Page 5 of Lavender and Honey

His words caught me off guard. How did he remember that detail about my art? And why did it make me feel... seen? I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "You're right," I conceded, offering a small smile. "Maybe just one jar for now."

Elias's face lit up, his hazel eyes dancing with warmth. "Excellent choice," he beamed, already reaching for a paper bag. As he spoke, I found myself studying his movements, the easy grace with which he navigated his stall. It was so different from my own guarded posture, my constant hyper awareness of every gesture. I envied his comfort, even as it unsettled me.

He glanced at me again, “Did you want any bread? The focaccia and sourdough are the most popular today.”

"I..." I hesitated, my mind racing. Choosing felt oddly significant, as if I were making a decision far weightier than mere bread. The focaccia would be more flavorful, a bolder choice. The sourdough, simpler, safer. Which version of myself did I want to be at this moment?

Elias waited patiently, his expression open and free of judgment. I realized with a start that he was giving me space,allowing me to take my time without pressure. It was a small kindness, but one that touched something deep within me.

"Focaccia," I said after a moment's thought, the word feeling like a tiny act of bravery. Elias nodded approvingly, his hands already moving to wrap the bread and jam with practiced ease. As he worked, his gaze flicked up to meet mine now and then, a gentle curiosity in his eyes.

"You know," he said, his voice warm, "I meant what I said about Finn's woodcarvings. You should check them out sometime. You'd probably appreciate the craftsmanship."

I tensed slightly at the mention of another pack member. "Oh?" I managed, trying to keep my voice neutral.

Elias continued, oblivious to my discomfort. "Yeah, Finn's got this way with wood... it's like he can see the shape hidden inside before he even starts carving. Reminds me a bit of how you artists work with paint." My mind raced, torn between curiosity and caution. The idea of seeing more of their pack's work was intriguing, but the thought of further entanglement made my chest tighten.

I shifted my weight, feeling the urge to retreat. "Maybe," I said noncommittally, my eyes darting to the crowded market beyond Elias's stall. The truth was, I wasn't ready to dive deeper into interactions with his pack. Elias was already more than enough to handle.

His hazel eyes softened, somehow sensing my unease. "Well, no pressure," he said, his voice gentle as he slid my purchases across the table. The paper wrapped bundle made a soft scraping sound against the worn wood. "But the offer stands. If nothing else, he'd probably appreciate talking shop with another artist."

I felt a twinge of guilt at his kindness. "I appreciate that," I murmured, picking up the package. The warmth of the freshly baked focaccia seeped through the paper, reminding me of simpler times.

Elias leaned forward slightly, his scent – that intoxicating blend of honey and spice – wafting towards me. "You know, Lydia," he said softly, "there's no rush. Art, connections... they take time." I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. How could he read me so easily? It was unsettling and comforting all at once.

"Thank you," I finally managed, clutching the package to my chest like a shield. "For the bread and jam… and… everything." As I turned to leave, Elias's voice followed me. "See you around, Lydia. The market's always here when you're ready."

I melted into the crowd, my heart racing, wondering if I'd ever truly be ready for what Elias and his world represented. As I reached the edge of the market, I paused, looking back. Elias was already helping another customer, but for a moment, I could have sworn his eyes flickered in my direction. I turned away quickly, my cheeks warm, wondering just what I'd gotten myself into.

Chapter Three

The bell above the door chimed, startling me from my daydreams. I tensed instinctively, my fingers tightening around the paintbrush I'd been absently stroking. An unfamiliar Alpha strode in, his presence immediately filling the small space of my sanctuary.

"Morning," he said, voice low and confident, his dark brown eyes taking in everything in the shop. He was in jeans and a light coat. His light blond hair was pulled back into a bun with a few pieces framing his face. I could see the muscles he had as he walked into the rows of shelves.

"Good morning…Let me know if you need any help," I managed, proud of how steady my voice sounded.

"Will do," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to reverberate through the quiet store. I watched from the corner of my eye as he strode confidently towards the rows of paint tubes. His large hands moved with surprising grace, plucking tubes from the shelves without hesitation. The easy way he heldseveral at once spoke of familiarity with the medium. An artist, then. My curiosity piqued despite my usual caution around strangers. I pretended to straighten a display of brushes, stealing glances at his selections. Warm earth tones, rich blues, a flash of vibrant red.

What kind of scenes does he paint? I wondered, my mind conjuring images of landscapes bathed in golden light, or perhaps abstract swirls of color and emotion.

"You've got quite the selection," he remarked, turning to face me. His eyes, a striking green, met mine with an intensity that made me want to look away. But I held his gaze, steeling myself. "Better than most places around here."

"We try to cater to a variety of needs," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. I gestured towards the shelves. My hand trembled slightly as I lowered it, and I clenched it into a fist, hoping he hadn't noticed. Why was I so unsettled by this Alpha? It wasn't just his commanding presence – there was something else, something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

The Alpha nodded, his expression thoughtful as he approached the counter. He set the paints down with careful precision, each tube aligned perfectly. The action struck me as oddly meticulous for someone who had grabbed them so casually.

"You must be an artist yourself," he said, his deep voice tinged with curiosity. "To curate such a specific collection."

I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the register keys. "I dabble," I admitted softly, avoiding his gaze. As he stepped closer, something made me pause. A faint scent lingered in the air, something warm and earthy with a hint of spice. It was familiar, tugging at the edges of my memory, but I couldn't place it. My fingers faltered on the register keys for a split second. What is that smell? I wondered, my heart racing. Why does it feel so... known?

I swallowed hard, struggling to maintain my composure as the scent of him swirled around me. "Anything else?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady. My fingers gripped the edge of the counter, anchoring myself against the tide of confusion and unexpected longing that threatened to sweep me away.

He seemed oblivious to my inner turmoil, his green eyes scanning the shelves behind me one last time. "No, this should do it," he said, pulling out his wallet. The leather creaked softly as he opened it, and I found myself fixating on the small sound, desperate for any distraction. "I'll probably be back, though. Got a few projects lined up."

Projects? My mind raced, curiosity warring with my instinct to maintain distance. What kind of art does he create? Why haven't I seen him before?

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. As I bagged his purchases, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd return, if I'd have to face this unsettling mix of familiarity and mystery again. Part of me hoped he would, while another part dreaded the very idea. This is exactly why I keep to myself, I thought, handing over his bag with slightly trembling hands. No complications. No connections. It's safer this way.

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