Page 9

Lila

T he morning after my kitchen turned into a small lake, I wake up determined to prove I can venture into town without requiring emergency services. Four days in Honeyridge Falls, and my track record includes flooding, broken doorknobs, and nearly burning the house down.

The temporary door handle Dean installed still holds perfectly when I test it, which feels like a small miracle given my track record with basic homeowner tasks. But today I'm going to show I can actually function like a normal person instead of someone fleeing a very public relationship disaster.

More importantly, I'm going to prove that yesterday's kitchen incident was a fluke, not evidence that I need rescuing every time I attempt basic life skills.

The plan is to buy groceries, replace the casserole dish I destroyed, maybe find a how-to book that will teach me the difference between "character" and "expensive structural damage." Things a competent adult does without requiring alpha intervention.

The walk into town is becoming familiar already, past the silver-haired neighbor who waves from her garden, down the tree-lined street where normal people live normal lives in houses that probably don't require emergency repairs twice a week.

I pass Millie's diner, where she waves through the window with the same warm recognition as yesterday. No curiosity about my personal drama, no invasive questions, just the easy acknowledgment of someone who belongs here now.

River's hardware store is busy with what looks like actual contractors and people who know what they're doing with power tools. I peer through the window at the overwhelming array of mysterious implements and decide that particular adventure can wait until I have backup.

But the bookstore across the street calls to me with its hand-painted sign and windows full of actual books instead of lifestyle merchandise. "Ashpine Books" in elegant script, with window displays that suggest someone who genuinely loves literature.

A bell chimes when I push open the door, and the scent hits me immediately. Paper and ink, old wood, and something that might be cedar. It's the smell of quiet afternoons and stories that matter.

"Levi?" calls a voice from somewhere in the back. "Customer up front."

"Be right there!" comes the distant response, followed by what sounds like boxes being moved around, then a crash and a muffled "Oomph!"

I can't help but smile at the sounds of minor disaster from the back room.

While I wait, I examine a display of local history books and notice someone sitting at a small table near the back corner, surrounded by ledgers and accounting paperwork.

Dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

He's reading a novel instead of working on the financial documents spread across the table.

He looks up as I approach, and I find myself meeting dark eyes that seem to take in everything while revealing nothing.

There's a moment where he goes completely still, like my presence has caught him off guard in a way he wasn't expecting.

His gaze travels over me with deliberate slowness before settling on my face.

"Looking for anything specific?" he asks, clearing his throat slightly as he closes the book. His voice is calm, measured, like someone who thinks before he speaks.

"I was hoping to find something about home renovation," I say. "My house has... character."

"The Anderson place." It's not a question. "I heard about your door situation."

Of course he did. In a town this size, my minor domestic disasters are probably front-page news.

"And I burned a casserole the other day," I admit, feeling heat creep up my neck. "Nearly set off every smoke detector in the house."

He studies me for a moment, his gaze steady and unreadable. "Independence looks different for everyone."

There's something in the way he says it that suggests he understands more than most people would.

"Do you work here?" I ask, since he clearly knows the store well but I know he isn't Levi, who made me soup and bread on my first night here.

"Julian," he says, standing up. "I do the books for most of the businesses in town. Including this one." He gestures at the paperwork with what might be amusement. "Though I'm supposed to be working on quarterly reports, not reading Steinbeck."

"I won't tell Levi if you won't tell him I interrupted."

Julian's mouth quirks up in what might be the beginning of a smile. "Deal. What kind of character are we talking about? Charming quirks or expensive disasters?"

"Somewhere between a money pit and a fixer-upper, depending on my optimism levels."

He moves toward the back of the store, and I find myself following. There's something about his quiet confidence that makes it easy to trust his direction.

"Home improvement section's back here," he says, navigating between shelves with ease. "Fair warning, most of these books assume you know the difference between a Phillips head and a flathead screwdriver."

"I'll learn," I say, then pause when I realize I don't actually know what that means. "I have to learn."

Julian glances back at me, and something in his expression suggests he heard more in those words than I intended to reveal.

"Start with this," he says, pulling a slim volume from the shelf. "It's written for people who've never held a hammer but need to figure out why their walls are crying."

I can't help but smile at that. "Walls crying sounds about right for my situation." I flip through pages of clear diagrams and explanations. "This is perfect. Thank you."

"There's also this." He reaches for another book, and suddenly he's standing much closer than before, close enough that I catch his scent properly for the first time.

It's nothing like Dean's warm, comforting presence or the raw, grounding scent of cedar and sawdust I caught from Callum yesterday. Julian smells like secrets I want to uncover and promises I'm not ready to make. Black tea and bergamot.

The scent is familiar in a way that makes me pause. I've smelled this before, recently, but I can't quite place where. Then it hits me. The flowers. This scent was woven through the arrangement, subtle but distinct among the blooms.

My heart does a small flutter as the pieces click together. He sent those flowers. And the note about surviving heartbreak suddenly takes on new meaning. He saw something in me that first day, recognized what I was running from.

When I look up, Julian's watching me with something that might be satisfaction, like he knows exactly what I've just figured out. But he doesn't say anything, just holds my gaze for a moment that feels charged with unspoken understanding.

I study his profile as he reaches for another book, seeing him differently now.

Not just the quiet accountant doing Levi's books, but someone who pays attention, who notices when people need kindness they haven't asked for.

Someone whose hands move with care, whose shoulders fill out his button-down in ways that make me very aware he's an alpha in his prime.

"This one covers the specific issues with houses from your era," he says, his voice low and measured. "Foundation problems, electrical systems, plumbing that predates modern conveniences."

He's not touching me, but I'm suddenly hyperaware of how close he is, how his presence feels different from Dean's easy warmth or Callum's solid reliability.

Where Dean makes me feel safe and Callum makes me feel protected, Julian makes me feel observed in a way that's both flattering and slightly unnerving.

"Have you owned a house before?" he asks, and I realize I've been quiet too long, lost in analyzing the way he affects me.

"Not like this," I admit. "My last place was... different. More modern. Less requiring actual knowledge of how things work."

Julian studies me for a moment, his dark eyes taking in details I'm not sure I want him to notice. There's something almost clinical in his assessment, like he's solving an equation.

"The Anderson place suits you," he says quietly, and there's something in his tone that suggests he means more than just the house.

The observation catches me off guard with its certainty. "You think so?"

"Places like that... they're good for people who need space to figure things out." His voice is matter-of-fact, but there's an understanding in his eyes that makes me think he knows exactly why I'm here.

"I'm planning to stay," I say, surprised by the need to tell him that, to make sure he knows.

"Good," Julian says, and there might be satisfaction in his voice.

He reaches past me for another book, but instead of stepping around me, he moves closer, his chest nearly brushing my shoulder as his arm extends over my head.

For a moment I'm surrounded by him, his scent, his warmth, the solid presence of his body so close I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

This is how omegas get in trouble. One alpha reaching for a book and suddenly you're questioning every life choice that led you here.

"Door knobs are just the beginning," he says, his voice low and close to my ear as he retrieves the book. "Wait until you discover the joy of electrical outlets that spark when you look at them wrong."

I'm frozen in place, hyperaware of how little space exists between us, how easy it would be to turn slightly and find myself pressed against his chest. My pulse kicks up and I can feel my scent warming in response to his proximity.

But there's something different about this moment compared to my interactions with Dean or Callum. Where they make me want to be taken care of, Julian makes me want to be understood. Makes me curious about what he's thinking, what he sees when he looks at me like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve.