Page 18 of Holly Jolly Heat
"She grew up here," Ro said, and I could hear the same awe in his voice that I felt. This was where Michelle had been a child, a teenager, where she'd planned her business and her life.
This was part of her.
"Okay," Dex said from the back. "Game plan. We're respectful, polite, we don't push. We let Michelle set the pace."
"Right. Respectful. Polite. No pushing." I took a deep breath. "I can do that."
"Can you?" Ro asked, but he was smiling slightly.
"I'll try really hard."
We all climbed out of the Cozy Caravan simultaneously. The cold Oregon air hit me immediately, colder than Seattle, crisp and clean and smelling like pine tinged with smoke and, underneath it all, the faintest trace of peppermint.
Michelle.
My alpha surged, wanting to find her, to see her, to?—
"Breathe," Dex murmured beside me, his hand on my shoulder. "Steady."
I breathed.
Ro was already surveying the property with his camera eye, taking in the barn, the workshop, the massive Douglas fir in the backyard. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand kept flexing like he wanted to reach for something.
He was just as nervous as I was. He was just better at hiding it.
We all looked at the house.
And through the front window, I saw her.
Michelle, standing in what looked like the living room, watching us. Even from here, even through glass, the pull was magnetic. My alpha recognized his omega, our pack's missing piece, and every cell in my body wanted to close the distance.
Our eyes met.
And I watched her entire face transform, fear and hope and want all tangled together.
Then she moved toward the door.
"She's coming outside," I said, my voice slightly strangled.
"Don't tackle her," Dex advised.
"I'm not going to, I mean, I would never—" I took another breath. "Okay, being respectful starts now."
The front door opened.
And there she was.
Michelle stepped out onto the porch, and I forgot how to breathe properly.
She was wearing jeans and a soft green sweater, her dark hair loose around her shoulders instead of in the tight bun I'd seen on our video calls. She looked nervous and beautiful and real, not a video call, not a fleeting market encounter, but real and here and looking at us with those warm brown eyes.
Her scent hit me, peppermint and winter pine, sweeter now without the sharp edge of panic from Pike Place Market. But I could still sense her nerves, her uncertainty.
Behind her, I could see movement in the house. Her family, probably, all gathering to watch this unfold.
No pressure.
"Hi," I said, and my voice came out softer than intended. "We brought your plant. George missed you."
