Page 1 of Shopping for His Omega (Omegas of Oliver Creek #15)

Daniel

Oliver Creek had grown by leaps and bounds since my grandfather opened the grocery store I now operated.

The old man worked here for decades, selling all sorts of foodstuffs to a booming farm town.

Just like something from a movie, according to my alpha dad.

The town was reasonably quiet during the week, but on Saturday, every farmer, rancher, orchard owner, climbed into their rattling old trucks and drove into town to do their shopping and run their errands.

Dad would be working there, too, since he was off school and Gramps thought kids should learn responsibility early.

A real “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” sort of man.

But Dad didn’t mind. He described it as such a lively place.

A checkerboard, pickle barrel, and lots of people from in and out of town, even when it wasn’t Saturday.

At the start, the post office was even there, behind a little window which was not used in present day but still remained.

When Gramps turned the store over to my dads, I sat at the little table in the back room where I came after school to do my homework.

I could just imagine what it had been like.

Busy, exciting. Profitable. My grandfather stopped by several times a week to assist them with this and that and tell me tales of the olden days.

I helped my dads out, too, but in the years since Gramps reigned over such a successful grocery, the town had changed.

Some years of bad weather and the promise of better wages in the cities had sent most of the younger folks away, farmland stood barren, and the store struggled.

I went to college on scholarship and by working two or three part-time jobs at a time.

Swearing I’d never return except to visit, I finished my degree and applied for jobs in the marketing field.

Three offers came in, and I considered each and chose the one I thought most interesting and lucrative.

On graduation day, my fathers arrived wearing suits I’d never seen before and proud smiles.

They took me out to dinner after the ceremony and broke the news.

My omega dad had some health issues, and since I was moving to London soon, they had decided to sell the store.

I should feel no guilt because “the old girl had a good run” and the town was dying.

The very thought of walking away chilled me, taking the sparkle off the day in a way my dads never intended, I was sure. We ate and talked and I listened to their plans for the future, their dream of retiring somewhere sunny and warm all year long.

Dreams that would need funding from the selling of the store.

What I didn’t learn that night, or the night after, until I went online, found the Realtor and called them, was the store had been on the market for a year with not one real offer.

And they had no other real asset, except their little house.

The job I’d decided to take would earn me enough to help them, but it would mean the store would close and rapidly become worthless. Gramps had been so proud of it, and my dads had worked so hard.

Could I let it die?

Could I allow my parents to walk away without the funds they’d need for their new life?

I needed a plan that would allow me to both help them and save the struggling business—and while the job I had planned on, the one that would have taken me to London, would not achieve my revised goals, another I’d been offered was remote and let me make my own hours.

So I asked my dads if they would sell the business to me. It would be a struggle, but the remote job I could do while waiting for a customer to wander in would keep the lights on and allow me to make payments to my dads.

Oh, they argued, insisting that they would give it to me, but I already knew their dream, and without selling the business and the building where it operated, they would not have the ability to move to a sunny place.

With one dad sick and the other having to care for him…

they needed that sun and sand and salt water.

And I was going to see to it they had it.

The money didn’t really add up to make that happen, and even with promotions at work, I was close to underwater when the town began to turn around, to become a foodie mecca. But was it in time to save our family store?

A few years later, things were better, but not what I would call prosperous.

The local restaurants drew tourists from far and near, people who wanted to come and eat their food.

But, in general, the visitors were not traveling here to go grocery shopping.

Especially not at a little place like mine.

And most of the dining places shopped at the big-box store a few towns over.

What had saved me so far? The people who worked at those restaurants and cafés and food trucks.

The farm hands and fruit pickers. The average folks.

Not that the owners of the businesses didn’t come in from time to time, but they probably ate mostly at work and shopped the pantries there.

Several times, when tourists had come in, they’d been looking for items they could find at their big-city grocery stores, I had to send them away wanting.

And, since one of the tricks to marketing in my industry was that when someone came in for one thing, they would likely leave with at least a few more.

Having them leave empty-handed cost more that single sale.

As a result, I was currently setting up a small first aid display in the former post office window.

Nothing crazy. Pain relievers, Band-Aids, tummy remedies, something for a cough.

Small quantities I thought travelers would like.

No big bottles or boxes to carry around, just little ones that would fit in a purse or backpack.

A twinge of guilt pushed at me. Maverick, the druggist, was usually the only one in town to carry these things, but he’d been stocking chips and sodas recently, which made me feel as if the door was open for a little friendly competition.

With the display in place, I locked the front door and flipped off the lights.

Everything else was done, and my small staff had gone home an hour before.

With my business purchase came the house my folks had lived in.

Actually, they had gifted it to me, and I let them in order to save their pride.

They were aware, even if I’d never said so, that I made these decisions for them, and giving me the home I grew up in was what they needed to do.

Letting myself in, I found myself in a time capsule.

My dads told me it wouldn’t hurt their feelings if I totally redid the place, but coming home right after university, sharing an apartment with three other guys, it wasn’t as if I had a houseful of furniture.

And with money tight and time even tighter, remodeling had to wait.

I was only here to sleep anyway, not like I had a mate and family to come home to.

Maverick is nice. Not a new sentiment from my wolf.

Mav is not interested in us.