“We did, and you were right—it’s already looking a bit brittle. I’m going to have to switch to the preserved silver dollar eucalyptus for the wreaths.”
I run through the mental inventory list I’d made before closing up shop.
“We’re running low on the floral tape, too. And I’m almost out of the red velvet ribbon. That’s the big one. Every other customer wants that giant fluffy bow on their bouquet. If I don’t get a shipment in by Wednesday, I’m going to have to drive out to the distributor in Eugene.”
“Check the back room,” Norah suggests. “I think I hid a few spares of the good ribbon behind the extra vases. I was hoarding it for a special project I never got around to.”
“I’ll look tomorrow,” I promise. “It’s been busy, though. The Harvest Festival leftovers really kickstarted the wedding season for some reason. Everyone wants to get married in the valley now.”
“It’s the charm,” Norah says, pushing off the counter. “Or the insanity. You know, you’re doing a really good job, Amber. Keeping the place running while dealing with everything else. I appreciate it.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “Thanks. I like it. It’s… grounding. Being around things that grow, things that are beautiful. It helps.”
She squeezes my arm gently. “Get some sleep. If you can manage it after that display.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll try. You too. And tell the guys I promise to knock next time.”
“Go,” she says, shooing me toward the hallway. “Before the raccoon comes back for more water.”
I leave her in the kitchen, heading back to my room. The cold fear from the nightmare has evaporated, replaced by the awkwardness of the encounter, but beneath that is a solid sense of reality.
This is my life now. Messy, weird, and occasionally horrifying, but real.
I slip back into bed, careful not to disturb Maisie. My daughter shifts, murmuring something about a dragon, and settles back into deep sleep.
I lie down, pulling the covers up to my chin. Outside, the snow continues to fall, covering the tracks on the deck, erasing the evidence of the night.
I close my eyes, listening to the soft rhythm of Maisie’s breathing, and let that drag me back to sleep.
Morning in a house full of Alphas, a pregnant Omega, a nine-year-old, and a large dog is not for the faint of heart. It is a symphony of clinking ceramic, heavy footsteps, and male voices that seem to rattle the windows.
Sunlight spills across the kitchen floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the chaos, and the air smells heavily of coffee, bacon, and my lemon-blueberry pancake batter.
I stand at the stove, flipping a cake with a practiced flick of my wrist, trying to ignore the commotion behind me.
Dorian is leaning against the refrigerator, phone pressed to his ear, looking like he hasn’t slept in a week. He’s in architect mode, his voice clipped and professional.
“No, Gary, the load-bearing wall stays. I don’t care if it opens up the space, we can’t compromise the structural integrity of the original frame. We’ll find another way to get the light in.” He pauses, listening, his brow furrowed. “Fine. Run the numbers again. Call me at noon.”
Across the island, Jude and Ryker have a set of blueprints unrolled between them. They’re arguing good-naturedly about some new carpentry job they’ve picked up on the edge of town.
“The trim work is going to kill us on this timeline,” Ryker mutters, tracing a line on the paper with a callused finger. He looks rugged, even in a T-shirt and jeans, like he just walked out of a lumberjack calendar. “If we want to get the porch done before the snow really sticks, we need to hire a sub-contractor for the detailing.”
Jude shakes his head, sipping his coffee. “No subs. We keep it in the pack. We just need to streamline the mitering process. I can cut, you can install. We’ll knock it out in half the time.”
I tune them out, focusing on the pancakes. I slide three onto a plate for Maisie, adding a pat of butter that melts instantly, and drizzle it with warm syrup.
“Here you go, bug,” I say, setting the plate down at the small table near the window.
Maisie is already seated, her red glasses slipping down her nose as she leans over a book. She looks up, her eyes lighting up.
“Thanks, Mom!”
“You’re welcome, baby,” I say automatically, pressing a kiss to the top of her curly head.
She takes a huge bite, chews enthusiastically, and launches into a story she’s been dying to tell since she woke up.
“So, at recess, me and Leo were playing tag, but then we got into this huge argument about the rules of the game because he said that if you touch the tree you’re safe, but I said that’s only for base, and the tree isn’t base, the bench is base,” she says, waving her fork for emphasis.
