The Alpha and Her Hunter

The bell tinkled over the front door, announcing a late afternoon customer. Willow sighed. She was hoping to close up early today. She had barely slept last night, and visions of her bed swam before her eyes. She dusted her hands on the tea towel hanging from her waist and turned to greet them, pasting a smile on her face.

Her heart jolted, causing a blush to pink her cheeks. He was tall, nearly 6’3”. His muscles strained against his grey, heathered long-sleeve tee. His hair was a thick, chestnut brown. He wore it longer on top, the strands curling loosely around his abnormally handsome face.

She was taken in by his sharp jaw and high cheekbones. No one had a right to be that handsome. She patted her auburn braid, assuring that nothing was out of place. His smile was warm as she approached the counter.

“Hey, what can I get you?” she asked. He checked his phone.

“A medium latte, large black coffee, and two small chai teas, please,” he replied, reading from his phone.

“Great. That will be $16.32,” she held out her hand and he placed his card in it, their fingers brushing for a moment. A jolt of electricity shot through her and goosebumps rippled across her arm. She felt the blood rush to her face. Her eyes snapped up to his, her neck craning back to meet his gaze.

His dark blue eyes were piercing into hers, a shadow of confusion lurking in their depths. They took her in and suddenly narrowed, a glimmer of recognition causing them to harden. She felt taken aback by the coldness that emanated from him. She felt a small growl creep up her throat. Her muscles tensed and moved beneath her skin. She took a deep breath in, wanting to calm her racing heart.

The scent of sandalwood washed over her, the sharp tang of basil settling into the base of her throat. She saw his own nostrils flare. He jerked away from her, snatching his card from her hand.

“They’ll be at the end of the counter,” she snapped and began making the drinks. She was tempted to burn the milk, but this café was her livelihood and she couldn’t afford even one bad review. She wasn’t going to let some asshole from out of town ruin what she had worked so hard to create. She pushed the drinks into their holder and slid them as far down the counter as she could.

The bell rang again and she saw Mr. Schwartz trod in, his frail body wrapped in his perpetual tweed blazer. She offered him a warm smile and he tipped his hat towards her, balancing precariously on his wooden cane. Willow felt the stranger’s eyes burning into the side of her face. She glanced towards him and glowered slightly. A small surge of pleasure rose as she saw him draw back slightly.

“Garin! What are you doing in town? I haven’t seen you since, what, last Christmas?” Mr. Schwartz barked, toddling up to the stranger. They exchanged a hearty handshake; Mr. Schwartz’s small frame being nearly lifted from his feet.

“Yes, work has been crazy. I started my dissertation this past spring and then I picked up a few summer classes. I haven’t been able to steal away until now,” he replied. Willow quietly washed the milk pitcher, hoping to learn more about this abrasive Garin.

“Good for you, good for you. Are you staying at your parents’ then?” Willow began to make the weak, milky tea that Mr. Schwartz preferred, listening intently to the discussion. Parents? She wondered. Who did this terribly rude man belong to? Garin grinned at him and nodded.

“Looks like it. You know how my mother is. Speaking of which, I better get her tea to her soon or she will get cranky.” Mr. Schwartz guffawed.

“I do know. Well, feel free to stop by the library before you head out. How long are you staying?”

“Until after the festival,” Willow rolled her eyes. So he was going to be sticking around for a few weeks then. Maybe he would drive into Graycott for his coffee from now on. The two men said their goodbyes and Garin left. He shot one last look at Willow as he closed the door behind him, his eyes confused and suspicious. She fought the urge to give him the finger.

“Here’s your tea,” she pushed the lukewarm drink across to him.

“Thank you, m’dear,” he said, wrapping his spotted hands around the mug. He settled himself at the counter in his favorite stool that Willow kept free for him. She began closing down the café, ready to be home and she could use the fresh air. The scent of Garin still hung heady in the air. It coated the back of her throat like honeyed wine.

“You’re out late,” she mentioned as she mopped the floor behind him. He bobbed his head.

“I had a very exciting request today from a patron, so I got lost in my research, I’m afraid,” he said, noisily slurping his tea.

“Oh?” she replied noncommittedly, hanging the mop on the hook in the utility closet.

“Yes! Very interesting, indeed.” He seemed to be waiting for her to ask more. With a sigh, she turned to him.

“Tell me more. I have a few minutes before I have to lock up,” his wrinkled face brightened, and she felt a pang of guilt for being impatient with him.

“Someone came in wanting to know about the Women of the Moon,” her hands froze above the cups she was stacking. Her heart raced.

“They are doing research for a project for the festival,” he explained. Her heart slowed from its desperate march. It was common for people to get interested in the mysterious women that lived on the edge of the forest.

“It is that time of year,” she plucked his empty cup from the table and hastily washed it, ready to be home.

“It is indeed. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he stood with a groan and she held the door open for him. She watched his small form until he disappeared around the corner. She turned her face up into the waning sunlight. The crisp smell of the coming autumn floated on the breeze. Garin’s scent was still here but not nearly as strong. She shook her head once and locked the door behind her. She still had to close the till before she headed home.

Her boots clicked across the wooden planks, echoing in the empty café. She loved this time of day where the day and night warred over the sky. The golden hour some called it. Dusk always felt so magical to her. It held such anticipation of the unknown.

She unwound the apron from her waist and hung it on its peg. Deftly she counted the cash and tucked it into the bank envelope. She would put it in the dropbox on her way home. With a few swipes of the screen, she brought up the credit card receipts.

The color drained from her face when she saw Garin’s last name on the screen.

“Brochade,” she whispered aloud as if it were a curse.