1
T he antique clock on the wall chimed seven times, its melodic tones echoing through Cobblers’ Corner. I glanced up from the pair of well-worn boots I’d just finished resoling. Pride swelled in my chest as I admired my handiwork.
This shop had always been my sanctuary, even as a child. Every tool in its place, the rhythm of work, the satisfaction of mending what was broken. Here, I knew who I was. Here, I was master of my domain.
I inhaled deeply, savoring the rich aroma of leather and polish that permeated the air. My grandfather’s presence lingered in every nook and cranny of this century-old shop. My thoughts drifted to Grandpa, and a wistful ache settled in my chest. The weight of his legacy pressed upon my shoulders, a constant reminder of the responsibility I’d inherited along with the family business.
The antique clock’s chime echoed through empty spaces that once held laughter. Mom used to say the shop’s leather scent reminded her of Dad’s workshop where they first met. Now those memories lived only in my mind, preserved like the vintage shoe lasts lining our walls.
Grandpa stepped in when they died, teaching me not just how to repair shoes, but how to keep moving forward when life tore your world apart. “Every broken sole can be mended,” he’d say, though we both knew some breaks left permanent scars.
The weight of his and my Dad’s legacy pressed heavier now that he was gone too. I ran my fingers along his old workbench, wondering if I’d ever feel worthy of this inheritance—or if I’d always be a little boy trying to fill shoes too big for his feet.
As I began my closing routine, wiping down tools and straightening displays, the bell above the door jangled. I suppressed a sigh. So close to freedom, yet so far.
“I’m sorry, we’re actually clos—“ The words died on my lips as I turned to face the intruder.
He stood in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the setting sun, all broad shoulders and sharp angles. His crisp suit screamed corporate in a way that clashed with our neighborhood’s old-world vintage streetlights and cobblestone-paved roads. His presence filled the shop like smoke—dangerous, intoxicating. But it was his scent that hit me first—pine and sandalwood with a hint of spicy cinnamon.
Definitely alpha.
My omega instincts perked up, suddenly alert.
“I have a bit of a shoe emergency,” he said, his deep voice resonating through me like the warm vibration of a tuning fork.
I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “A shoe emergency?”
I glanced down at his feet, my eyes widening at the sight of scuffed tennis shoes paired with his expensive tailored suit. A battered duffel bag dangled from his hand, completing the bizarre ensemble. Something wasn’t adding up here.
He strode forward, movements confident and purposeful. “I have a crucial meeting in less than an hour, and the heel just came off my shoe.” He held up a sleek leather oxford, its detached heel dangling pathetically.
I took the shoe, my fingers accidentally brushing against his. A jolt of electricity shot through me, and I felt my cheeks flush. His scent intensified, wrapping around me like a warm blanket on a cold day.
Trying to ignore the alpha’s intoxicating presence, I examined the shoe. High-end Italian leather, barely a month old. The type of shoe worn by someone who valued appearance over comfort, who wanted to impress and intimidate.
“I can fix this, but it’ll take about forty-five minutes,” I said, looking up at him. Even with the counter between us, his towering frame cast a shadow that seemed to swallow my workspace whole.
He frowned, checking his watch. “I don’t have that kind of time. Can’t you just... glue it back on or something?”
I bristled at his dismissive tone. “If you want it done right, it’ll take forty-five minutes—and that’s if I rush it.”
I sat the shoe on the counter. “Unless you’d prefer to hobble into your meeting with a half-attached heel?”
He sighed, running his fingers through thick dark hair peppered with distinguished silver at his temples. My breath caught—the motion drew attention to the powerful line of his jaw, the kind of bone structure that made sculptors weep. Even slouched against my counter, he radiated the quiet strength of an alpha in his prime.
“Fine. I’ll wait.”
As I gathered my tools and began working on the shoe, I felt his eyes on me. The air between us crackled with an electric undercurrent, like the air before a thunderstorm. It was a mix of attraction and annoyance that left me feeling off-balance.
“I’m Dominic,” he said after a few minutes of silence. “Dominic Steele.”
“Leo Sterling-Hart,” I replied, not looking up from my work.
My fingers worked the leather with practiced precision, each stitch flowing into the next as I repaired the damaged heel. Behind me, Dominic’s footsteps traced a meandering path through my shop. The crisp pine and sandalwood of his scent wafted over each time he moved, making my hands falter on the awl.
I noticed him studying the display cabinet where I kept my great-grandfathers’ cobbling instruments—weathered hammers and wooden shoe forms passed down through five generations of my family, each tool buffed to a shine by the palms of my ancestors. His fingers drummed against the glass as he studied a pair of brass shoe stretchers, the steady tap-tap-tap matching the quickening rhythm of my pulse.
“So,” he said, his deep voice sending another tremor of electricity crackling beneath my skin. “How long have you been fixing shoes?”
I paused, glancing up at him. “All my life. This shop has been in my family for over a century.”
Something flickered in his steel-gray eyes—interest? Calculation? I couldn’t be sure. “Impressive,” he murmured. “You must be very dedicated to your craft.”
“I am,” I said firmly. “Shoes, they tell stories. Each scuff and worn sole is a chapter in someone’s life.”
He leaned against the counter, his proximity making my heart race. “Oh? And what story do my shoes tell, Mr. Sterling-Hart?”
I held his gaze, feeling a rush of heat rise to my cheeks. “They tell me you’re a man who values appearance and authority. Someone who’s used to getting what he wants.” I paused, then added, “But they also tell me you’re not as comfortable in your own skin as you’d like people to believe.”
His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, I saw a crack in his polished facade. But then his expression smoothed over, and he leaned in closer, his scent enveloping me.
“Quite the insight,” he murmured. “You can deduce all that from a person’s choice of footwear?”
“You’d be surprised, Mr. Steele,” I turned my attention back to my work, trying to regain my composure.
“Dominic, please,” he flashed his perfect white teeth at me. My gaze stayed on his pointed canines for a moment longer than I’d intended.
“Your shoe is ready, Mr. Steele ,” I said, holding it out to him.
He took it, his fingers lingering against mine for a moment too long. A jolt of electricity shot up my arm, and I fought to keep my expression neutral.
I watched as he reached into his duffle bag, pulling out the shoe’s mate. With practiced ease, he slipped off his tennis shoes and replaced them with the oxfords. The transformation was immediate—suddenly, he looked every inch the powerful, ruthless businessman. “Excellent work,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”
I named a price, and he paid without hesitation, leaving a generous tip. As he turned to leave, he paused at the door.
“It was nice meeting you, Leo Sterling-Hart,” he said, his voice low. His eyes, the color of polished metal, stayed fixed on me for a moment longer before he vanished through the doorway.
I let out a shaky breath. A shiver ran through me as I recalled the strange alpha’s unique steel-gray eyes and his intoxicating scent. The rich aroma of artisanal chocolate—my own omega pheromones—filled the air, a heady reminder of the impact our brief interaction had left on me. What had just happened?
My heart pounded, and I felt a familiar warmth pool in my belly. I panicked. It wasn’t time for my heat.
Damn it, was my cycle shifting? I couldn’t afford to close the shop for a week.
Trying to shake off the lingering effects of the encounter, I returned to my closing routine. But before I could finish, a commotion outside caught my attention. Shouts and the sound of breaking glass shattered the usual evening quiet.
I rushed to the door, my heart pounding. The sight before me stopped me dead in my tracks, leaving me paralyzed with shock. I stared in disbelief at Wilson’s Bakery across the cobblestone street. Shards of glass littered the sidewalk, reflecting the warm glow of the streetlamps. Angry red graffiti marred the quaint storefront:
SELL OR ELSE
“Oh, Leo!” Rosie Wilson, the bakery’s owner, sobbed as she saw me. Her plump frame shook with each breath. I crossed the street in a rush as I headed to Rosie’s side, my heart aching at the sight of her trembling form in a floral nightdress. Who could do this to a woman who’d never harmed a soul, whose kindness touched everyone she met?
“Who would do such a thing?” Rosie asked, echoing my thoughts.
Wilson’s, like its owner, was a beloved local fixture. It had served our town for generations. Rosie’s question burned in my mind as I scanned the scene, searching for any clue that might lead us to the culprit.
I wrapped my arms around her and instinctively shifted my scent to soothe her distress. “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out. I promise.”
As I comforted Rosie, my mind raced through possibilities. Who would want to hurt her? And why?
I watched as a police cruiser pulled up, its lights flashing silently in the evening gloom. Rosie squeezed my hand, her eyes steely with determination. “I’ll go talk to them.”
I nodded. “I’ll be right here, if you need me.”
She squared her shoulders and marched over to meet the officers, leaving me alone with my churning thoughts. I caught sight of Sheriff Hawkins stepping out of his cruiser. His weathered face creased with concern as he surveyed the scene. I’d known the sheriff since I was a boy, and his presence here was nothing out of the ordinary.
I scanned the growing crowd, my eyes darting from face to face as curious onlookers gathered at the edge of the police tape, their whispers and speculative glances adding to the tension in the air. My eyes picked out Sarah Mitchell’s dark ponytail bobbing near the front of the crowd—she must have rushed over from the Hideaway. Minnie Goldstein—the owner of Wilson’s rival bakery—stood with her arms crossed, whispering to old Mr. Tang from Tang’s Tea House & Apothecary. My attention shifted when I spotted a familiar slim frame weaving through the growing crowd, pastel pink hair bouncing with each step.
I made my way over, my eyes locked on my best friend’s familiar silhouette. Penny’s light pink hair stood out like a beacon in the sea of muted, normal hair colors. As I approached, Penny turned, his vintage bell-bottom jeans swishing around his ankles. His eyes lit up when he spotted me, a grin spreading across his face. The fading sunlight caught the glitter in his pastel pink hair, creating a halo effect that matched his bubbly personality.
“Leo! There you are,” he chirped, bouncing on his toes. His almond-shaped eyes widened as he took in the scene. The sweet aroma of cotton candy mingled with a zesty twist of citrus tickled my nose. The unique fragrance of his pheromones captured his essence perfectly. “What in the world is going on?”
“Someone vandalized Wilson’s Bakery.” My jaw clenched as I surveyed the damage once more.
“Vandalized?” Penny’s hand flew to his mouth. “Oh no, poor Rosie! Who would do such a thing?”
I shook my head, frustration bubbling up inside me. “I don’t know.” My gaze swept over the shattered glass and graffiti once more.
Penny nodded, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by determination. “What can I do to help?”
His offer warmed me, despite the circumstances. I watched as police officers milled about, continuing their work. The initial flurry of activity had settled into a more methodical pace. A couple of officers huddled near Rosie’s shattered front window, their heads bent together in quiet discussion. I watched as one of the officers scribbled furiously on a small notepad. The scene felt less chaotic now, but no less unsettling. My gut told me this was far from over, even as the initial investigation appeared to be winding down for the night.
“Once the cops finish their investigation and give us the all-clear, Rosie’s gonna need all hands on deck. She shouldn’t have to face this disaster alone,” I said. “Can you round up some volunteers? The sooner we get this place back in shape, the better.”
Penny’s mouth opened to respond, but my attention shifted to a figure lingering at the edge of the crowd. The silhouette struck a familiar chord.
“Hold that thought, Penny,” I murmured, my eyes still fixed on the shadowy presence. The figure shifted, and for a split second, I caught a glimpse of a face I knew all too well.
Jake Thompson.
Jake’s lanky frame hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, nervous green eyes darting around.
Rosie’s words from last week echoed in my mind—she’d had to let Jake go. A knot formed in my stomach as I pieced together the implications.
What was he doing here? And why did I have a sinking feeling he wasn’t just another concerned bystander?
I took a step forward, my shoe crunching on a shard of glass. Jake’s gaze suddenly turned toward me and he jolted as if startled. I couldn’t be certain if he’d noticed my observation, but before I could get closer, he melted back into the darkness beyond the streetlights’ reach.
“Leo? What is it?” Penny’s voice pulled me back to the present.
I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of suspicion. “Nothing. Just thought I saw... Never mind. You were saying?”