Page 26 of Saddle and Scent
He grins, like he’s just solved a puzzle.
"That’s the Sanctuary, right? Lotta animals. Lotta work for one girl."
"Funny," I say, "everyone seems very interested in my capacity for manual labor."
He lets the silence stretch, then…
"Most people wouldn’t peg you for ranch stock."
"I’ll be sure to tell that to my three-legged mule," I say, leveling my gaze at him.
There’s a titter from the tables, like people can’t decide if they’re amused or horrified.
The Alpha’s eyes narrow, and he leans even closer.
"You know," he says, dropping his voice, "I’ve heard about Omegas like you. Heard you all run hot, but cool off fast. Guessing you’ll be gone by August."
He says it like he’s delivering a compliment, but his tone has an edge sharp enough to slice bread.
The laugh I give him is pure city.
"If you’re offering to help, I’m sure you could use the exercise. But I hear the bakery has a public restroom if you need to go rub one out."
The room goes silent, then erupts in a wave of nervous, scandalized laughter.
The Alpha’s face flushes, and for a second, he looks like he’s going to retaliate, but then another voice cuts in from the back.
"Ray, that’ll be enough."
It’s not a threat, but a statement of fact.
A man steps out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a flour-stained towel. He’s tall—taller than Ray, even—with dark hair pulled back in a low knot, jawline squared off by a week’s worth of beard. His eyes are warm brown, deep set, almost sleepy. He looks at Ray, then at me, and I can feel the entire room holding its breath.
It slams into me like a migraine under bright lights, the shape of the man behind the counter, the certainty of his voice. The bakery air is suddenly too thick, too humid with cinnamon and the heavier, darker undercurrent that is pure Beckett Ford: the scent from yesterday hitting me with vengeance.
The brain does weird things with memory.
I always assumed I’d see him again and feel nothing. A quick pass by, or a glance from a far. Or a simple moment where he’s with his pack, holding another pie or some other delicious delicacy I’d crave to eat. How ironic that he’s here, working at the bakery, not just real but more so—bigger than I remember, voice like velvet over a chainsaw, eyes so brown they seem toswallow the light. He hasn’t changed, except for the beard and maybe a new tattoo crawling up his forearm, but the rest is Beckett as I remember:slow moving, heavy lidded, always on the verge of a smile or a warning.
I am unprepared for how the room pivots around him, the way even Ray’s bravado shrinks in the gravitational pull of Beckett’s presence. The tables, the mothers with their sticky-handed offspring, the Beta high schoolers with phones half-raised for a viral moment—they all quiet, like the alpha’s entered the room and the pack is waiting for orders.
My skin crawls with awareness. I’m caught between humiliation and some stupid, traitorous relief.
Our eyes lock for half a second. There is no recognition in his, not outwardly, but I swear his nostrils flare, the tiniest shift of muscle at the jawline.
He doesn’t say my name, but the way he looks at me, I wonder if he’s calculating the time since we last spoke. Not just a simple time of need conversation with pie offerings, but back when we could have genuine conversations but the uncertainty and truth of who we’d grow up to be.
Or if he even remembers the night I left town and didn’t bother to say goodbye… he probably does, but just that good at pretending.
He wipes his hands on the rag, squares off with Ray, and waits.
Ray straightens, mutters, "Yeah, okay, boss," and backs away from the counter.
He gives me a lopsided smile, then gestures at the pastry case.
"What can I get you?" His voice is quiet, smooth as honey and twice as warm.
I scan the options, trying not to stare at him.
