Thursday morning dawned gray and cool, with clouds rolling in that promised rain by afternoon. I stood on my porch with my first cup of coffee, mentally running through my supplies. I'd been putting off a trip to town, preferring the solitude of my property, but I was running low on basics—flour, sugar, coffee beans. Things I couldn't produce myself, no matter how self-sufficient I tried to be.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I could grow almost everything I needed, preserve it, store it, make it last. But some things required venturing back into the world I'd tried so hard to keep at arm's length.
"Just get in, get out," I muttered, finishing my coffee and heading inside to grab my bag and keys. "No lingering, no conversations beyond what's necessary."
The drive into Haven's Rest was quiet, the road winding through pine forests. I kept my windows cracked despite the starting of crisp early morning air, breathing in the scent of damp earth and coming rain. This was the part of town trips I didn't mind—the journey itself, the solitude of the drive.
It was the destination that made my shoulders tense.
I parked on the street outside Morrison's Corner Store, a small family-owned place that had been there for as long as anyone could remember. It was quieter than the main grocery store, and less likely to be crowded. Mrs. Morrison knew me well enough to check me out without attempting prolonged small talk, which made it my preferred option for supply runs.
The bell above the door chimed as I entered, and the familiar scent of old wood floors and produce greeted me. Mrs. Morrison looked up from behind the counter, offering a small crinkled smile and a nod. I returned both, grateful she understood my preference for minimal interaction.
I grabbed a basket and started working my way through my mental list. Flour first—I was completely out and had planned to make bread this weekend. Then sugar, coffee beans—the good dark roast Mrs. Morrison special-ordered from a roaster two towns over. I was debating between two types of honey when I heard the bell chime again, followed by heavy footsteps and a cheerful greeting.
"Morning, Mrs. Morrison! How's business?" The voice was deep, warm, with an easy confidence that made me glance up despite myself. The Alpha who'd just entered was tall—though not quite as tall as Garrett—with sun-streaked blond hair that looked like he spent more time outdoors than in. He wore work clothes, jeans and a canvas jacket, and moved with the kind of unselfconscious grace that suggested someone comfortable in their own skin.
I turned back to the honey, trying to be invisible. Just another customer, nothing notable, no reason for interaction.
"Can't complain," Mrs. Morrison replied. "Oliver called earlier about that lumber order. Said it'll be ready by tomorrow."
"Perfect. I'll swing by the yard to pick it up." The Alpha's footsteps moved deeper into the store, and I relaxed slightly. He was here for his own errands, not to bother me.
I selected the local wildflower honey and moved toward the baking aisle, mentally checking off items. Baking powder, vanilla extract, a bag of?—
I turned the corner and collided directly with a solid chest, my basket jolting hard enough that the honey jar wobbled dangerously. Strong hands caught my shoulders, steadying me, and I found myself looking up into bright blue eyes that crinkled at the corners with instant concern.
"Whoa, sorry about that," the Alpha said, his hands still on my shoulders. "I wasn't watching where I was going."
I stepped back quickly, and he released me immediately, hands raised in apology. "It's fine. My fault."
"Pretty sure it was mine." He grinned, a dimple appearing in his left cheek. "I was trying to read a text and walk at the same time. My pack keeps telling me that's a bad habit."
His pack. The words registered slowly, and I found myself really looking at him for the first time. Blond hair, blue eyes, easy smile, work clothes that suggested construction or logging. And that faint scent beneath the soap and fresh air—cedar and sawdust.
"You're one of them," I said before I could stop myself.
His eyebrows rose. "One of...?"
"The pack that moved into the Henderson property." I clutched my basket tighter, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. "Sorry. That sounded accusatory."
"A little," he agreed, but he was still smiling. "Though I guess that depends on whether being 'one of them' is a good thing or a bad thing in your book."
I didn't answer, suddenly very interested in the shelf of flour behind him.
He studied me for a moment, and I could practically feel the pieces clicking into place. "You're Daphne."
It wasn't a question. My eyes snapped back to his face, defensive walls slamming into place. "How do you?—"
"Garrett can't seem to stop talking about you." He extended a hand, that easy grin still in place. "Levi. I handle the business side of our operation, which means I get to hear about everything. Including mysterious neighbors with impressive gardens.”
I looked at his offered hand like it might bite me. After a long moment, I shook it briefly, my grip firm despite my reluctance. His hand was warm, calloused from work, and he released mine without any of the lingering that some Alphas seemed to think was charming.
"I'm not mysterious," I said, moving to step around him. "I'm just private."
"Nothing wrong with that." He shifted his basket to his other hand but didn't move out of my way. "Though I have to say, after hearing Garrett's descriptions, I was picturing someone a little more... intimidating."
Despite myself, I felt my lips twitch. "Disappointing?"
