Page 41 of Nesting With My Three Alphas (Hollow Haven #1)

Reed

T he sound of hammering echoed across our property at seven in the morning, and I grinned as I heard Kit's voice carry from the house to the old barn. "Reed Thornton, if you wake up Charlie with that racket, you're sleeping in the workshop tonight!"

Six weeks in, and I still got a kick out of the fact that this was our place.

Our house, with the old barn that we'd discovered had perfect bones for renovation, and Kit's art studio that caught the morning light just right, and Charlie's room with the built-in bookshelves that she'd already filled with dinosaur encyclopedias and chapter books.

"Sorry!" I called back across the yard, though I kept hammering.

The gallery wall Kit wanted for the community art show wasn't going to hang itself, and we had exactly three days before the entire town descended on our place for what Charlie had dubbed "the fanciest party Hollow Haven has ever seen. "

It had all started when Mrs. Parker cornered Kit after her second week at the advanced art class at the community center.

"You know, dear," she'd said in that way that meant she'd been thinking about something for a while, "there are a lot of folks in town who'd love to try art but are too intimidated to jump into our group."

Mrs. Parker had been right, of course. The existing art class was full of people who'd been painting and drawing for years. They met every Tuesday afternoon to work on their projects and critique each other's techniques. Wonderful for experienced artists, but hardly welcoming to complete beginners.

So Kit had proposed a solution. A beginner's class that met Thursday evenings, open to anyone regardless of designation or experience level. "Art for Absolute Beginners" had seemed like a modest goal.

What it had become was something closer to a community movement.

"How's it coming out there?" Jonah's voice carried from the kitchen, where he was working his way through a breakfast that would fuel a construction crew.

Moving day had been three weeks ago, but we were still in the process of settling in, making the space truly ours.

That included the ambitious barn conversion project.

"Almost done with the main wall," I called back across the yard. "Though someone keeps changing their mind about the arrangement."

"I heard that!" Kit's voice was closer now, probably on the back porch. "And I'm not changing my mind, I'm optimizing the visual flow!"

"Is that what we're calling it?"

Kit appeared in the barn doorway, her hair pulled back in a messy bun and already wearing one of my old flannel shirts over her jeans. Six weeks of living together, and she still reached for our clothes like they were comfort items.

Which, knowing Kit's relationship with scent and security, they probably were.

"It looks incredible," she said, examining my handiwork with the critical eye of someone who'd spent years in marketing and knew the difference between good enough and actually good. "I can't believe this is the same space that was full of old hay and rusted farm equipment six weeks ago."

The barn transformation had been my pet project since we'd moved in.

What had started as a dusty storage space was now a bright, open gallery with exposed beams, polished concrete floors, and enough wall space to showcase serious artwork.

The big sliding doors could open completely to connect the interior space with the yard outside.

"Good, because I'm not moving another nail." I climbed down from the stepladder and surveyed our work. The barn had been transformed into a proper gallery space, with track lighting I'd installed myself and clean sight lines that would showcase each piece to its best advantage.

"Mr. Wilson's going to be so proud when he sees his landscape displayed like this," Kit said softly, running her fingers along one of the frames.

Mr. Wilson. The shy beta who ran the hardware store and had never touched a paintbrush before Kit's class. His first watercolor landscape was rough around the edges but full of genuine emotion and a surprising understanding of light.

"And the setup outside is going to be magical," Kit continued, stepping to the open barn doors and looking out at the yard where Jonah had been setting up tables and Micah had mapped out the food stations.

"Fairy lights, multiple grills, space for everyone to mingle and celebrate after they've seen the art. "

"Weather's supposed to be perfect too," I said, joining her in the doorway. "Clear skies, warm enough for people to be comfortable outside well into the evening."

"Abigail's pottery pieces look amazing on those pedestals," Kit said, gesturing to where the young alpha's hand-built bowls caught the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

Abigail worked at the bank and had joined the class because her mate thought she needed a hobby that didn't involve spreadsheets.

"Speaking of Abigail," I said, checking my watch, "isn't she coming by this morning to help with the setup?"

"Ten o'clock. Along with Tom and Mr. Wilson and probably half their families.

" Kit's excitement was infectious, the kind of pure joy that came from watching people you cared about succeed.

"Micah's planning a whole outdoor feast. Three different grills, tables set up under the oak tree, and Charlie's appointed herself as official greeter for both the gallery and the party. "

"Of course she has."

"She's been practicing her welcome speech. It involves explaining the difference between oil paints and watercolors, somehow."

"Everything involves art education with that kid now."

Kit smiled, the soft expression that meant she was thinking about how much she loved our weird little family. "Jonah's handling the logistics. Parking, crowd flow, making sure we don't violate any town ordinances by having half of Hollow Haven in our barn and backyard."

"And you're handling the emotional support for twelve nervous artists who are about to display their souls for public consumption."

"Something like that." Kit's scent shifted slightly, picking up notes of anxiety that had been building for the past week. "What if nobody comes? What if people come but they don't understand what we're trying to do? What if..."

"Kit." I stepped closer, close enough to catch her hands in mine. "Half the town's been asking me about this show for weeks. Mrs. Carrington cornered me at the hardware store yesterday wanting to know if she could buy one of Sarah's pieces before the show even starts."

"Really?"

"Really. And Sheriff Rowe mentioned that he's been looking for local art for the station. Apparently young Jake's drawings have caught his attention."

Jake. The sixteen-year-old alpha whose parents had dragged him to art class as punishment for spray-painting the side of the old grain elevator. Who'd discovered he had a real talent for pencil portraits and had been quietly drawing everyone in town with surprising skill.

Kit's anxiety settled a bit, her scent returning to its usual vanilla-and-honey baseline. "I just want this to go well for them. They've all worked so hard, and they're being so brave putting themselves out there."

"It's going to be perfect," I said instead. "And even if it's not perfect, it's going to be real. That's what matters."

The sound of a car in the driveway interrupted whatever Kit might have said next, followed by Charlie's voice from upstairs: "Mr. Wilson's here! And he brought his whole family!"

Of course he brought his whole family. Word had gotten around that this wasn't just an art show but a celebration of Hollow Haven's creative community. People were bringing relatives from out of town, making it into a proper event.

"Showtime," Kit said, but she was smiling now, the anxiety replaced by anticipation.

Mr. Wilson came through the barn doors with his wife and two teenage children, all of them looking slightly overwhelmed by the transformation of the old farm building.

At fifty-eight, he'd spent his entire adult life running the hardware store his father had left him, and art class had been his first creative endeavor since high school wood shop.

"Oh my," his wife breathed, taking in the professional gallery setup in what had once been a working barn. "This looks like something from the city."

"Because it is something from the city," Kit said firmly. "Real art deserves real presentation, no matter where it's created."

Mr. Wilson's eyes filled with emotion. Pride mixed with disbelief that his work was being treated with such respect. "I never thought... when I started, I was just killing time while my wife was at book club..."

"Art doesn't care why you start," Kit said gently. "It only cares that you keep going."

Their joy grounded me. This wasn't about being perfect, it was about giving people a moment to believe in themselves.

The next few hours passed in a whirlwind of activity.

Abigail arrived with her pottery pieces, nervous energy radiating from her as she fussed over the placement of each bowl and mug.

Tom, the older omega who'd retired from teaching and decided to try oils, showed up with his still life paintings, trying to project confidence while his scent gave away his excitement.

Then came young Jake with his portraits, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else but unable to hide his pride when people stopped to stare at his work.

And families. So many families. Mr. Wilson's wife and children, Abigail's mate and their toddler, Tom's grown daughter who'd driven down from Seattle, Jake's parents looking shocked and proud in equal measure.

Charlie appointed herself as official tour guide, leading small groups around the barn displays with the gravity of a museum docent and the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loved every piece on display.