Page 27 of Saddle and Scent
He has hands built for bread—wide palms, thick fingers, strong and gentle. There’s something about the way he moves—unhurried, deliberate—that makes the air settle.
"Just coffee," I say, then change my mind. "And a cinnamon roll. If you’ve got one."
His eyes crinkle, and he slides a roll onto a plate, then pours coffee into a heavy ceramic mug. He rings me up, hands the change back without touching my skin. It’s the kind of courtesy that’s more familiar in big cities, but feels strangely intimate here.
He glances at the scar on my knuckle, then at the blue stain on my jeans.
"You had a day," he says, not quite a question.
"You have no idea," I say, and for the first time all morning, I mean it.
He passes me the plate, then the coffee.
"Take a seat wherever. If you want quiet, there’s a table on the patio. People talk less when they can’t hear themselves think."
I nod, grateful, and duck out the side door. The patio is empty except for a stray cat sleeping in a patch of sun.
I sit, rip the cinnamon roll in half, and let the sugar dissolve on my tongue.
Inside, I can hear the buzz resume, softer now, like the room is digesting what just happened.
The patio smells of yeast and cut grass and the faintest trace of woodsmoke. My hands are sticky with icing, and my chest aches, but the sun feels good, and for the first time all day, I’m not drowning in my own scent.
Halfway through the roll, the man from the kitchen appears with a second mug of coffee. He sets it on the table, then leans against the railing, arms folded.
“Beckett," he says, offering a real smile, re-introducing himself as if we don’t know each other. It could be for performance, or a formal re-introduction that’s genuine after all these years.
"Juniper," I reply, licking sugar off my finger.
He nods, eyes on the field across the street. He’s watching me closely now, his eyes dilating every so slightly while taking in how I’m licking my fingers. Probably not lady like in anyway, but a girl can’t possibly leave such a sweetness unsavored.
He stays silent for a moment, arms folded, letting the air settle again. There’s something about the way he does silence—it isn’t awkward. It’s stable, like waiting out rain on a porch, and suddenly I remember a hundred afternoons exactly like this, both of us perched at my aunt’s kitchen table, not saying a word because we didn’t need to.
He’s the kind of Alpha who prefers space to words, who fills rooms with presence rather than noise.
Maybe he’s not even watching me, I tell myself. He could be watching the clouds, or the curve of the road, or the cat attacking a ladybug at the edge of the patio. But then he catches me looking, and his mouth quirks, and I know for sure:he’s doing what all Alphas do, clocking and cataloguing, running calculations behind those heavy-lidded eyes.
I should care or feel creeped out, but I’m not.
If anything, it’s sort of flattering—a little weird, but also honest, and I’ll take honest over the other crap any day.
Still, I’m aware of every motion.
The way I break the cinnamon roll, the way my tongue curls around the icing, the way my boot taps restlessly against the patio tile. For a heartbeat, I want to impress him.Gosh, that’s pathetic. I left this town to get away from that feeling, and now here it is, returning like a bad penny—or in this case, a perfect cinnamon roll.
I steal a glance at his hands, flour-dusted and large. They’re steady, even when he’s still.
I try to remember the last time I saw those hands up close, and the memory stings:a barn dance, a spilled drink, the briefest touch on my back as he steered me out of harm’s way.
I’d pretended not to notice, but I remembered for days. Maybe he did too.
“You always eat pastry like it’s the last food on earth?” he asks, finally.
His voice has dropped, gone soft and private, meant for me alone.
“Only when it’s good,” I shoot back, licking a streak of icing from my thumb. “This is obscenely good. You could probably rob a bank with these.”
He laughs, a small sound but genuine.
