Page 22 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas (Hollow Haven #2)
Willa
I stood in front of my bathroom mirror for the third time in ten minutes, trying to decide if I looked like someone who was casually stopping by an apothecary for tea or someone who was desperately seeking comfort before tomorrow night’s terrifying public exhibition.
The navy sweater I’d chosen was soft and comfortable, but not so casual that it seemed like I hadn’t made an effort.
My hair fell in loose waves around my shoulders, and I’d applied just enough makeup to feel put-together without looking like I was trying too hard.
You’re overthinking this , I told myself, but my hands were still shaking slightly as I applied lip gloss.
Tomorrow night, strangers would examine my photographs and judge whether my work had value.
Whether I had talent worth recognizing or if Sterling had been right about my artistic pretensions all along.
The thought made my stomach twist with familiar anxiety. What if people were just being polite about my wildlife photography? What if the gallery reception was awkward and poorly attended? What if I froze up when people asked me about my work, unable to articulate why these images mattered to me?
My phone buzzed with a text from Elias: Still planning to stop by tonight? I have that blend ready for you, plus a few others that might help with tomorrow’s nerves.
The thoughtfulness of that message made something warm bloom in my chest. Elias had remembered my anxiety about the exhibition without me having to ask for support.
He’d prepared multiple tea options because he understood that nervous energy affected people differently, that what worked for one person’s anxiety might not work for another’s.
On my way , I typed back. Fair warning, I might be terrible company tonight.
I specialize in terrible company. See you soon.
The walk to Elias’s apothecary took fifteen minutes through Hollow Haven’s quiet evening streets.
Most of the shops on Main Street had closed for the day, but warm lights glowed in the residential windows above the storefronts, creating the kind of cozy small-town atmosphere that still surprised me after months of city living.
The October air carried scents of woodsmoke and fallen leaves, crisp with the promise of winter.
Elias’s shop was tucked between the hardware store and a vintage clothing boutique, marked by a hand-painted sign that read “Wren Apothecary: Traditional Wellness & Scent Work.” Through the front window, I could see shelves lined with glass jars, dried herbs hanging in careful bundles, and the warm glow of what looked like candlelight.
I knocked softly on the door, suddenly nervous about imposing on his evening, but Elias appeared almost immediately. He was wearing dark jeans and a cream-colored sweater that made his bourbon and cedar scent seem warmer somehow, more inviting than medicinal.
“Perfect timing,” he said, stepping aside to let me in. “I just finished the evening preparations.”
The interior of his apothecary was exactly what I’d expected and somehow more intimate than I’d prepared for.
Exposed brick walls lined with wooden shelves, mason jars filled with colorful dried plants, copper pots and glass distillation equipment that looked both ancient and precisely maintained.
The air was rich with layered scents—lavender and chamomile, something citrusy and bright, the deeper notes of vanilla and sandalwood.
But it was the small seating area in the back corner that made my breath catch. Two comfortable chairs arranged around a low table, soft lighting from amber glass lamps, a tea service already prepared with what looked like four different blends waiting to be sampled.
“You set this up for me,” I said, surprised by how thoughtful the arrangement was.
“I wanted you to have options,” Elias replied, guiding me toward the chairs. “Sometimes what helps with anxiety changes depending on the specific kind of nervous energy you’re experiencing.”
I settled into one of the chairs, immediately surrounded by his scent signature in a way that felt intentional and comforting. The bourbon and cedar notes were stronger here, mixed with the botanical richness of his workspace, creating an atmosphere that felt both professional and deeply personal.
“Tell me about tomorrow night,” he said, pouring steaming water over what looked like a blend of chamomile and something citrusy. “What specifically has you worried?”
The question was direct but gentle, like he genuinely wanted to understand my anxiety rather than just fix it. I accepted the cup he offered, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic while trying to articulate fears that felt both rational and completely irrational.
“I haven’t shown my work publicly since Sterling,” I admitted. “The last time I had an exhibition, he spent the entire evening pointing out technical flaws and explaining to anyone who would listen how photography was just a hobby before I focused on more practical pursuits.”
Elias’s expression darkened slightly at the mention of Sterling, but he didn’t interrupt.
“Tomorrow night, people are going to look at my photographs and decide whether they have value. Whether I have talent worth recognizing or if I’m just another omega playing at being artistic.
” I took a sip of the tea, surprised by how perfectly the blend addressed my specific emotional state.
“What if they’re just being polite? What if the whole thing is awkward and everyone leaves early? ”
“What if they love your work?” Elias asked quietly. “What if people connect with your photography because it shows them something beautiful they wouldn’t have seen otherwise?”
The possibility felt both thrilling and terrifying. “I don’t know if I remember how to talk about my artistic process without apologizing for it.”
“Then don’t apologize.” His voice carried gentle conviction.
“Your work documents conservation efforts that matter. It shows wildlife rehabilitation from perspectives most people never see. It connects aesthetic beauty with environmental awareness in ways that make people care about protecting what they’re seeing. ”
Elias understood me in a way that even I had forgotten about. He got why these photographs mattered beyond just technical competence or artistic vision.
“Sterling convinced me that wildlife photography was self-indulgent. That real art served commercial purposes or enhanced social standing, not just personal satisfaction.” I paused, tasting the tea and feeling some of my nervous energy begin to settle.
“But watching people look at the prints yesterday, seeing how they responded to the images, I remembered why I loved this work originally.”
“Because it matters,” Elias said simply. “Because it tells stories that need telling, because it makes people see beauty and dignity in creatures they might otherwise overlook.”
“Because it feels like contributing something meaningful instead of just taking up space with creative pretensions.”
“Art that serves something larger than itself while still maintaining personal vision.” He leaned forward slightly, his attention completely focused on my words. “That’s not self-indulgent, Willa. That’s exactly what art is supposed to do.”
The validation in his voice, the way he understood both the artistic and conservation aspects of my photography, made something tight in my chest begin to loosen.
This was what support was supposed to feel like.
Recognition and encouragement without attempts to reshape my vision according to someone else’s expectations.
“This tea is perfect,” I said, gesturing toward my cup. “How did you know exactly what I needed?”
“Experience with anxiety patterns. Also, I may have been paying closer attention to your scent signatures than is probably professional.” His admission carried a hint of vulnerability that made me look at him more carefully. “You’re not the only one who’s been nervous about tomorrow night.”
“You’re nervous about my exhibition?”
“I’m nervous about watching you be vulnerable in public and not being able to do anything to protect you from criticism or judgment.
” His bourbon and cedar scent intensified slightly, carrying notes I was learning to recognize as protective concern.
“I’m nervous about wanting to support you without overstepping boundaries you haven’t given me permission to cross. ”
He’d been worried about me. About my emotional wellbeing, about my artistic success, about my ability to handle public attention without getting hurt.
“What boundaries?” I asked quietly.
The question hung between us, loaded with implications neither of us had been ready to acknowledge until now. Elias set down his tea cup, his attention entirely focused on my face like he was trying to read something important in my expression.
“The boundary between professional support and personal investment,” he said carefully. “Between offering wellness assistance and admitting that I care about your happiness in ways that go beyond healer-client relationships.”
My heart rate spiked at his admission, nervous energy shifting into something warmer and more complex. “What if I don’t want that boundary?”
“Then I’d say I’ve been hoping you’d tell me that for weeks now.”
The honesty in his voice, the way he looked at me like I was something precious and worth protecting, made me feel simultaneously vulnerable and powerful.
This wasn’t Sterling’s conditional approval based on how well I served his image.
This was recognition and care offered freely because Elias saw value in who I actually was.
“I don’t understand pack dynamics,” I said slowly. “Don’t know how omega-alpha relationships work when there are other alphas involved who matter to me too.”