Page 8 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

JULIAN

The door clicks shut behind me, soft bells still jingling in my wake. I pause on the sidewalk for a beat, jaw tight, hands at my sides.

She got under my skin. It only took Lockwood minutes before he told me all about her. Her past growing up in a foster home, her best friend Noah, and most importantly, how fond she is of her shop.

And how fond the town is of her.

This could be a problem. If she’s influential, she could derail the town’s support for my project.

Cora fucking Bellamy, with her stained apron and sugar-dusted sass, didn’t flinch once. Not when I leaned in, not when I challenged her, not even when I told her I’d be seeing more of her.

Most people bend. She didn’t even blink. And for reasons I’m not eager to unpack, I liked that. Maybe a little too much.

As I walk toward the truck, there’s something else clawing at the back of my mind. A scent. Barely there. Soft, sweet, and heat-laced. Arousal.

Her body gave more away than her mouth did, and my cock sure as hell noticed. I shift my jaw and shove the thought down, adjusting my slacks as discreetly as I can.

Focus, Julian.

The truck parked half a block down is a beat-up navy-blue Ford F-150 from God knows what year. Somehow, this was the most efficient of the cars at the rental, so I’m stuck with it for now.

The Broncos were a lot more worse for wear. I don’t care much for this truck, but it’s the best I can do for now. The thing growls when I turn the key, like it’s waking up angry.

It doesn’t drive like my Tesla. It doesn’t glide or purr or sync to my goddamn calendar. But the leather seats are soft, worn from years of use, and the engine’s got a satisfying hum beneath it. Practical. Powerful. I hate how much I enjoy it.

I roll down the window, left arm resting on the sill, and start cruising slowly down Main Street. The buildings are small, mismatched, stubborn.

Brick, wood, stone. No sleek glass towers. No symmetry. I spot a handful of available office spaces as I pass. Most look like they haven’t seen a decent renovation since the nineties, but that’s not what I’m interested in.

I park along the curb just before the bakery. The building beside it is a boxy, two-story structure with sun-bleached green trim and a front porch that sags slightly. But it’s solid. Central. Visible. Close to Cora.

Too close? Maybe. But something about that makes me smile.

I grab my phone and call Lockwood.

“Julian,” he answers too quickly, always eager.

“I need to know who owns the space next to Whisked,” I say.

“Uh, that’d be the Tanners. Retired couple. Why?”

“I want it.”

There’s a pause. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. Tell them Julian Vance is ready to pay above market if it means I can set up my offices there. Make it happen.”

He clears his throat. “Well... alright. I’ll reach out.”

“Good. Keep me updated.”

I hang up before he starts kissing my ass again. My phone buzzes with another notification—the local realtor finally texting back.

I text him an address to meet me at. I’ve had enough of that musty motel with its stiff sheets and terrible coffee.

If I’m staying, I’m going to do it right.

We meet outside a white craftsman home with peeling paint and a lawn overtaken by weeds. The realtor is a guy named Trent.

Younger than I expected, dressed like he thinks vests and boat shoes still belong in style.

“This one’s got charm,” he says. “A little rough on the outside, but wait until you see the kitchen.”

The kitchen is fine—decent marble counters, an old stove, and cabinets that stick. The living room is cramped, the master bedroom smells like dust and lavender sachets, and the backyard is a patch of dry earth.

“No,” I say, walking right back out.

Trent seems unfazed. “Okay. Got a couple more for you.”

House number two is a two-story colonial with blue shutters and a picket fence. It’s picturesque in a Stepford-wife kind of way.

Inside, it’s staged within an inch of its life—fake cookies on the counter, soft jazz playing from hidden speakers.

I walk through the living room, glance at the fireplace, open the door to a guest room, and turn to Trent. “No.”

“Right. One more. Bit out of the way, but I think you’ll like it.”

We drive north along the coast. The houses thin out. Pines rise along the curved road and the ocean opens beside us, vast and silver beneath a pale sky.

Finally, we pull into a long gravel driveway lined with trees. The house is perched on a small cliff, modern in shape but rustic in material. Black wood siding, large windows, an open porch with thick columns.

Inside, the space is all clean lines and raw wood, glass walls facing the ocean, stone fireplace in the living room. The air smells like cedar and salt. It’s quiet. Secluded.

“This one,” I say.

“You haven’t even seen the upstairs.”

“I don’t need to. Make the offer.”

Trent blinks, then grins. “You got it.”

He leaves me alone to explore. I walk through the house slowly, hand sliding along the railing as I take the stairs. There’s a balcony off the main bedroom with a view of the sea.

Wind brushes past, cool and sharp, and the waves below crash against dark rocks like thunder rolling through water.

Driftwood Cove still sucks. Too quiet. Too quaint. The coffee is weak, the sidewalks are uneven, and the locals love their nostalgia too much.

But this?

This view? This air? It does something to me.

And not all the town is dull. Some parts are mouthy. Sweet. Soft and sharp at the same time, with eyes that spark when challenged. And lips that part just the tiniest bit when you’re too close.

Cora Bellamy.

She doesn’t even know what’s coming.

And I’m starting to think I’ll enjoy showing her.

Three days after settling into the house, I finally start to breathe a little easier.

The furniture’s arriving in batches thanks to Brielle, who, despite being a bossy pain in my ass, knows how to outfit a home better than most interior designers I’ve paid six figures to.

She managed to get my bed, desk, espresso machine, and most of my things onto a freight truck without even sending me a dozen frantic texts. I call that progress.

I’m at my dining table flipping through the site plans for the dock project, sipping strong coffee from a matte black mug, when it hits me.

Shit.

The permit.

I was supposed to swing by and grab it from the assistant mayor today. I shove the plans into a leather folder, grab my keys, and head into town.

Lockwood’s office is a closet with bad lighting, a coffee pot that probably hasn’t been cleaned in weeks, and a photo from his wedding framed on the wall like it was a political campaign.

He’s hesitant as usual, still giving me that suspicious small-town stare.

“You sure about tearing down the docks?” he asks again, scratching at the back of his neck.

“I wrote the cheque, didn’t I?” I hand him the signed papers, lean on his desk, and watch him hesitate. “Ten grand’s a lot for nostalgia.”

His fingers twitch before he signs. “Fine. But you deal with the fallout.”

“I’ve handled worse.”

I walk out with the permit and slide behind the wheel of the truck, flipping on the AC. The sun is sharp today, slicing through the windows.

Main Street is a little busier than usual.

Kids licking ice cream cones, someone walking a mutt with three legs, old women camped on benches, talking like their lives depend on the next sentence.

I park just down the block and walk the rest of the way.

Jonah’s already outside my new office, sleeves rolled up, arms streaked with dust and sun. He’s on a ladder securing the matte black metal sign I had delivered this morning.

It reads “VANCE REAL ESTATE” in clean, bold lettering. Beneath it, “Coastal Development & Strategy.”

My HQ is directly next to Whisked. Jonah gives me a nod, barely acknowledging me before going back to work.

He agreed to the job, but it’s obvious he doesn’t like me. Maybe he doesn’t like what I represent. Change. Disruption. Big city money.

I don’t care.

I stand with one hand in my pocket, going over the list of things I need to finalize before construction can start. Materials, labor schedules, dock demolition orders.

I’m mid-thought when something shifts in the air.

There it is again. That scent. Sugar and citrus, and something warmer underneath. Then I hear her voice.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I turn, already smiling. “Afternoon, Cora Bellamy.”

She’s standing a few feet away, red hair catching every drop of sunlight, glowing like a goddamn warning flare.

Her apron’s got bright yellow lemons printed all over it, tied snug around her waist, and she’s wearing a fitted white tank top tucked into a denim skirt that hugs her hips and stops just above her knees. She looks edible.

Dangerous.

“You’re the one who took over this office?” she asks, arms crossed, lips tight.

I tilt my head toward the glass window behind me. “I did mention you’d be seeing more of me.”

“Not right outside my bakery,” she snaps.

From my office, I can see directly through her front window. Counter, display case, register, and her. Always her.

“I prefer to call it synergy,” I say, stepping just a little closer.

She doesn’t back down. “You think putting your big shiny development sign next to my bakery is smart?”

“I think it’s inevitable.” My eyes slide over her face, lingering on the slight flush on her cheeks. “I’m on the winning team, Cora. You might want to consider playing nice.”

“Never,” she spits, the word sharp and final.

Jonah gets a call and mutters something about needing to take it before disappearing around the corner, leaving us alone.

I look down at her, and she looks even smaller now that we’re standing this close. She lifts her chin in defiance.

“What exactly is your problem, Vance?”

“No problem at all, Bellamy.” I say it slow, watching her chest rise and fall with each irritated breath.

“You think you can just waltz in here and bulldoze everything?”

I lean in slightly, not touching her, not yet.

“You keep acting like I’m here to ruin the town.

But I’m offering you a seat at the table.

You feed people. I bring people in. Feels like a win-win.

I could even put an exclusive catering contract together.

You bake and feed all the people I will have working for me. I pay.”

She huffs, curls bouncing as she shakes her head. “People in this town will see right through you.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not here to win them over.”

“You won’t get away with this. I swear it, Julian. I won’t let you.” She starts to turn, the hem of her skirt brushing against her thighs. I reach out, fingers catching her wrist as she moves past me. Gently. Firm enough to stop her, soft enough not to bruise.

“See, this defiance is cute. I could even call it sexy,” I say near her ear. “But don’t mess with my plans.”

She glares up at me. “Or what?”

I lower my voice, the words dragging between us like tension on a wire. “Don’t mess with me, Omega. Or I’ll make your life very, very difficult.”

Her eyes narrow, lips parted like she’s ready to bite, but Jonah’s voice cuts through the moment as he steps back around the corner.

“Everything alright here?”

I release her wrist, taking a casual step back. She turns without a word, her eyes doing all the talking. And then she’s gone, striding back to her bakery.

I exhale slowly, running a hand down my face.

She’s going to be a problem.

But God, she’s an addictive one.

Jonah gives me a look but doesn’t say anything. He gets back to the sign, and I walk into the office, scanning the interior again. There’s still a lot to do. Desks to be delivered, wiring to be upgraded, permits to be processed. But I’m on track.

If I don’t start actual site development soon, my father will start breathing down my neck. The man has no patience for delays, especially not when it involves prime oceanfront property and a ten-year projection.

But even with the clock ticking and pressure mounting, I find myself glancing through the glass again.

Right into Whisked.

Right at her.