Page 23 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas
“Sure.”
“Why did you offer to come over tonight? I mean, I’m grateful, but you don’t really know me. And from what I’ve observed, you’re not exactly eager to get involved in other people’s drama.”
She was quiet for so long I thought she wasn’t going to answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and careful.
“Because sometimes when you’re fighting something that feels impossible, the worst part isn’t losing. It’s feeling like you’re fighting alone.” She glanced at me, then quickly away. “And because I’ve spent the last six months being careful and keeping my distance and protecting myself. But watching you stand up for something you believe in, even when everyone else had already decided against you… I don’t know. It reminded me that there are things worth taking risks for.”
Her words hit me somewhere deep in my chest, in a place I hadn’t realized was aching until she offered to ease it. This omega, who’d clearly been hurt badly enough to build walls around herself, had chosen to reach out to me in my moment of defeat.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For seeing that it mattered, even if I lost.”
“You haven’t lost yet,” she said firmly. “You’ve just hit your first obstacle. There’s a difference.”
We sat in comfortable silence as the stars began to appear, sharing tea and the kind of quiet understanding that felt more intimate than any conversation I’d had in months. Whatever happened with the environmental appeal, whatever games Pinnacle Development wanted to play, I wouldn’t be facing it alone.
For the first time all evening, that felt like enough.
Chapter 10
Elias
Saturday afternoon at Pine & Pages had become one of my favorite parts of the week, though I suspected it had less to do with reading to children and more to do with watching Willa interact with them. Today felt different, though. Her camera confession had sent her retreating behind professional politeness, and I could scent the stress radiating from her despite her suppressants.
I’d brought extra scent blankets today, woven with chamomile and lavender specifically for anxious little ones. But watching Willa work with brittle efficiency, I found myself wondering if one of those blankets might help her too.
“Mr. Elias!” Seven-year-old Emma bounced over to where I was setting up the reading corner. “Are you going to tell us about the fox again today?”
“We’ll see what story calls to us,” I said, arranging cushions and blankets into a cozy semicircle. “How are you feeling today, sweetheart?”
“Good! But Miss Willa seems sad. Is she sick?”
Children always noticed what adults tried to hide. I glanced toward the counter where Willa was helping a customer with book recommendations, her smile bright and helpful and completely forced.
“Sometimes grown-ups have worries that make them feel heavy inside,” I told Emma gently. “But being around friends can help them feel lighter.”
“Like how the tea you make for Mama helps her sleep better?”
“Exactly like that.”
As more children arrived for storytime, I watched Willa’s tension increase. She kept glancing toward our little gathering with an expression I recognized from my work with trauma survivors. Interest warring with fear. The desire to connect battling with the need to stay safe.
Mrs. Laurie arrived with her five-year-old twins, both of whom immediately gravitated toward the scent blankets I’d brought. “These smell like Grandma’s garden,” little Alex announced, burying his face in the soft fabric.
“That’s chamomile,” I explained. “It helps worried feelings settle down.”
“Do you have worried feelings sometimes too?” Alex’s sister Maya asked with the brutal honesty of children.
“Everyone has worried feelings sometimes,” I said. “That’s why it’s nice to have friends who understand.”
I caught Willa watching our conversation from across the store, something soft and vulnerable flickering across her face before she turned back to her work. She wanted to join us, I realized. She was drawn to the comfort and community our little circle represented, but something was holding her back.
Professional distance, probably. The same walls she’d rebuilt after that brief moment of vulnerability.
“What story should we read today?” I asked the gathered children, though I already had one in mind.
“The fox story!” Emma called out, and several other voices chimed in agreement.
“Ah, the fox story.” I opened the picture book I’d brought specifically for this purpose. “This is about a little fox who lived all by herself in the woods. She was very good at taking care of herself, very smart and careful and brave. But sometimes, late at night, she wondered what it would be like to have friends.”
