“—I swear, they already act like a pack. Beau and Levi are always together, and Simon’s basically the dad of the group.”
“Ugh, Simon is grumpy-hot. But I heard they’ve been bonded for a while, they just haven’t filed officially,” the other one says. “And Beau is so fucking sexy. Did you know…”
My spine stiffens before I even realize why.
“Everything okay?” Norah asks, her gaze already narrowed toward the bench where the women are still gossiping like it’s their day job.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just… overheard something.”
“You’ve got that face.”
“What face?”
“The one you get when you’re fighting with yourself in your head and both sides are losing.”
I glance away. “It’s nothing. Just… Beau.”
That gets her full attention. “You and Beau?”
“No. Not like that.” I rub the heel of my hand against my chest, right over the place that won’t settle. “It was just a moment after the fire. He—he helped. I was out of it, but I remember his voice. His scent.”
Norah tilts her head. “And?”
“And I’ve been trying to forget it ever since.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. “You do know that according to every woman who’s ever had him, Beau is—how shall I put this? —an absolute menace in bed.”
My eyes snap to hers. “Seriously?”
“Oh yeah. Legend status. I’ve heard he’s like, a sensualist or something. Focused. Quiet. Makes you feel like you’re the only thing he’s thinking about.”
I scowl. “Please stop.”
“He apparently hooked up with the bakery triplets one summer—June, Riley, and Cora.”
I blink. “All three?”
“Not at once,” she says, amused. “Well, not that I’ve confirmed. But two out of three.”
Great. That’s all the confirmation I need to double down on avoiding Alphas. Especially that one.
Because I know myself, I know the way I’m wired—my brand of self-sabotage. One more moment with someone like Beau, and I won’t trust myself to say no.
And that’s precisely why I have to.
It doesn’t matter what the doctor said. Pre-heat or not, I am not the kind of woman who gets entangled with Alphas.
They’re controlling. Possessive. Addictive.
I don’t want to end up like my mother. I will not end up sidelined. Swallowed.
Norah and I keep walking until we reach the B&B bistro, where the smell of grilled meat and rosemary fries wafts out onto the street.
We slide into one of the booths, and she orders for both of us without asking—two medium-rare steaks, fries, and a basket of cornbread muffins with honey butter. It’s a comfort meal.
“You should come out tonight,” she says casually, spearing a fry. “It’s Friday. We could go to The Smokehouse for a drink. Or, if you’re feeling bold, dancing.”
“Dancing?” I wrinkle my nose. “Do you know how long it’s been since I went out dancing?”
