Page 4 of Choosing the Rejected Mate

Mr.Phelps walks closer, squints at the machine, then nods with the grave authority of a man who has never repaired anything in his life but has watched many people do it incorrectly.“You need the new handyman.”

I glare at him.“Has everyone in this town joined a handyman cult overnight?”

“He fixed my gate.”

“Wonderful.Did it propose after?”

“No, but it closes now, which is more than I can say for your mouth when you’re annoyed.”

Maisie chokes on a laugh.I give Mr.Phelps his raisin buns for free because respect for elders is important, even when elders are rude little gremlins in cardigans.

By six, the bakery is open.By six fifteen, there’s a line.By six forty, I’m regretting every decision I have ever made, starting with being born and ending with not buying a second mixer when I had the chance.

The morning rush hits hard.Commuters.Parents.Teachers.A frightening number of teenagers with iced coffees bigger than their heads.I box pastries, pull espresso shots, smile until my cheeks hurt, and pretend the dead mixer in the back is not going to ruin tomorrow’s production.

My wolf paces under my skin.She has been restless all morning.That alone makes me uneasy.

Since the rejection, she’s not gone.But she’s different.Quieter in some ways.Sharper in others.She survived what my fated mate did to us, but survival left marks.We both have them.

Usually, she likes the bakery.She likes the warmth, the familiar scents, the routine.She likes knowing the door locks.She likes that no Alpha can walk in here and command obedience from us.

This morning, though, she keeps lifting her head inside me.Listening, scenting, waiting, and I don’t like it.Waiting never brings anything good.

The bell above the door rings again just as I’m sliding a box of cupcakes across the counter to Mrs.Bell.

“Careful,” I tell her.“The chocolate ones have espresso in the frosting.”

“At my age, dear, I need all the help I can get.”She chuckles at her own joke, and I smile.

“Fair enough.”

She moves aside and the world changes.One second, I’m standing behind my counter with flour on my cheek and coffee on my apron.The next, the air leaves my lungs.

The scent hits first—cedar, warm skin, and fresh rain on dry earth.There’s a trace of metal, like tools warmed by work-rough hands.And wolf.

Not pack-sour.Not rank-heavy.Not the suffocating musk of males who think power is a personality.This is something cleaner.Wilder.Steady and warm and so painfully right that my knees nearly buckle.

My wolf slams against my ribs.Mate.

No.Absolutely not.

The man standing in my doorway is tall enough to block half the morning light.Broad shoulders fill out a dark t-shirt dusted with sawdust.Faded jeans sit low on lean hips, and a worn tool belt hangs from one hand.His hair is dark blond, messy in a way that suggests fingers, wind, and poor life choices.His jaw is rough with stubble.His mouth is soft, full, and parting as if he forgot how breathing works

His eyes find mine.They’re amber, wolf-bright, and stunned.

The box of cupcakes slips from my hand, and Mrs.Bell catches it with reflexes that are frankly suspicious for a woman who complains about her hip every time I ask her to pay full price.

The bakery goes quiet.Not silent.Humans are terrible at noticing supernatural disasters unless someone starts bleeding or naked shifting in public.The espresso machine hisses—a chair scrapes.Someone whispers about blueberry muffins.

But between him and me?Silence.Deep, electric, and dangerous.The bond opens inside my chest like a door I welded shut years ago.Heat pours through, recognition follows, and then panic arrives wearing tap shoes.

My fingers curl around the counter hard enough to hurt.My wolf whines, a sound so soft and aching it almost breaks me.She wants to go to him, wants to press against him, wants to breathe him in until the last ugly shadows of the past finally shut up.

Traitor.

The man swallows, and his gaze dips over me, not crude, not claiming, but hungry.Like he’s seeing something he did not know he had lost until this exact second.

His nostrils flare.“Mate,” he says.