Page 4 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
“The author,” he clarified. “She has a gift for writing about people who find themselves by feeding others.”
The mug smelled like summer gardens and peaceful sleep. Chamomile, but complex, layered with other herbs I couldn’t identify.
“I didn’t order tea,” I said, confused.
“I know. But you’ve been reading for two hours, and the afternoon light suggested you might be thirsty.” He settled the mug on my table, movements deliberate and soothing. “Elias next door at the apothecary blends this particular combination. He calls it ‘Quiet Mind’. Chamomile, lemon balm, and a touch of lavender. Perfect for settling into a story.”
Two hours? I glanced at my phone in shock. The last time I’d lost track of time had been in a dissociative panic, not peaceful absorption.
“This is incredibly kind,” I said, accepting the warm ceramic. “But I should pay you something.”
“Absolutely not. Virginia Woolf also said that books should be a drug for the mind. If my shop is working properly, you shouldn’t notice time passing at all.” Hollis gestured toward a matching chair across from mine. “May I? I’m curious about your thoughts on Straub’s approach to small-town dynamics.”
I nodded, surprised by how much I wanted his company. He settled into the opposite chair with the fluid grace of someone completely comfortable in his own space.
“I love how she writes about food bringing people together,” I said, taking a sip of tea that seemed to warm me from the inside out. “The way cooking becomes a conversation between chef and community.”
“You speak like someone who knows kitchens.”
The observation was gentle, curious rather than prying. I found myself wanting to answer honestly.
“I was a chef. In Chicago.” The admission felt rusty from disuse. “Executive chef at a fine dining restaurant.”
“Was?” No judgment in his voice, just invitation for whatever I chose to share.
“Career complications,” I said carefully. “I decided it was time for a change of scenery. Though I suppose coming back to Hollow Haven feels like coming home. I lived here as a child.”
Something shifted in his expression, warm recognition mixed with understanding. “I thought you might have local connections. There’s something about the way you looked at the mountains through the window. Like you were seeing old friends.”
“Fifteen years away, but some things don’t change.” I traced the rim of my mug, surprised by how much I wanted to share. “I reconnected with Jace Maddox yesterday. We used to explore the forests together when we were kids.”
“Jace is good people,” Hollis said with genuine fondness. “He’s been helping me identify the local plants I reference in my reading recommendations. There’s something poetic about a ranger who understands both conservation and literature.”
Hollis nodded as if career complications and childhood returns were the most natural thing in the world. “Like Rumi wrote, ‘Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.’ Sometimes we have to leave one kitchen to find the one we’re truly meant to cook in. And sometimes the place that calls us home is exactly where we started.”
The acceptance in his voice nearly undid me. No demands for details, no alpha posturing about fixing my problems. Just literary wisdom offered like a warm blanket.
“You quote a lot of writers,” I observed.
“Occupational hazard of surrounding yourself with brilliant minds.” His eyes crinkled behind wire-rimmed glasses. “Booksare like people, each with their own wisdom to offer. I’ve learned to listen to what they teach.”
“And what do they teach about career complications?”
“That sometimes what feels like an ending is actually transformation. Mary Oliver said, ‘Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’ Perhaps the question isn’t what you lost, but what you’re ready to discover.”
I stared into my tea, throat tight with unexpected emotion. When was the last time someone had suggested I might discover something instead of merely survive?
“The tea is perfect,” I said, deflecting from the weight of his words.
“Elias has a gift for matching blends to people’s needs. We work together often. I send people his direction when they need something specific for healing, and he sends me customers who need a quiet place to sit while their remedies work. It’s popular with the local omegas who’ve found their way to Hollow Haven.”
There it was. The acknowledgment that he knew what I was, delivered so casually it felt like acceptance rather than exposure. My shoulders relaxed another degree.
“Do you get many omegas looking for quiet places?”
“More than you might think. Small towns attract people seeking refuge, and books provide excellent companionship while you figure out what comes next.” Hollis’s scent drifted toward me on the warm air, pine and paper and something indefinably peaceful. “Would you like a recommendation for tomorrow’s reading? I have thoughts about what might suit your current literary mood.”
The casual assumption that I’d return tomorrow made something warm unfurl in my chest. Not the desperate gratitude of someone unused to kindness, but genuine pleasure at the prospect of choosing to come back.
