I shift my weight, eyeing the name-brandwatch, fishing reel, and a dented thermos also being bartered. The kind of stuff that’s expensive enough to not want to throw out, but also things people prefer to buy new, not second-hand.
The guy turns as I approach, and his sea-glass green eyes widen when they meet mine. In the space of a heartbeat, awareness passes between us, the kind of immediate assessment of threat and intent that happens between two Alphas.
He’s tall, but not my kind of tall. Lanky, awkward in the shoulders, still filling out in the way men do in their early twenties. His light-brown hair sticks up in wild curls, and a deep red flush climbs from his neck to his jaw as we stare at each other.
The shop owner clears his throat in annoyance, and the young Alpha startles, turning away from me. But after only a second, his gaze sneaks back, as if he can’t help himself.
Do I make him nervous? Female Alphas aren’t as prevalent as males, but we’re not exactlyrare. Then his pheromones reach me, and my pulse stutters, blood rushing to my cheeks. For a second, the scent of salt and driftwood fills my senses, warm as if he’s been out in the sun and growing hotter by the second.
Not nerves, but something that hooks low in my belly with awareness.
I lock it down and force my own pheromones into neutral. Poor pup can’t control himself yet. No reason to overwhelm him with my own scent.
From the corner of my eye, I catch him sneaking another look at me, and his ragged breaths fill the air.
The Beta shop owner, oblivious to what the young Alpha’s pheromones are screaming, snaps, “You want the ten, or not?”
“Yeah,” the guy mutters, “sure. Whatever.”
He takes the money and gathers his things, movements jerky and rushed as the sting of embarrassment joins the other scents. The watch slips off the edge of the counter and clatters to the floor. Instinct tells me to step forward to help, but I stay put as he bends to snatch it up.
He scoops the rest of his pile into a faded green backpack, zips it shut, and bolts past me toward the door. He doesn’t look back, but the cloud of scent, almost electric now, follows him out into the morning air.
I wait a second before approaching the counter. The owner turns to me. “Morning. What can I do for you?”
I clear my throat, which is drier than it shouldbe. “You have any power tools come in last night? Drills or a framing nailer, marked E.W.?”
His eyes crinkle at the edges. “No, just crap like that.” He gestures after the departed customer. “If you want to leave your number, I can give you a call if anything comes in.”
“Appreciate it.” I hand over a business card and head for the door.
Outside, the wind has picked up. I breathe in the salty breeze from the ocean, and sea-green eyes flash across my memory. My chest squeezes. I hope the young Alpha is okay. He seemed desperate for money.
If he’d stuck around, I could have directed him to the pawnshops further in town that would take his eclectic offerings. Could have found him some work on my crew, too, if he was willing to learn.
But he couldn’t be more than twenty-two. Twenty-three at most. Still soft around the edges, muscles not yet settled into his frame. The flush on his cheeks came not only from embarrassment but also from an attraction he didn’t understand how to handle. I know the type. I used to be the type. Too young, too eager, too blind to realize when someone older was taking advantage.
No. I’m not getting pulled into that story again. Not with him. Not with anyone.
With a shake of my head, I climb back into the truck. Don’t need to be borrowing other people’s trouble when I have enough of my own to deal with.
I have enough time for one more pawnshop before I need to head for the docks.
Chapter Two
Leif
Ihunch my shoulders and pull my baseball cap lower over my face as the men in the corner booth cast me another appraising stare.
I had asked for a table away from the window, but at this time of the morning, near the docks, getting a seat at all had been a miracle. The plan had been to arrive and head straight for the water taxi pickup area, but I was paranoid about being late for my first day as a tutor/nanny at Misty Pines, and I arrived way ahead of schedule.
Not wanting to hang around out in the open, I had sought refuge in the diner nearest to the docks. I now sit wedged in a sticky booth in front of the bay window, my bag of lesson plans clutched to my side.
The waitress swings back by my table with a carafe of coffee. “Another top off?”
I check the time on my phone and weigh my caffeine shakes against having a valid reason to continue to take up space. “Yes, thank you.”
The toast I ordered to go with the coffee sits stacked in cold triangles on the plate beside my mug. It didn’t come with butter, and the waitress never brought me the jam I requested to help it go down. Ignoring it for the moment, I add several packets of creamer to my coffee to mask the burned flavor.