Page 35 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

NESTING INSTINCTS

~JUNIPER~

I wake up cozied up in what feels like the most luxurious cloud I've ever experienced.

This isn't my lumpy, ancient mattress.

This isn't the threadbare sheets that came with the house.

This is something else entirely.

I'm surrounded by softness— plush blankets that seem to cocoon me in warmth, pillows that cradle my head with perfect support, fabric that feels like it costs more than my entire wardrobe . Everything smells incredible too, a symphony of scents that makes my Omega instincts purr with contentment.

Pine and smoke, citrus and storm, cinnamon and warmth.

All woven together with something clean and fresh and undeniably expensive.

I don't even remember when I'd fallen asleep.

The last clear memory I have is sitting on that log with Beckett, watching the stars in comfortable silence, time moving both impossibly fast and languorously slow.

I remember the weight of my eyelids growing heavier and heavier, the way my head had settled more completely against his shoulder as exhaustion finally won the battle I'd been fighting all day.

And then... nothing.

Just this perfect, dreamless sleep in what might be the most comfortable bed in the history of beds.

The thought triggers something in my chest, a flutter of recognition mixed with disbelief. I wonder if this is what it's like to have a proper nest— not the disaster attempts I've experienced before, but a real nest created by people who actually understand what an Omega needs .

God, the memory of my last "nesting" experience makes me shiver.

Those well-meaning but clueless Alphas in Portland who thought they could help me through a heat flare by building me what could generously be called a tent outside. Like a dog house. Like I was some kind of animal they needed to contain rather than a person they wanted to comfort.

They'd been so proud of themselves too, standing there grinning while I stared at the camping equipment they'd assembled in their backyard.

"It's rustic," one of them had said.

"Natural," another had added.

"Omega-friendly," the third had concluded, apparently missing the expression of horror on my face.

I'd lasted exactly fifteen minutes before making my excuses and never speaking to any of them again.

The contrast between that disaster and whatever situation I'm currently in couldn't be more stark. This feels intentional, carefully constructed, designed by people who actually paid attention to what brings comfort rather than what they think should bring comfort.

I should get up and figure out what's going on.

I should assess my situation and demand explanations and probably panic about the fact that I fell asleep outside and woke up somewhere else entirely.

But honestly? I'm too comfortable to care.

This is the first time in years—maybe decades—that I've woken up feeling genuinely rested.

Still, curiosity eventually wins out over comfort. I open my eyes, blinking against sunlight that seems much brighter than it should be if this were early morning. What I see makes me freeze in confusion.

This isn't my room.

This isn't even close to my room.

The space I'm in has been completely transformed.

Where yesterday there had been boxes stacked to the ceiling and furniture covered in dust sheets, now there's a clean, organized bedroom that looks like it belongs in a home decorating magazine.

Everything is coordinated— soft blues and creams with touches of sage green, textures that invite touching, lighting that feels warm and welcoming .

The furniture isn't just clean; it's completely different.

A beautiful wooden dresser with brass hardware sits where cardboard boxes used to be stacked.

A comfortable reading chair occupies the corner where old farm equipment had been abandoned.

Even the windows have new curtains—soft, flowing fabric that filters the sunlight into something gentle and golden.

For a moment, I genuinely wonder if I've somehow teleported to some alternate dimension where everything is perfect and nothing hurts. The transformation is so complete, so professional, that it seems impossible it could have happened overnight.

But I remember this isn't a fairytale.

Magic doesn't exist, and miraculous room makeovers don't happen without explanation.

I pinch my arm, hard enough to make myself flinch, just to confirm that I'm actually awake and not trapped in some elaborate dream. The sharp pain is real enough, and when I look around again, everything is still impossibly perfect.

The scents are familiar— the underlying mustiness of the old house mixed with the clean smell of new fabric and, underneath it all, the comforting presence of Callum, Wes, and Beckett .

But I still can't figure out which room this actually is.

It doesn't match the layout of any space I remember exploring when I first arrived.

Time to investigate.

I slide out of the impossibly comfortable bed, immediately noticing that I'm wearing different clothes than I remember putting on. Instead of Aunt Lil's oversized cardigan and my worn cotton pajamas, I'm dressed in what might be the softest, most luxurious sleepwear I've ever touched.

The fabric feels like it was spun from clouds and cost more than my truck.

The fit is perfect—not too tight, not too loose, like someone took careful measurements while I was unconscious.

Which is either incredibly thoughtful or mildly concerning, depending on how you look at it.

I need to use the bathroom, and I'm genuinely surprised to discover that there's an en-suite attached to this mystery room. A clean, modern bathroom with fluffy towels and toiletries that smell like heaven and a mirror that doesn't have water stains or cracks.

How many bathrooms does this house actually have?

And how much renovation happened while I was unconscious?

After taking care of business and splashing cool water on my face— partly to wake up fully and partly to confirm that this is all really happening —I venture out into the hallway.

The sun is streaming through windows that have definitely been cleaned recently, and based on its position in the sky, it's much later than I initially thought.

"Jesus, did I sleep for a year?"

A familiar chuckle echoes from the direction of the stairs, and I look down to see Wes ascending toward me. The sight stops me in my tracks, because apparently the universe has decided that today is going to be a test of my self-control.

He's shirtless.

Gloriously, distractingly, absolutely sinfully shirtless.

And looking far too good for anyone's mental health.

"It's three in the afternoon," he announces with a grin that suggests he's fully aware of the effect his state of undress is having on me. "I was actually about to come up and check on you to see if you were still breathing at this point, because Junebug rarely sleeps in."

Three in the afternoon?

I slept for nearly sixteen hours?

"Three?!" I gasp, genuinely shocked. "In the afternoon?!"

I can't remember the last time I slept past seven AM, let alone into the middle of the day. My internal clock is usually more reliable than an atomic timepiece, waking me at dawn regardless of when I went to bed or how tired I was.

Apparently my body decided it was time to catch up on about a decade's worth of insufficient rest.

My stomach chooses that exact moment to voice its opinion on the situation, letting out a growl so loud it probably scared birds in the next county. The sound makes Wes's grin widen into something that's almost predatory in its amusement.

"C'mon, Junebug," he says, starting to climb the rest of the stairs toward me. "Let's get you fed."

Which would be a perfectly reasonable suggestion if I weren't currently distracted by the way his muscles move under his skin as he climbs.

When did they all get so... fit?

I remember teasing them mercilessly when we were kids for being scrawny, all elbows and knees and gangly adolescent awkwardness.

Callum had been tall but thin, Wes had been more interested in books than physical activity, and Beckett had been soft around the edges in the way of someone who spent more time baking than working out.

That is definitely not the case anymore.

Wes looks like he could model for fitness magazines in his spare time.

All defined abs and lean muscle and the kind of casual strength that comes from actual physical work rather than gym posturing.

I'm so busy staring that I don't notice he's reached the top of the stairs until he's standing directly in front of me. The realization that I've been caught blatantly checking him out hits like ice water, and I can feel heat flooding my cheeks.

"Like what you're seeing?" he asks, voice dropping to that particular register that makes my insides turn to liquid.

The bastard knows exactly what he's doing.

And he's enjoying every second of my flustered reaction.

I try to step back, to put some distance between us and my apparently malfunctioning brain, but he slides an arm around my waist before I can escape. The touch is gentle but firm, pulling me close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

Close enough that his scent wraps around me like a blanket.

Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"You're too close," I manage to whisper, though my voice comes out breathier than I intended.

And significantly less convincing.

"Does it bother you?" he asks, thumb tracing small circles against my lower back through the expensive fabric of whatever pajamas I'm wearing. "My touch?"

The honest answer is no.

The honest answer is that it feels right in a way that's terrifying and wonderful and completely overwhelming.

The honest answer is that I want him closer, not farther away.

"No," I admit, the word escaping before I can think better of it.

His smile softens at my admission, losing some of its teasing edge and gaining something warmer, more genuine.