Page 29 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
The fluorescent work light I’d borrowed from Mrs. Anderson cast harsh shadows across the contractor bids spread over the makeshift plywood desk. Nine forty-seven PM, according to my phone. I’d been here since six, cross-referencing permit requirements against equipment specifications, trying to make sense of regulations written in a language that seemed designed to confuse rather than clarify.
My third cup of coffee had gone cold an hour ago, but I kept sipping it anyway. The bitter taste matched my mood as I stared at the electrical load calculations that made absolutely no sense no matter how many times I read them.
Two weeks since Cassian Black had first walked through this space and shown me how badly the original contractors were overcharging. Two weeks of daily texts about permit applications and building codes. Two weeks of him stopping by every few days to review progress, answer questions, and somehow make bureaucratic nightmares feel manageable.
Two weeks of trying very hard not to notice how my pulse kicked up every time his name appeared on my phone screen.
The bistro felt different at night. Without contractors and inspectors and the purposeful energy of renovation, the empty space echoed with possibility and doubt in equal measure. Every creak of settling wood reminded me how much I’d risked on this venture. Every shadow suggested problems I hadn’t anticipated yet.
I should go home. Make actual dinner instead of the protein bar I’d eaten at seven. Sleep so I could face tomorrow’s final permit submission with something resembling professional competence.
But going home meant being alone with my thoughts, and my thoughts had been uncomfortably focused on people I shouldn’t be thinking about. Jace and his infectious enthusiasm, the cooking lessons that felt like more than just culinary education. Hollis and the way his bookstore felt like sanctuary, how I’d started planning my days around afternoon tea in his reading chairs.
And Cassian. God, Cassian with his sharp intelligence and the way he looked at me like I was a puzzle worth solving. The careful attention he paid to everything I said, the way he anticipated problems before I even saw them coming.
I’d come to Hollow Haven to rebuild my career, not to collect complicated feelings for men I barely knew.
Except two weeks of working closely with someone wasn’t barely knowing them anymore, was it? Two weeks of Cassian showing up consistently, reliably, offering expertise without making me feel incompetent. Two weeks of discovering he had a dry sense of humor that caught me off guard, that he listened more carefully than anyone I’d ever met, that the careful distance he maintained felt less like disinterest and more like restraint.
The knock on the front door made me jump hard enough to scatter papers across the plywood surface. Through the glass, I could see a tall figure silhouetted against the streetlights, holding what looked like bags.
My pulse kicked up before my brain finished identifying him. Cassian. Because apparently the universe had a sense of humour and wanted to prove me right.
I crossed to the door and unlocked it, hyperaware that I probably looked terrible. Hair in a messy bun, no makeup, wearing the old culinary school sweatshirt I used for dirty work because it was already stained beyond saving.
“Cassian. Hi.” Brilliant opening. Very professional.
“You’re still here.” He held up the bags with a slight smile that I’d learned meant he was pleased about something. “I drove past two hours ago and saw your car. Figured you might have forgotten to eat again.”
Again. Because he’d caught me working through dinner twice this week already, had sent pointed texts reminding me that protein bars didn’t count as proper nutrition.
The observation made my defenses spike even as warmth spread through my chest. “I ate a protein bar.”
The corner of his lips twitched in a barely repressed smile as we went into what was now our usual routine. “That doesn’t count as dinner, and we’ve been over this.” He stepped inside when I moved back, and suddenly the bistro felt smaller. His presence filled the space in a way I’d gotten used to over the past two weeks, commanding attention without trying. “I brought Thai food from that place in Millbrook. Too much for one person.”
“You drove to Millbrook?” The town was twenty minutes away, which meant he’d made a special trip. “Why?”
“Because you mentioned last week that you missed good pad thai, and the Thai place here doesn’t do it justice.” He set thebags on my makeshift desk, moving papers aside with the careful precision I’d come to associate with everything he did. “Also because watching you work yourself into exhaustion over permit applications has become concerning.”
Last week. When we’d been reviewing health department requirements and somehow gotten sidetracked into a conversation about food we missed from bigger cities. I’d mentioned the Thai place near my old apartment in Chicago, how they’d made pad thai that tasted like the version I’d had in Bangkok during culinary school.
And he’d remembered. Had driven forty minutes round trip to bring me food that reminded me of better times.
I should be annoyed by the presumption. Should tell him I was fine, that I didn’t need taking care of, that showing up uninvited with food was overstepping boundaries I’d been trying to establish. Except I hadn’t tried to establish any boundaries when it came to Cassian, even though I probably should.
Instead, I said, “What kind did you get?”
His smile widened, transforming his usually serious expression into something warmer. I’d seen that smile more often over the past two weeks, learned to recognize it as genuine pleasure rather than professional courtesy.
“Pad thai with extra lime, green curry with chicken because you mentioned the vegetarian version never has enough substance, spring rolls, and mango sticky rice because the woman at the counter said it was essential.”
My stomach chose that moment to remind me that protein bars weren’t actually sufficient nutrition. The smell coming from those bags was making my mouth water despite my best efforts to maintain professional distance.
“I was just finishing up anyway,” I lied, gesturing at the chaos of papers covering every surface. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know I didn’t have to.” He started unpacking containers with the same methodical efficiency he brought to everything. “I wanted to. There’s a difference.”
The casualness of the statement made something flutter in my chest. Over the past two weeks, I’d learned that Cassian didn’t do anything without intention. Every text was purposeful, every visit timed to when I needed help, every piece of advice carefully considered before offering.
