Page 55 of Saddle and Scent
It's been nice talking to someone who doesn't have ten years of complicated history with me, someone who doesn't look at me and see all the ways I failed to live up to expectations.
"Thanks for the coffee," Piper says, pausing on the porch. "And the conversation. It's nice to talk to another Omega who gets it, you know?"
"Yeah," I agree. "It really is."
She starts down the steps, then turns back.
"Hey, if you ever need anything—gossip, coffee that doesn't come with a lecture, someone to bitch about Alpha bullshit with—I'm around. The post office knows where to find me, obviously."
"I might take you up on that," I say, meaning it.
She gives me a mock salute, then trudges back to her car, muttering creative curses at the mud trying to steal her boots.
I watch her execute a twenty-seven-point turn to get the car facing the right direction, then she's off, leaving deep ruts in the road and the lingering scent of diluted honey.
I head back inside, flipping through the mail again.
The mystery letter catches my eye, and I tear it open, curious.
The message inside is brief, written in the same unfamiliar hand:
"Heard you were back. Some things never change. Be careful who you trust. -A friend"
Well, that's not ominous at all.
I crumple the letter, tossing it in the general direction of the trash.
Anonymous warnings are just another fun feature of small-town life, right up there with everyone knowing your business and having opinions about it.
But as I pour myself another cup of coffee, I can't shake the feeling that things are about to get a lot more complicated.
Between the Alphas who won't leave me alone, the Omega who's hiding in plain sight, and now anonymous letters, it seems like Saddlebrush Ridge isn't done with me yet.
The morning sun streams through the kitchen window, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air. Somewhere outside, Pickles is probably planning his next escape attempt. The ranch needs about a thousand hours of work.
And I still can't get the feeling of Wes's arms around me out of my head.
"Just another day in paradise," I mutter, raising my mug in a mock toast to the empty kitchen.
But even as I say it, I realize something's shifted. Maybe it's Piper's easy acceptance, or the way Wes held me like I was something precious, or just the fact that I made it through another night without running back to the city.
Whatever it is, I feel a little less alone than I did yesterday.
It's not much, but it's something.
And right now, something is more than enough.
10
FLOUR, FRUSTRATION, AND FATHERLY ADVICE
~BECKETT~
The wedding cake is going to be the death of me.
I've been at this for six hours straight, and the three-tier monstrosity sitting on the work table still looks like it was assembled by a drunk toddler with commitment issues.
The bottom layer lists to the left like it's contemplating escape, the middle tier has a suspicious crack running down one side, and the top layer...well, the less said about that disaster, the better.
