Page 72 of Harvest Moon

I know, it’s something that annoys a lot of people about alphas—their tendency to try to fix things instead of just listening and sympathizing. As much as I needed a kind ear to vent to, having someone else who wanted to be there and help me find solutions? That was absolutely priceless to me.

I didn’t think Claudia would fall for veggie cake, or accept green smoothies without some dubious looks at least, but they were good ideas anyway. She’d ended up eating half the cantaloupe at breakfast, as people had unsubtly slid their slices onto her plate while she’d devoured them.

It was the most she’d eaten all week, and if that was what it took, I’d make a smoothie out of every leaf of spinach within a hundred-mile radius. But not juice, apparently.

Eh, I’d never liked juice all that much anyway.

I threw on the first clothes that came to hand this time, not spending the afternoon going through my whole wardrobe. Because Ridge didn’t care. Ridge wanted me, no matter what I was wearing.

If I spent too much time thinking about it, I was gonna swoon like a regency romance heroine, and I didn’t have the excuse of wearing a whale-bone corset. Which, really, if you thought about it at all, was a pretty good excuse.

Fortunately, I just slipped on jeans and a T-shirt, and I was ready.

Banjo didn’t come along this time, but that was fine. He had better things to do than accompany me and Ridge on dates, and we didn’t need the buffer of someone distracting us from our inability to communicate anymore.

I hoped.

Ridge hopped out of the truck and came around to greet me, which was a little odd and un-Ridge-like. At first, I thought he was following more annoying social programming and planning to whip open the truck door for me.

But no.

Instead, he wrapped his arms around me, right there on the front walk, where every neighbor on the street could glance out their window and see us. Then he leaned in and pressed our lips together, soft and sweet.

Again, with the urge to swoon.

“What was that for?” I asked when he pulled away.

His cheeks flushed, and he glanced away, shrugging. “Just wanted to. You decide where you wanted to go?”

“I thought Chadwick’s,” I answered. “Not that I don’t love The Cider House, but they lean to fried stuff, and I feel bad eating stuff that’s not on Claudia’s diet.”

His answering smile was soft and indulgent, but he nodded as he ran a hand through my hair. Then, the big goofball, he did turn around and open the truck door for me.

Less than half an hour later, we were seated in Chadwick’s Grille, our dinner ordered. I wasn’t sure if the silence was comfortable or not. Once upon a time, we’d been able to sit in silence together for entire afternoons, without a single doubt in my mind that we were fine.

This was closer to that, but my confidence wasn’t quite there yet. I wasn’t ready to put all my eggs back in the basket. What if Ridge changed his mind and smashed them all over the sidewalk?

Yes, fine, the metaphor sort of fell apart somewhere in there. Whatever.

The point was still there. Once, I’d trusted Ridge completely and without hesitation. Now, I wanted to, but I was a little worried.

There was a surefire way to confirm his intentions, my mind pointed out, phone burning a hole in my pocket. The HeaTracker app had given me another buzz that afternoon. Another reminder that my heat was coming, another ad for some stereotypical “omegas like to eat this” food.

I hadn’t mentioned Birch’s offer for me and Ridge to stay at the Wilson residence together. Not that I thought it had been disingenuous at all, but Birch himself had said he had worried about not being able to provide for Claudia. I had the feeling that making that offer would summon up the ghosts of Ridge’s hesitation to get involved with me.

That if he couldn’t give me a home, he would eventually leave me.

So instead we chatted about the Hills’ farm, and the crops that were still coming in for the fall, and Ridge’s ambitious plans to supply flowers and honey locally. I’d always known he was sweet, but honey?

Heck yeah.

When we finished our entrees, Ridge ordered us a piece of pie to split. Lemon meringue, my favorite.

Swoon.

So it was over a piece of tart lemony perfection that I decided to jump straight into awkwardness. There was only one way to know if Ridge was all in, after all. I didn’t love the idea of testing his feelings, but I needed to hear his answer.

Also, I was going to have to deal with it whether he agreed or not, so I might as well cross my fingers and hope for the best. “My heat’s next week,” I said just as he was taking a bite.

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