Page 18 of These Shoes Weren't Made for Stalking

“We can’t,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re drunk.”

“M’not,” I protested, reaching for him.

He caught my hands, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “I don’t take advantage of drunk omegas. No matter how tempting they are.”

“But—”

“Get some sleep, Leo.” He stepped back, though it seemed to cost him. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I watched him walk away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the darkness. The cool night air slowly cleared my head, bringing with it the weight of what had just happened.

I’d kissed Dominic Steele. More than kissed him.

And tomorrow, when the wine wore off, I’d have to face what that meant.

7

Adull throb pulsed behind my eyes as I flipped the sign in my shop window. The memory of last night’s wine hit harder than the hangover. My lips still tingled from where they’d pressed against Dominic’s. The ghost of his broad chest against mine, that intoxicating blend of pine and spice...

“Pull yourself together.” I fumbled with my keys, nearly dropping them.

Fresh air. That’s what I needed. And maybe one of Rosie’s blackberry scones to settle my stomach. The cobblestones clicked under my boots as I crossed the street toward the warm glow of Wilson’s Bakery. Each step sent little jolts through my skull, but the morning chill helped clear my head.

Not clear enough to banish the phantom pressure of those strong hands at my waist. Or the way his steel-gray eyes had softened just before?—

My boot caught on an uneven cobble. I stumbled, but managed to catch my balance before crashing onto my face. Right. Scones. Focus on scones.

I pushed open the door to Wilson’s Bakery, the familiar jingle of bells announcing my arrival. Fresh bread and cinnamon scented the air, teasing my senses.

“Morning, Rosie,” I called out, scanning the shop.

The morning sun streamed through the display window, casting long shadows across the empty pastry cases where freshly baked scones and danishes should have tempted early customers. Rosie stood behind the counter, her usually flour-dusted apron pristine and starched. Her hands, typically busy kneading dough or frosting pastries, lay motionless on the countertop. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. She looked tired, as if she hadn’t slept.

“Good morning, dear,” she replied, her voice lacking its usual warmth. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m afraid I got a late start this morning. I do have a batch of muffins about to come out of the oven.”

I frowned. Since the vandalism, Rosie hadn’t been her usual self, but this... this was different.

“Everything alright?” I leaned against the counter, studying her face. “How are things holding up?”

Rosie’s gaze flickered to the window, then back to me. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, shaking her head. Her shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of her worries visible in the lines around her eyes. “Oh, you know. I’m managing.”

But something in her tone told me she was lying. “Rosie,” I said gently, “is everything okay?”

She hesitated, then sighed heavily. “I suppose there’s no use hiding it from you, Leo. The truth is, I’ve been struggling for a while now. Even before the vandalism.”

My heart sank. “Financially?”

Rosie nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “The rising costs, the new health food craze... it’s been hard to keep up. I’ve been dipping into my savings just to keep the doors open.”

A cold tendril of suspicion coiled in my gut. Could Rosie have orchestrated the vandalism for insurance money? The thought felt like a betrayal, but I couldn’t ignore the possibility.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“Pride, I suppose,” she admitted. “And hope. I kept thinking things would turn around.”

The weight of Rosie’s confession hung heavy in the air. My mind raced, trying to reconcile the warm, motherly figure I’d known all my life with this desperate woman before me. Rosie had a potential motive for the vandalism, but it felt wrong. The Rosie I knew would never resort to such tactics... would she?

“Rosie,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “I wish you’d confided in me sooner.”