And even if that’s not her fault, it doesn’t change the way part of me feels the need to keep my distance. Even if only to protect myself.

You can’t be friends with Tess Covington, I repeat over and over as I head toward my bedroom for a moment of peace before I’m trapped in the Bronco with her for half an hour. It’s not a good idea.

There’s a reason alphas and omegas drive each other’s hormones so out of whack; we’re made to perfectly complement one another. Merely being in close proximity is enough to draw us to each other, to make us want. It makes it way too easy to get in over your head without knowing what the other person is really like. Something I know all too well.

I tell myself I’ll just let her do her job, interacting with her as little as I can possibly get away with. That way nothing is complicated.

That way no one gets hurt.

I touch my fingers to my nostrils when I’m safely tucked away in my bedroom, allowing myself to breathe in her scent even though I know I shouldn’t. I close my eyes and let the sweetness of it fill my nose, releasing a shuddering breath when it makes my mouth water all over again.

I have a feeling it’ll be easier said than done.

“So how exactly did you get into this? This thing you do.”

I turn my face from the passenger window, catching his expression, which I assume is him trying not to seem overly curious. There’s a little scrunch between his eyes and a purse to his lips, almost like he’s trying to make sense of his own question.

“This thing I do?”

“Yeah,” he semiclarifies. “On the internet.”

I consider that. It’s not really a question I’ve ever had to answer, largely because most people who know about my account have been following me for years, even if the explosion in popularity is fairly new. They saw it happen in real time.

“I started working with my dad’s business when I was still in school. I always loved what he did—taking a place that needs a lot of love and turning it into something gorgeous. I don’t know. There’s something simple and beautiful about that.”

“You said your dad did this for eighteen years when you were yelling at me yesterday.”

I roll my eyes. “I didn’t yell.”

“Sure you didn’t,” he snorts. “But past tense? He doesn’t do it anymore?”

“No, he…” I frown, trying not to let the familiar melancholy creep in. “He had a stroke,” I tell him. “When I was eighteen. He hasn’t really been the same since.”

“I’m sorry,” Hunter offers.

I shake my head. “He can still get around, but his hands don’t work the way they used to.”

“That must be tough for someone who’s spent their whole life using them.”

My chest clenches. He has no idea how tough it’s been, and I doubt he’d care to hear it.

“Yeah,” I manage. “It was…an adjustment. He still consults sometimes.”

“Okay, most of this makes sense. It’s the TikTok thing I don’t get.”

I chuckle under my breath. “You really are way too young to be so old.”

“It’s a curse,” he responds dryly.

“I was doing this job in North Carolina,” I tell him. “TikTok was starting to become a whole thing, and I just started posting some footage for fun. We never expected to go viral.”

“ ‘Viral’?” he echoes.

I outright laugh this time. It’s like he’s eighty, and what I don’t say is he is entirely too hot to be this old.

“It sort of blew up,” I clarify. “Got a million views practically overnight.”

Hunter makes a face like the idea of a million people seeing anything he’s done makes him uneasy, and there’s something endearing about that.

Or maybe I’m still a little hung up on the way he touched me not half an hour ago.

If I concentrate, I can still feel the phantom press of his fingers against my throat, the skin there prickling with interest as if silently asking for more. I’d never felt such a strong reaction to anyone’s touch before, and after the haziness in my brain cleared up, I concluded that it has to be some sort of hormonal garbage, nothing more.

Even if I’m still thinking about it. Just a little.

“So you said your brothers are on their way?”

“Mm-hmm. They should be here tomorrow.”

“Great,” he deadpans.

I cross my arms. “Why are you so against the renovations? Jeannie told me about how business has been slower. Don’t you want to try to do something about that?”

The way his expression tightens…I almost feel bad for asking.

“It’s…complicated.”

“I can do complicated,” I assure him.

“I suppose…it has a lot to do with my parents.”

He looks like he’d rather be talking about anything else, but I can’t help it. Strangely, I have this overwhelming desire to know what it is that makes the grumpy innkeeper tick.

“Your parents?”

He glances at me from the side. “They died. Car accident. Ten years ago now.”

“Oh,” I answer quietly. I feel like a dick for asking. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

The pup has had a rough go of it these last few years. Last decade, really.

Well, shit.

I did not need to hear anything that would endear me to the grumpy innkeeper.

“Now I’m feeling even more shitty for calling the place dingy.”

He surprises me with a barely there grin, the action making the scruff on his face crease with what might be a dimple hiding underneath.

“Don’t worry,” he tells me. “It wasn’t really me you insulted, just my dead parents.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you actually kind of a shit?”

“Maybe a little.”

I can feel myself grinning too now, and I wonder if maybe Jeannie was right—if Hunter isn’t as mean as he seems.

“I forgive you for being so oblivious,” he teases.

His phrasing gives me pause, and without even thinking, I laugh bitterly, replying, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He eyes me curiously, and I feel a sudden wave of embarrassment, something that’s commonplace when I think about my dad and all the things I’ve missed this last year. How I could have been so oblivious to how he’s been struggling. Hunter is still looking at me from the corner of his eye as if he’d like to say more, but for some reason, the idea of spilling my guts about my family woes makes my stomach twist with distaste.

My eyes flick to the radio, and I suddenly reach to turn up the knob. “I like this song.”

Hunter doesn’t prod at my blatant diversion, thankfully, but I can feel him watching me from the driver’s seat as I keep my eyes trained out the opposite window. He doesn’t ask me any more questions while we continue on the winding path that takes us down the mountain toward town, leaving me with nothing but my own thoughts for company.

“I have to pick up a few things,” Hunter tells me when we both step out of the Bronco on Main Street. He points in the opposite direction. “The pharmacy is down that way.”

“How do I find you again when I’m done?”

Hunter’s mouth tilts up in a lazy grin, that hint of a dimple now obvious beneath the scruff on his cheek. I feel a brief flash of curiosity as to what it might feel like under my palm, which I quickly shake away.

“It’s not exactly a big place,” he assures me. “I’ll find you.”

“Well, let me give you my number. Just in case.”

Hunter’s brow furrows as if he thinks this is unnecessary, but after a moment he reaches down into his pocket to fish out his own phone. Something that immediately makes me reel.

“What is that?”

Hunter glances down at the phone—if you can even call it one, and the jury is still out as far as I’m concerned—in his hand. “My cell phone?”