Page 2 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
I check my phone; my battery is at 3%, and my anxiety is at DEFCON one.
The screen flickers as I pull up the email with instructions to meet Rowan at the main house.
I should have charged it last night, but the motel’s only outlet was across the room, and I couldn’t sleep without it next to me under my pillow, along with myAlpha-Awayspray. I manage to open the email file as my screen goes black.
Well, I guess I’d better find my new boss.
The slam of my car door echoes across the parking lot. I smooth down my oversized sweater, another layer of protection hiding my thinning shape. Being on the run has meant keeping a roof over my head for as long as possible and thinking about food later.
I head toward the farmhouse, each step kicking up little clouds of dust that settle on my worn-out sneakers.
As I approach the porch steps, movement catches my eye—a flash of white from behind a barrel of apples. I freeze, my heart pounding in my ears, fingers tightening on the strap of my bag, already searching for myAlpha-Awayspray, eyes searching the growing shadows.
But it’s not a person.
It’s an animal.
A small one with white fluffy hair and a pink collar, its rectangular pupils fixed on me. My breathing evens out, and the panic ebbs as I realize I am looking at a goat.
“Hey there, cutie pie,” I say, my voice rusty from disuse. My grip on my bag loosens as I take in the sweet little creature on the porch.
The goat steps closer, its tiny hooves clicking on the wooden deck. It tilts its head as if assessing me, and lets out a bleat that sounds almost like a greeting. Then, darting away, it disappears around the corner of the house with surprising speed for something so small.
“You’ve got this,” I give myself one last pep talk. “Just smile, nod, and don’t say anything weird”.
“Hello?” I call out.
The screen door swings open before I can knock, and a man fills the doorframe so entirely that I instinctively step back, my hand darting into my bag.
He’s more handsome than I remembered from our video call, and taller than I expected too, not that I could tell when he was sitting down. He has broad shoulders and cropped dirty blond hair. His expression is serious, almost stern, and he’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal golden forearms corded with muscle.
I catch the briefest whiff of sweetness coming from him, even through my suppressants, and I praise myself for adding the patch. It was obviously necessary.
Rowan. The alpha co-owner ofHarvest Home Farm.
His nostrils flare, a common alpha reaction when meeting someone new, but his expression doesn’t change. If he can smell anything beyond “generic beta female,” he doesn’t show it.
“Emma,” he says, his voice deep and rumbling. “You found us alright.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my sweater. “The directions were good.”
His light brown eyes, which remind me of maple syrup, scan over me quickly and clinically. I resist the urge to hunch my shoulders or squirm. Showing weakness around alphas only encourages them to push boundaries.
“You’re earlier than I expected,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “The cottage’s ready, though.”
I hesitate before crossing the threshold into his territory. Every omega instinct screams caution around unfamiliar alphas, but I’ve gotten good at ignoring those instincts.
The farmhouse interior is unexpectedly modern. It is open-concept, with wooden beams overhead, a large kitchen with granite countertops, and comfortable-looking furniture around a stone fireplace.
His scent is stronger inside: a faint burnt sugar threaded with musk mixed with something warm like cinnamon and vanilla. It feels comforting, inviting, and unexpected, like stepping into a kitchen where someone’s been baking all afternoon.
Taking a deep breath is a mistake. The sweet spiced warmth curls through me like a blanket from the dryer, coaxing my inner omega to stir when she should be silent.
This shouldn’t be happening. Not with the suppressants in my system. They should block this reaction completely, not just dampen it. Instead, I catalog every note like I’m some scent sommelier.
I haven’t had this kind of reaction since… well, ever.
I clench my fists, trying to focus on the pain of my nails digging into my palms, instead of my body’s traitorous reaction to this sweet-smelling alpha male.
