach drops slightly, but Margie doesn't seem interested in prying into my past. Instead, she leans forward conspiratorially.

"Now, I hope you're not planning to order everything online like some kind of hermit," she says.

"We've got everything you need right here in town.

Start with Everwood Supply for lumber and building materials.

Callum Greaves runs it, and he's fair with his prices.

For tools and smaller hardware, Brooks Hardware has everything you'll need, and River Brooks is always helpful. "

"I was actually planning to do some shopping today," I say. "I need a few things for the house."

And I need to prove I can handle basic errands without Dean appearing to rescue me from my own incompetence.

"Excellent!" Margie stands up and gathers her purse. "But don't be a stranger, Lila. We're glad you're here."

I finish my muffin and head out, armed with Margie's recommendations. Brooks Hardware is just a few shops down, a neat storefront with red trim and displays of tools in the windows.

The bell above the door jangles as I enter, and I'm immediately hit by the distinctive scent of motor oil, metal polish, and rubber. The store is organized chaos. Tools and hardware displayed in neat sections that somehow manage to look both overwhelming and inviting.

"Help you find something?"

I turn toward the voice and find a guy about my age leaning against the counter with an easy smile. His dark hair is tousled like he's been working outside, and he's definitely an alpha—I can tell from his scent even over the motor oil.

"So you're the famous Lila James," he says, pushing off from the counter with an easy smile.

"Word travels fast around here."

"Lightning speed," he agrees cheerfully. "I'm River, by the way. River Brooks. Welcome to Honeyridge Falls."

"Nice to meet you, River. I need a toolkit," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "Something basic but comprehensive. I've been trying to figure out what's wrong with my front porch."

I pull out my sketchbook and show him the drawings I've been working on since yesterday, careful measurements of the sagging supports, sketches of what I think might be structural problems.

River's eyebrows rise as he studies my work. "Damn, you really did your homework. Crawled under there and everything?"

"Spider webs and all," I admit. "But I'm not sure I understand what I'm looking at."

"Well, getting your own toolkit is a good start," he says, leading me toward a display. "Independence is sexy." The comment catches me off guard, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks. It's been months since anyone flirted with me, even casual, harmless flirting like this.

"This one's perfect for beginners," River says, pulling down a medium-sized toolkit.

"Basic hammer, screwdrivers, pliers, measuring tape, level.

Everything you need for most household projects.

" He glances back at my sketches. "But for the porch stuff, you're gonna need to talk to Callum over at Everwood Supply.

He understands old construction better than anyone around here. "

"Right, Margie mentioned him," I say.

"Bit of a grump, but he knows his stuff. If anyone can tell you what you're dealing with structurally, it's him." River grins. "Just don't let his attitude scare you off. He's all bark."

"Good to know. I'll probably need to see him after I figure out the basics," I say, then gesture to the toolkit. "Speaking of which, I'll take this one."

"Great choice. Need help carrying it to your car?"

"I walked," I admit. "But I can manage."

River raises an eyebrow. "It's pretty heavy, even for someone determined to prove their independence."

The way he says it suggests he's picked up on more than just my toolkit needs.

"I don't need help," I say, reaching for the toolkit. "I can handle it."

He hands it over with a smirk that suggests he finds my stubbornness amusing rather than irritating. The toolkit is heavier than I expected, but I'm committed to the illusion of competence now.

After a quick stop at the general store for basic supplies, I make my way home, arms aching but pride intact. I spend the rest of the morning unpacking my purchases and trying to make sense of the toolkit.

The instruction manual might as well be written in ancient Greek, but I manage to figure out which end of the hammer to hold and how to adjust the screwdriver bits without injuring myself.

I decide to start with something simple, the loose handle on one of the kitchen cabinet doors that's been driving me crazy since I arrived.

It takes three attempts and considerable creative cursing, but I finally manage to tighten the screws properly. The handle no longer wobbles when I open the door, and the small victory feels disproportionately satisfying.

Emboldened by this success, I tackle the bathroom door that's been sticking. A few strategic applications of the screwdriver and some of the spray lubricant, and suddenly it opens and closes smoothly. Two successful repairs in one day feels like a minor miracle.

By afternoon, I've discovered at least three new problems that definitely require professional help, including the kitchen faucet that's developed an ominous drip since yesterday. But I've also proven to myself that I'm not completely helpless with tools.

The independence thing is harder than it looks in the movies, but maybe that's the point.

I'm sitting on the front porch with a cup of coffee, contemplating my modest victories, when I hear footsteps on the walkway.

A woman in her twenty’s is approaching the house, carrying what looks like a large bouquet of flowers.

She's pretty in a natural, understated way, with long brown hair and the kind of gentle smile that suggests she probably rescues injured animals in her spare time.

Even from this distance, I can tell she's an omega.

"Hi," she says when she reaches the porch steps. "I'm Sadie Penrose. I own the flower shop in town."

"Lila," I say, standing up. "Though I'm guessing you already knew that."

"Small town," she says with a rueful smile. "I hope you don't mind the intrusion, but I wanted to bring you these."

She holds out the bouquet. A beautiful arrangement of white roses, eucalyptus, and something with small purple flowers that smells absolutely divine.

"They're lovely," I say, accepting them carefully. "But you really didn't need to?—"

"Actually, they're not from me," Sadie interrupts gently. "There's a card."

She hands me a small envelope, and I can feel my hands trembling slightly as I open it. The handwriting is neat and precise, written in dark ink that looks like it came from an actual fountain pen.

From someone who's survived heartbreak too.

No signature. No identifying information. Just those simple words that hit me like a punch to the chest. Someone in this town knows what I've been through. More than that, someone in this town understands.

"Do you know who sent them?" I ask, looking up at Sadie.

She shakes her head, but there's something in her expression—a slight smile, a knowing look that suggests she definitely knows who sent them.

"Sorry, but I never tell tales about my customers," she says with a gentle but firm smile. "Part of the service."

I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady. The kindness of the gesture is overwhelming in a way I wasn't prepared for.

"Thank you," I manage. "For bringing them."

"Of course," Sadie says. "And if you need anything, anything at all, the flower shop is on Main Street. I'm usually there most days."

She leaves with a gentle wave, and I'm alone on the porch with a bouquet that smells like hope and a card that makes my chest tight with emotion.

I bury my face in the flowers and breathe deeply, trying to identify the different scents.

The roses are obvious, sweet and classic.

The eucalyptus is clean and fresh. But there's something else woven through the arrangement, something subtle and sophisticated that makes my omega instincts stir in a way I haven't felt in months.

Black tea and bergamot, with an undertone of worn leather that wraps around me like an invitation I don't understand. It's the kind of scent that makes me want to breathe deeper, to seek out its source.

I pull back from the flowers, startled by my own reaction. That's definitely an alpha scent woven through the arrangement, and it's triggering something primal and inconvenient. My body is responding like there's an alpha nearby, which is impossible since I'm alone on my porch with a bouquet.

But alpha scents can linger on things they've touched, especially flowers. Someone must have handled this arrangement, scented it without meaning to.

Still, I can't deny that it's affecting me. Making me feel calmer and more settled, but also more aware of myself in ways I've been trying to ignore.

I settle back into the porch chair and pull out my sketchbook, but my hand keeps drifting back to the flowers, and my mind keeps circling back to that anonymous note and the way someone I've never met managed to make me feel seen without saying a word.

This town smells like fresh bread and hardware dust and second chances.

And maybe, just maybe, that's not such a bad thing.

As I head inside, I take the bouquet with me. And when I set it on the kitchen table next to my coffee cup and sketchbook, I can't help but notice how it makes the whole house smell a little bit like home.

Even if I'm not sure I'm ready to admit what that means yet.

I sit with the flowers for a while, turning that anonymous note over in my hands. From someone who's survived heartbreak too. The words feel like a gentle acknowledgment, a reminder that I'm not as alone as I thought.

But I can't sit here all day wondering about mysterious flower senders. I have real problems to solve. Like a porch that's slowly sinking into the ground.

I flip through my sketchbook, looking at the drawings I made when I crawled under the porch with a flashlight. River was right, I need to talk to someone who understands old construction. Someone who can tell me if what I'm looking at is fixable or if I've bought myself a very expensive problem.

Callum at Everwood Supply. River said he was a bit of a grump but knew his stuff.

I grab my car keys and the sketchbook. It's time to find out just how much trouble I'm really in.

The drive to Everwood Supply takes me to the edge of town, where the neat shops give way to more industrial buildings. The lumber yard sits on several acres, with stacks of timber organized in neat rows and the kind of machinery that suggests serious construction work happens here.

I park next to a pickup truck that's seen better days and take a deep breath. Time to see if Callum can help me figure out whether my house is a charming fixer-upper or an expensive mistake.

And time to prove that I can handle getting professional advice without turning it into another rescue situation.