Page 30 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas
She was right. If I’d truly wanted to leave that part of myself behind, I would have sold the camera or left it in Chicago. But I’d packed it carefully in its case and brought it with me, like some part of me still believed I might want to use it again someday.
“I don’t know if I remember how to see the way I used to,” I said. “How to find the beauty in wild moments instead of just documenting what someone else wants preserved.”
“The technical skills don’t disappear,” Kit said gently. “And the eye for composition, the patience to wait for the perfect shot, the understanding of light and behavior patterns, that’s all still there. You just need to remember that your vision matters.
You’re not broken, Willa. You’re just bruised in the shape of someone who didn’t know how to hold you.The thought came with such clarity it took my breath away. Maybe Kit was right. Maybe the problem hadn’t been my photography itself, but the way it had been handled by someone who saw it as something to control rather than celebrate.
“The mountains around here,” I said, almost to myself. “The wildlife, the seasonal changes that are coming. Sometimes I find myself thinking about aperture settings and focal lengths without meaning to.”
“That’s your photographer’s eye waking up,” Kit said with a smile. “It was just sleeping, not dead.”
We were interrupted by Margie calling the group to attention for the evening’s sharing circle. I started to edge toward the door, but Kit caught my hand gently.
“You don’t have to share anything,” she said. “But would you stay? Just to listen?”
Against my better judgment, I found myself nodding. We joined the loose circle of chairs that had formed in the center of the room, and I listened as omega after omega shared what they’d worked on tonight. A poem about autumn leaves. A smallclay sculpture of a sleeping cat. A knitted baby blanket for a friend’s upcoming arrival.
Each piece was met with genuine appreciation and encouragement. No one critiqued technique or suggested improvements or asked what practical purpose the art would serve. They simply celebrated the act of creation itself.
“What about you, Willa?” Margie asked gently. “Anything you’d like to share? Even just thoughts about being here tonight?”
I opened my mouth to deflect, to make some polite comment about enjoying watching everyone else work. But looking around the circle at these warm, supportive faces, I found myself saying something true instead.
“I used to love taking pictures,” I said quietly. “Wildlife photography was my passion, my profession. I haven’t done it in over a year because someone convinced me my work wasn’t good enough, that I was just playing at being artistic instead of creating something useful. Being here tonight made me remember what it felt like to want to create something just because it made me happy.”
The circle erupted in warm murmurs of understanding and encouragement. Several omegas shared their own stories of rediscovering creativity after periods of suppression or self-doubt. I felt held by their collective understanding, supported in a way I hadn’t experienced since long before Sterling.
As the evening wound down and people began cleaning up their supplies, Kit walked me toward the door.
“Thank you for staying,” she said. “I know that wasn’t easy.”
“Thank you for understanding why it was hard,” I replied. “And for helping me see that maybe what I thought was broken was just buried.”
“Will you think about coming back next week?”
I surprised myself by nodding. “Yeah. I think I will.”
Walking home through the quiet streets of Hollow Haven, I found myself thinking about cameras and conservation and the difference between art that served others and art that served the soul. Maybe Kit was right about photographer’s eyes and sleeping vision. Maybe some things were too fundamental to who I was to be completely erased by one person’s cruelty.
The thought of the mountains surrounding this town, the wildlife that lived in those protected forests, the seasonal changes that would soon transform the landscape, made my fingers itch for the weight of a camera. Not to document someone else’s vision of perfection, but to capture the wild beauty that existed whether anyone was watching or not.
Maybe it was time to find out if I still remembered how to see beauty through a lens, just for the joy of capturing it.
The thought terrified and thrilled me in equal measure. But for the first time in over a year, it felt like possibility instead of just fear.
Chapter 13
Rhett
Tuesday morning found me in my garage earlier than usual, trying to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of engine work. The conversation at The Tumble Mug three nights ago kept replaying in my head. The awkward acknowledgment that all three of us were interested in Willa, the agreement to let her choose, the unsettling encounter with Cass.
Cass. Even thinking his name brought back a flood of college memories I’d spent fifteen years trying to forget. Late night study sessions where he’d actually listen to my mechanical theories instead of dismissing them. The way he’d stood up to his father’s expectations even back then, choosing environmental science over business despite the family pressure. The spring break we’d spent building houses in Mississippi, both of us sunburned and exhausted but feeling like we were actually making a difference.
That version of Cassian wouldn’t destroy protected habitat for profit. Hell, that version of Cassian had gotten arrested protesting a pipeline through tribal land our senior year.
The morning news was covering Wes’s environmental appeal, interviewing council members who sounded like they were reading from corporate talking points. “Balanced development.” “Economic opportunity.” “Responsible progress.” All the phrases that meant nothing while habitat got bulldozed for rich people’s spa weekends.
I found myself turning up the volume, genuinely invested in whether the appeals would succeed. A week ago, I wouldn’t have cared about town politics beyond how they affected my business. But now everything felt connected. The land, the community, Willa’s chance to build something here.
