She takes it, smiling shyly. “Thanks, Fallon. I’m Jean,” she tells us, looking between Knox and me. “
“Nice to meet you,” I say politely.
“Jean here was driving through town on her way to Seattle, but the snow made her stop at the motel down the road,” Fallon provides.
Knox just gives a curt nod, his gaze already drifting back to the prep list on the counter.
“I have to get going,” Jean says, checking her phone. “I need to be on the road by noon if I want to beat the next storm front.”
She kisses Fallon on the cheek, a quick, chaste gesture promises nothing more than a fond memory. “Keep in touch, okay?”
“You have my number,” Fallon replies, walking her to the door. He leans against the frame as she heads out to her car, watching until she drives away. Then he locks the door and turns back to us, a satisfied grin on his face.
“What?” he asks, catching Knox staring at him.
“I don’t understand it,” Knox says, setting his mug down with a definitive clink. “Pourquoi?It’s always someone different. Always passing through. It seems… exhausting.”
Fallon laughs, a bright, booming sound that fills the high ceilings. He walks over to the coffee maker, pouring himself a cup.
“Knox, you have your running, your chess games, your obsession with making everything perfect. Eli has his garden and his pastries. We all have our outlets. Sex is mine. It’s fun. It feels good. And unlike your running, it doesn’t make my knees hurt.”
“That’s gross.” I laugh.
“It’s natural!” Fallon defends himself, taking a long sip. “We’re Alphas. We have needs. I just prefer to meet those needs with enthusiastic consent and no strings attached. It keeps things simple.”
“Simple is not a word I would use to describe your love life,” Knox retorts. He pushes off the counter, rolling his shoulders. “De toute façon, since Eli is going to the market, I’ll take the opening shift. That puts you on the close again, Fallon.”
Fallon groans, tipping his head back. “Again? Come on, man! I closed last weekend. I’m tired of scrubbing the grease traps at midnight.”
“Then maybe don’t stay up until three a.m. entertaining tourists,” Knox says, his voice dry. “Besides, you somehow manage to find these women despite the workload. If you have that much energy, you can scrub the floor.”
Knox starts walking toward the bathroom, stripping off his shirt as he goes. “Eli, make surele bâtardwashes his hands before he touches any food. I don’t want whatever he caught in town contaminating my kitchen.”
“I washed them!” Fallon calls out to Knox’s retreating back.
“With soap!” Knox shouts back, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him.
Fallon looks at me, feigning a hurt expression. “He’s just bitter because he hasn’t gotten laid in six months. All that pent-up energy goes into yelling at me.”
“He’s not bitter,” I say, though I’m smiling. “He’s just… focused. You know that.”
“He needs to get focused on something other than work,” Fallon grumbles, finally taking a drink of his coffee. “So, market run? What are we thinking for the special today? Maybe those lamb chops we got last week?”
“I was thinking a rustic berry tart for the dessert special, using the ones I hope to find,” I reply, turning my attention to the mixer. “And maybe a savory galette for lunch if the greens look good.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Fallon finishes his coffee and sets the cup in the sink. He actually does go to the sink and washes his hands thoroughly, scrubbing them with the industrial soap we use in the restaurant.
“I’ll get the meats prepped,” he says. “If I’m on close, I might as well get the heavy lifting out of the way now.”
I watch him work for a moment, the easy way he moves through the kitchen, his tattoos shifting with his muscles. We are a strange trio—the prickly intellectual, the tattooed playboy, and the quiet baker.
But as the hum of the refrigerator fills the silence and the smell of coffee mingles with the scent of flour, I can’t imagine it any other way.
This is my pack, this is my home, and today, just like every day, we have a restaurant to run.
CHAPTER THREE
