Page 7 of Knotted By my Pack
“With the documentation I need to send, and to find a reliable company, I can promise that you will have a car by tomorrow morning.”
“Anything I need to deal with at the office?”
“Nothing urgent. Your father has been checking out some construction sites down at the bay, but that’s about it.”
My jaw tightens. Of course he is. “Let me know if anything changes.”
She sighs dramatically. “You could at least say goodbye properly.”
I hang up. This has to work.
So far, all I’ve managed is a walk-through of the docks and a handful of local businesses—most of them barely staying afloat. Charming, sure. Profitable? Not even close.
If I’m going to build the kind of resort this place desperately needs, I’ll need permits, zoning approvals, and a hell of a lot less resistance from the locals. That starts with the chief officer for Land, Housing and Physical Planning.
If I can get him on board, the rest will fall into place—and I can finally get the hell out of here.
I roll out of bed and into the bathroom, turning the shower on, expecting steaming water to wash away this miserable morning. Instead, ice-cold water blasts my skin.
Perfect.
I grit my teeth and endure it. I have stayed in five-star resorts around the world, have had entire hotel floors reserved just for me, and now I’m showering in water that probably came straight from a frozen lake.
By the time I dress and head downstairs, my irritation is a steady burn.
The inn’s manager, a man in his sixties, stands behind the counter flipping through an old magazine. He’s got a permanent slouch, thin graying hair, and a faded flannel stretched over a gut that speaks of too many beers and too little work. He barely looks up when I approach.
“When is the water getting fixed?”
He exhales through his nose, still reading. “Plumber’s on vacation. Could be a few days.”
I stare at him. “A few days?”
“Yup.”
My fingers twitch. The incompetence in this place is unreal. “Right. Good to know.”
I walk out before I say something that will get me banned from this joke of an establishment.
Coffee. I need coffee.
So far, everything I’ve had in this town has been borderline undrinkable. Weak, watery, an insult to caffeine. Yesterday, though, I found out that a small flower shop, Haven’s Nook, serves coffee and tea. It smelled better than the burnt sludge everywhere else, and the woman behind the counter caught my attention.
Chestnut hair. Pretty.
An Omega. One that carried the scent of Alphas.
Maybe she was taken. Maybe she just had them around often. Either way, she’s the most interesting person I’ve seen since I got here, and I needed coffee. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.
The air is crisp as I walk through town, early morning light stretching long shadows across the pavement. Shops are just opening, and locals moving about at their usual leisurely pace.
I push open the door to Haven’s Nook. The bell above the door chimes as I walk in, and the warmth hits me instantly.
Floral, earthy, with the underlying scent of fresh-brewed coffee.
And there she is.
Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, delicate fingers adjusting a bouquet of wildflowers in a glass vase.
