Page 7 of Nesting With My Three Alphas (Hollow Haven #1)

Micah

T he morning rush at the bakery had been lighter than usual, just the regulars picking up their Saturday treats and a few tourists drawn in by the scent of fresh cinnamon rolls.

I was pulling the last batch of blueberry muffins from the oven when the bell above the door chimed, bringing with it a familiar vanilla-and-honey scent that made my alpha instincts sit up and take notice.

Kit.

I looked up to see her standing just inside the doorway, looking uncertain and a little lost. She'd changed since yesterday, still beautiful, but there was a tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there when I'd delivered the welcome cookies.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she was wearing an oversized cardigan that seemed designed to hide rather than flatter.

Something had rattled her.

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise," I said, setting down the muffin tin and wiping my flour-dusted hands on my apron. "Come for those muffins Charlie's been advertising?"

She managed a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Actually, yes. If you have any to spare."

"For you? Always." I gestured toward the display case, where golden-brown muffins studded with plump blueberries sat in neat rows. "Fresh out of the oven, still warm."

"They smell incredible," Kit said, approaching the counter with careful steps. "How many would be appropriate for a neighbor who's trying to apologize for being weird this morning?"

There it was, confirmation that something had happened between her visit to Jonah's and now. My protective instincts, already humming from her distressed scent, kicked into higher gear.

"Depends on how weird we're talking," I said lightly, pulling out a bakery bag. "Scale of one to ten, where one is forgetting to say thank you and ten is accidentally setting something on fire."

That earned me a genuine laugh, small but real. "Maybe a six? I kind of ran out on them after breakfast without much explanation."

"Ah." I nodded sagely as I selected the biggest, most perfect muffins from the display. "Definitely a half-dozen situation then. Maybe throw in some of those chocolate chip cookies Charlie likes."

"I’m not sure…"

"Kit." I kept my voice gentle but firm. "In my experience, there's very little that can't be improved with the right baked goods. Consider this a professional consultation."

She was quiet for a moment, watching me work. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "Do you ever miss it? Your old life, before you came here?"

The question caught me off guard. I paused in my cookie selection, considering how much truth to offer this woman who was clearly dealing with her own past.

"Every day," I said finally. "But missing something and wanting it back aren't the same thing."

Kit's eyes met mine, and I saw understanding there. Recognition of someone else who'd left pieces of themselves behind in service of survival.

"What brought you here?" she asked.

"Love," I said simply. "And loss."

I'd loved Laura with the kind of intensity that I thought only came once in a lifetime, the bond so deep that when she left, it felt like losing a limb.

We'd been together for three years, talking about forever, when she decided I wasn't ambitious enough for the life she wanted.

She'd found someone else, an alpha with bigger plans and grander dreams than I could apparently offer.

The breakup had been brutal, made worse by the way she'd handled it.

She disappeared one day with half our shared belongings and a note explaining that she needed "more" than what we had.

Her family had been horrified. Her sister Liv had been the one to stage an intervention, packing me into her car and driving me to Hollow Haven for what she called "a change of scenery and some perspective.

" I'd intended to stay a week. That was four years ago.

"I'm sorry," Kit said quietly.

"Thank you. It gets easier, but it never really goes away." I finished packing her bag, adding an extra muffin because she looked like she hadn't been eating enough. "The trick is learning to carry it without letting it carry you."

"And you think baking helps with that?"

"I think feeding people helps with that," I corrected. "There's something about nourishing others that reminds you why life's worth living. Liv says it's my way of processing, turning pain into something that feeds people instead of hurts them."

Kit was quiet again, but this time it felt contemplative rather than withdrawn. I rang up her order, charging her exactly half of what I should have, and she didn't protest when I handed over the overstuffed bag.

"Micah?" she said as I was making change. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"What's Jonah's story? With Charlie's mom, I mean." She flushed slightly. "I don't mean to gossip, it's just... Charlie mentioned she died, and I didn't want to say the wrong thing."

The question was innocent enough, but I caught the undercurrent of real concern. Kit wasn't asking out of idle curiosity. She was asking because she cared about not hurting that little girl.

"Sarah was local," I said carefully. "Sweet woman, a school teacher. She moved to Portland with Jonah so they could look after his Mom when she was sick. Cancer took Sarah when Charlie was four, fast and brutal, the kind that doesn't give you time to prepare."

Kit's face crumpled slightly. "That's awful."

"It was. Jonah barely held it together the first year. If it wasn't for Charlie needing him, I'm not sure he would have." I leaned against the counter, studying her face. "But he's good people, Kit. Steady. The kind of man who shows up when he says he will."

"Unlike some people," she murmured, so quietly I almost didn't catch it.

There it was. The piece of her past that had sent her running to a small town where nobody knew her name.

"Want to talk about it?" I offered.

Kit shook her head, but there was gratitude in her expression. "Rain check on that too?"

"Any time." I meant it. There was something about this woman that called to every protective instinct I possessed, every urge to shelter and care for that Laura used to roll her eyes at. "Kit?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever you're running from, you don't have to face it alone. This town, we take care of our own."

Her eyes went suspiciously bright. "I'm not really anyone's 'own' anymore."

Oh, sweetheart . The urge to round the counter and pull her into my arms was almost overwhelming. Instead, I kept my voice steady and sure.

"You are now."

The simple declaration seemed to hit her like a physical blow. She clutched the bakery bag tighter, her scent shifting toward something warmer, more hopeful.

"I should go," she said, but she didn't move toward the door. "Let you get back to work."

"I'm not exactly rushed," I said, gesturing around the empty bakery. "Saturday afternoons are pretty quiet."

As if summoned by my words, the bell chimed again, and Reed strolled in with his usual easy confidence. His dark hair was mussed, his flannel shirt rolled up to reveal forearms that were somehow both elegant and strong, and he smelled like motor oil and sunshine.

Perfect timing, as always.

"Micah," he said with a grin, then spotted Kit and his expression shifted to something warmer, more interested. "Well, hello there, neighbor."

"Hi," Kit said, and I didn't miss the way her cheeks flushed slightly. Reed had that effect on people, all charm and mischief wrapped up in a package that looked like trouble but usually turned out to be worth it.

"Reed Thornton," he said, extending a hand that was clean despite the motor oil scent. "Officially met yesterday, but I don't think we got properly introduced."

"Erm, hi." She shook his hand, and I caught the subtle way Reed's nostrils flared, taking in her scent. "You're the handyman, right?"

"Among other things." Reed's grin widened. "Just finished checking on Mrs. Carrington's chimney. Thought I'd grab some fuel for the drive home."

"Let me guess," I said dryly. "Coffee and whatever has the most sugar."

"You know me so well." Reed turned back to Kit, and I recognized the look in his eyes. Interest. Real interest, not just the casual flirtation he usually deployed. "How are you settling in? Need anything fixed, built, or generally improved?"

"I'm good, thanks," Kit said, but there was something in her tone that suggested she was anything but.

Reed must have heard it too, because his expression grew more serious. "You sure? Because I'm pretty handy with locks, security systems, that kind of thing."

Interesting. Reed's offer wasn't just neighborly helpfulness. It was alpha instinct responding to a distressed omega. The same instinct that had me wanting to wrap Kit in soft blankets and feed her until she stopped looking so fragile.

Kit hesitated, and I could practically see the internal debate playing out across her face. Saying yes felt dangerous, but saying no felt stupid.

"Really, I'm fine," Kit insisted, but she was backing toward the door now, clearly overwhelmed by the attention.

"Kit," I said gently. "Don't crush your muffins."

She looked down at the bag in her hands like she'd forgotten it existed. "Right. Thank you, Micah. For everything."

"Any time."

Reed stepped aside to let her pass, but I caught the way his eyes followed her movement, the protective set to his shoulders as she hurried out into the afternoon sunshine.

"Well," he said once the door had closed behind her. "That's interesting."

"What's interesting?"

"Our new neighbor." Reed approached the counter, but his attention was still partly focused on the window, watching Kit's retreating form. "She's spooked about something."

"You picked up on that too?"

"Hard to miss. She smells like vanilla and fear." Reed's expression was thoughtful. "Someone hurt her."

It wasn't a question, and I found myself nodding. "Seems like it."

"Shame." Reed's voice carried an edge I didn't often hear from him. For all his easy charm, Reed had very little tolerance for people who hurt those weaker than themselves. "Got any coffee that hasn't been sitting around since dawn?"

"Always." I poured him a cup from the fresh pot, watching as he added enough sugar to fuel a small aircraft. "So what's the verdict on Mrs. Carrington's chimney?"

"Minor blockage, nothing serious. Fixed it in ten minutes." Reed took a long sip of coffee and sighed appreciatively. "But while I was up there, I noticed something interesting about Kit's place."

"Oh?"

"No security system. Windows that would be easy to jimmy if someone really wanted in." Reed's green eyes met mine. "For someone who's clearly running from something, she's not taking many precautions."

"Maybe she doesn't think she needs them here."

"Maybe. Or maybe she doesn't know how bad things can get." Reed finished his coffee and set the cup down with more force than necessary. "I might swing by later, offer to take a look at her locks. You know, neighborly service."

"Reed."

"What?"

"Don't scare her off. She's skittish enough as it is."

Reed's expression softened. "I'm not going to push, Micah. But if someone's hunting her, I'd rather she be prepared."

Hunting. The word sent a chill down my spine, because something in Reed's tone suggested this wasn't just paranoia.

"You think someone's coming for her?"

"I think a woman doesn't pack up her whole life and move to the middle of nowhere without a damn good reason," Reed said grimly. "And I think whatever that reason is, it's not done with her yet."

As if summoned by his words, the sound of a car engine cut through the afternoon quiet. Not the familiar rumble of a local vehicle, but something sleeker, more expensive. Something that didn't belong in Hollow Haven.

Reed and I both moved to the window, watching as a black sedan with city plates cruised slowly down Main Street. It paused at the crossroads and then turned in the direction of Kit's duplex, the driver hidden behind tinted windows.

"Could be nothing," I said, but my alpha instincts were suddenly on high alert.

"Could be," Reed agreed. "But I'm going to go check those locks anyway."

As he headed for the door, I found myself hoping that whatever Kit was running from would stay in the rearview mirror.

But something told me we weren't going to be that lucky.

The rest of the afternoon passed in restless preparation.

I made bread pudding and thought about vanilla-scented fear.

I cleaned counters that were already spotless and wondered what kind of life taught someone not to trust help when they needed it most. And I kept glancing toward the window, half expecting to see that black sedan cruise past again.

My phone buzzed with a text from Jonah around four: Charlie wants to know if you're free for dinner tonight. Apparently Kit needs "cheering up" and she's appointed herself her personal comfort committee.

I found myself smiling despite the growing unease in my gut. Charlie Maddox had inherited her father's protective instincts and her mother's nurturing heart, a dangerous combination when it came to wounded omegas.

Count me in, I typed back. I'll bring dessert.

Kit's invited too, obviously. If she's up for it.

Speaking of Kit, I added after a moment's hesitation, think she'd be interested in a proper tour of the town? Maybe coffee sometime this week? I could show her the good spots .

The response came quickly. I think she'd like that. But go easy, she's still pretty spooked.

Of course. Just want her to feel welcome.

She already does, thanks to you.

That simple acknowledgment settled something warm in my chest. Kit would become part of something here, whether she realized it or not.

And if I could help ease her transition, show her that Hollow Haven was the kind of place where people chose to stay rather than just survive, maybe she'd start to believe in the possibility of home again.

The thought of sharing a quiet coffee with her, watching her discover the little details that made this town special, filled me with an anticipation I hadn't felt in years.

Laura would have rolled her eyes at my eagerness to help a wounded omega find her footing. But Laura wasn't here, and maybe that was for the best. Kit needed gentle care, not judgment about ambition and grand plans.

She needed exactly what I was good at giving. Steady presence, comfort, and the patience to let healing happen at its own pace.