“You did what?” she says, her voice rising with disbelief. “A pop-up café? And people came?”
I wince, ready for the scolding I’ve braced myself for since yesterday. My mother isn’t harsh, but she’s practical to the bone, and practicality doesn’t usually leave much room for impulsive experiments like staging a last-minute coffee-and-pastry event in a flower shop.
But her tone softens before I can respond. “Wren, sweetheart, that’s wonderful. I’m proud of you.”
The knot of tension in my chest loosens. I can’t help smiling. “You are?”
“Of course I am. I knew those recipes of your grandmother’s weren’t meant to gather dust in some old binder. Tell me, what all did you make?”
I picture the trays lined up on Norah’s counters yesterday, the scent of sugar and butter filling every corner of the shop until even the roses smelled sweet. “Cinnamon rolls. Croissants. The honey-pear tarts you like. Coffee.”
“Sounds like so much fun. I wish I had been there,” she says with a laugh. The background noise on her end is faint waves crashing, maybe, or wind through sails. I picture her sprawled in a deck chair, wide-brimmed hat shading her face, drink in hand. She deserves it.
I twist a dish towel in my hand, staring at the sunlight streaking across the floor. “I miss you.”
Her voice softens, tender. “I miss you too, baby.”
We don’t mention my father. She doesn’t bring him up, and I don’t ask. It’s easier that way, the silence between us an unspoken pact.
When we hang up, I exhale slowly, like I’ve been holding my breath. Pancake hops onto the counter, licking crumbs from a plate I haven’t gotten around to washing. I scratch behind his ears before dialing Norah.
“Okay, tell me—how much did you make?” she demands as soon as she picks up.
I can’t stop grinning. “Enough. More than I thought.”
“See? Didn’t I tell you?” I can hear the rustle of stems in the background, her voice bright. “We can do this as often as you want. Honestly, it helps me, too. I sold more bouquets yesterday than I usually do in a week. You’re my good luck charm.”
The warmth of her words settles into me. “Thank you, Norah. Really.”
She hums. “So, when’s the next one?”
I laugh, rubbing a hand over my face. “I need a second to breathe first.”
“Fine, fine. But don’t take too long. The town’s hooked.”
There’s a knock at the door. Sharp, three raps against wood. I freeze, glancing at the clock—eight in the morning.
“Norah, I’ll call you later, okay? There’s so much to tell you.”
“Spill it all later,” she says, amused. “Go answer. Maybe it’s one of your Alphas.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips. Hanging up, I pad barefoot to the door, tugging my robe tighter around me.
When I pull it open, Beau fills the doorway, cinnamon and woodsmoke rolling off him like warmth from a fire. He’s holding a wicker basket in one hand, his grin easy, and before I can say a word, he pulls me into a hug.
“Hey,” I manage, surprised by the solid wall of him, my body instantly registers every inch of Alpha pressed against me.
“Hey, yourself.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and I know the second his eyes catch on the mark at my throat. His grin falters for a fraction of a second, replaced by something unreadable, before he recovers.
I clear my throat. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know.” He lifts the basket between us. “These are from Cora, actually. She said congratulations on yesterday’s pop-up. Also, she wants to bribe you for your scone recipe. Specifically, the maple pecan one.”
I laugh, tension easing as I take the basket from him. The muffins on top are golden, sugar crystals sparkling. “That’s sweet of her.”
“She made me promise to deliver them fresh,” he says, stepping inside when I gesture for him to come in. His gaze flicks around the café space, still dim in the morning light, the scent of flour and sugar lingering faintly.
I set the basket on the counter. “Do you want something to eat?”
