Page 6 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
The Hearthstone Bistro.
Because a hearth was where people gathered. Where warmth lived. Where you came home to after long days in a world that didn't always make sense. And wasn’t that what I wanted to create? A place where everyone who walked through the door felt like they were coming home?
I stood there for another moment, letting the vision crystallize. Then I tucked the Kingsolver novel more securely under my arm and continued toward my cottage, my mind already racing with possibilities.
Menu ideas. Sourcing local ingredients. The logistics of commercial kitchen equipment. How to make elevated food feel approachable. Whether I could create a space that honored both craft and comfort, technique and heart.
As I unlocked my cottage door, I realized I was already planning tomorrow’s visit to Pine & Pages. Not from desperation or loneliness, but from genuine anticipation.
For the first time in months, I had somewhere I wanted to be. And for the first time in years, I had something I wanted to build.
Chapter 3
Hollis
The first thing I noticed on Thursday morning was how the light hit the philosophy section differently. Softer somehow, like even the sun knew that Thursdays were for deeper conversations than the hurried exchanges of Monday or the weekend browsers looking for beach reads. I’d been arranging the poetry display when the bell chimed, and without turning around, I knew it was her.
Talia Quinn moved through spaces the way some people read difficult books, carefully, with the kind of attention that came from knowing that missing something important could hurt you. I’d been thinking about that observation for three days now, turning it over in my mind like a stone worn smooth.
What I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about was how she’d looked that first day, standing in my poetry section with an expression of such careful hunger. Like someone who’d been starving but had learned not to reach for food too quickly. There was something about her that made me want to understand notjust what she needed now, but who she’d been before whatever had taught her to move so cautiously. It bothered me in a way I couldn’t quite name that we’d both grown up in Hollow Haven and I had no memory of her. How had I existed in the same small town without noticing someone who clearly possessed this kind of quiet intensity, even as a child?
“Morning,” she said, and there was less hesitation in her voice than last time. Progress, though I wouldn’t call it that out loud. She’d probably bristle at the word, the way most people did when they sensed they were being measured against some invisible standard of healing.
“Good morning, Talia.” I set down the slim volume of Neruda I’d been debating over. Too romantic for where she was now, I thought. Maybe in a few weeks. “How did you find Mary Oliver?”
She held up the book like evidence. “She writes about paying attention like it’s a sacred act.”
That made me smile. “She does, doesn’t she? There’s this line of hers I love, about attention being the beginning of devotion. Always reminded me of why I love this work.”
Talia moved deeper into the store, and I noticed she took the same path as before, staying close to the windows where she could see the street. But she paused longer this time, actually looking at titles instead of just cataloging exits, like an omega on alert.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked, gesturing toward the reading nook I’d set up in the back corner. Two mismatched armchairs I’d rescued from estate sales, a small table that had belonged to my grandmother, and good natural light from the windows that faced the garden behind the store.
She considered this for a moment, weighing something I couldn’t see. Then she nodded. “I’d like that.”
While she settled into the chair by the window, I moved to the small kitchen area behind the counter. This was my favorite partof the morning. Those quiet moments when the day felt new and full of potential.
As I quietly brewed the tea, I found myself thinking about a passage from one of my favorite books about plant medicine. The author had written about how traditional healers understood that the ritual of preparation was as important as the herbs themselves. That the act of being cared for began the moment someone started choosing ingredients with your particular needs in mind.
I carried the tea service back to where Talia waited, noting the way she’d arranged herself in the chair. Feet flat on the floor, back straight but not rigid, hands folded in her lap. Ready to move if she needed to, but trying to relax.
“This smells wonderful,” Talia said as I set her cup in front of her. She leaned forward to breathe in the steam, and for a moment her shoulders dropped just slightly.
I settled into the chair across from her with my own cup. “My grandmother used to say that tea was just an excuse to sit still long enough to actually taste something. Everything else we do too fast.”
“She sounds wise.”
“She was a librarian for twenty years before she bought this place. Believed that most of life’s problems could be solved with the right book and enough time to think.” I took a sip of my tea, smiling at the old memories that always brought me peace. “She left me this place, actually. Said every town needed somewhere that valued questions more than quick answers.”
“Iris Green,” Talia said softly, and something warm flickered in her eyes. “I remember her. She used to let me sit in the children’s section for hours during summers when I was little.”
A genuine smile spread across my face. “I think I remember her talking about you. She used to tell me about this little girl who would come in asking for cookbooks, of all things. Said youwere the only eight-year-old she’d ever met who wanted to know the science behind why bread rises.”
“That was me.” Talia laughed, and the sound was warmer than it had been before. “I drove my mom crazy asking for ingredients so I could try recipes from the children’s cooking books she’d find for me.”
“Gran always said you had an unusual combination of creativity and precision. She predicted you’d do something special with food someday.” I paused, remembering those conversations more clearly now. “She was right, wasn’t she? About you becoming a chef?”
“Among other things.”
