Page 8 of Knotted By my Pack
I step forward, watching as she glances up and notices me. She studies me for a second, then quirks an eyebrow. “What was your name again?”
“Julian.”
She hums as she clears the flowers she has on the counter. I take a moment to glance around. Lilies, sunflowers, and roses in neat arrangements. Small potted plants on wooden shelves. The whole place is too charming for this town.
She wipes her hands on a towel and nods. “I’m Grace.”
“Well, Grace,” I say, stepping up to the counter, “I’ll take a coffee.”
Her lips curve slightly. “Just black, right?”
“Strong.”
She pours it without another word. Just as she slides the cup toward me, a voice comes from the back. Deep. Confident. A man steps out, his stride easy, like he belongs here. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with the relaxed posture of someone who has nothing to prove.
I don’t need to guess who he is. The scent on Grace tells me everything.
He crosses the space without hesitation and presses a kiss to her lips before saying, “Heading to the docks. I’ll see you for dinner?”
She nods, eyes warm. “Yeah, I’ll make something good.”
He turns toward me, gives a polite nod. “Morning.” Then he’s gone, the bell jingling in his wake.
Grace exhales. “Sorry. That’s my husband, Jake. He’s usually a lot nicer to out-of-towners, I promise, but he’s a bit stressed out with work.”
“Work?”
She looks almost shy as she says, “He’s the mayor of this town.”
So that’s the mayor?Huh. I wonder why he would end up married to a small-town florist, but I just bite my tongue. Omegas tend to make Alphas go crazy. Thanking the heavens that will never be me, I simply nod. He’s territorial and irrationally jealous. Makes sense.
“No worries,” I say, taking my coffee. “You are pretty. He has every right to be possessive.”
She laughs. “You have no idea.”
I lift a brow. “That bad?”
She leans on the counter, voice dropping slightly. “Let’s just say small-town Alphas do not take chances when they find what they want.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
She tilts her head. “You married?”
I scoff. “Not interested in the institution.”
She smirks. “Cynic.”
“Realist,” I counter.
She shakes her head like she disagrees but doesn’t press the point. Instead, she refocuses. “You looking for anything else while you are in town?”
“Yeah. A car rental place. Know of any?” I could wait for Brielle, but I need a car to move around.
She wipes her hands on a towel, thinking. “Closest one is on Harbor Street. Weston’s Rentals. Old man runs it, but he has decent cars.”
“Appreciate it.”
She nods as more customers file in, the slow hum of morning picking up pace. I slide a few bills across the counter and head out.
