Page 1 of Knotting With A Stranger

1

LILY

Wedding cakes have a way of knowing when you fear them.

I’m standing in my kitchen at five in the morning, staring at what should have been a perfectly good vanilla sponge but has instead become some sort of concrete monster. The mixer whirs pathetically, the metal spoon bent at an angle speaks of defeat, and I swear the batter just growled at me.

“Listen here,” I tell it, brandishing my spatula like a weapon. “I’ve dealt with worse than you. Remember the Great Fruit Cake Disaster of 2024? Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The mixture remains stubbornly silent. Defiant.

Through the kitchen doorway, I glance into the darkened shopfront of Flour & Fable Bakery. Christmas lights from Main Street cast multicolored shadows through our festively decorated front windows, making the display cases shimmer. The snow falls in thick, lazy flakes outside, turning Whispering Grove into the inside of a snow globe. Somewhere, faintly, I can hearWhite Christmasplaying from the speakers outside. Thewhole town plays festive tunes nonstop. I would feel enchanted on any other morning, but right now, I have bigger problems.

Like the fact that my sister Hannah is out of town for two days, allegedly picking up supplies, but more likely meeting the mystery man she thinks I don’t know about. And I have a wedding cake due at two p.m. that’s currently declaring war on my kitchen.

I blow a strand of dark hair from my face, blowing a puff of flour across my face, while the industrial kitchen gleams around me, all stainless steel and professional equipment. We’ve come far from the days when we baked in our dad’s tiny kitchen. He’s a chef, so we grew up in the kitchen, watching him cook, teaching us from a young age. And we’ve both dreamed of owning our own bakery.

The morning light catches on the copper pots hanging overhead, the specialty cake pans lining the walls, and the row of proofing drawers where tomorrow’s bread slowly rises. I breathe easily… the place always calms me.

This is my kingdom. My safe haven. The place Hannah and I built after we lost our mom. Dad did his best, working double shifts at the local diner to keep us fed and to keep Mom’s small catering business going. But watching him try to juggle everything—raising two girls, working himself to exhaustion, attempting to keep Mom’s recipes alive—left its mark on all of us.

A sharp knock at the front glass door startles me from my memories. Through the darkness of the shop, I can make out a familiar silhouette bundled in a thick coat, rapping impatiently on the glass.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter, wiping my hands on my apron. Mrs. Meadow. At five in the morning. Because, of course.

The knocking gets more insistent as I hurry toward the door. Is she in trouble? “Coming, coming!”

Mrs. Meadow practically pushes her way in the moment I unlock the door, bringing a swirl of snowflakes with her. “Really, Lily, making me wait in this weather?”

“Mrs. Meadow, we don’t open for another three hours...”

“Oh, pish posh. Hannah said I could pick up my order at five.” She stamps snow from her boots—on our clean floor—and peers around the dark shop. “Though I don’t know why she’d leave you alone like this. What if you went into heat?”

I bite back a sigh. “Then I’d close up shop and deal with it like any other modern Omega. But seeing as I haven’t experienced any heat in twenty-four years, I think we’re safe for now.” Especially since I haven’t had any inklings yet.

I stare at my countertop, counting backward from ten at her words. The irony of a Beta lecturing me about Omega biology is not lost on me. Society considers them the balanced ones, the peacekeepers between volatile Alphas and fragile Omegas. Ha. Mrs. Meadow has probably never had a single hormone-induced thought in her perfectly regulated life, yet here she is, treating me like I’m one whiff of Alpha musk away from throwing myself at the nearest knot. Because obviously, that’s all we Omegas think about—finding mates, making babies, and being good little breeders. Never mind that I’ve kept this bakery thriving many times on my own when my sister Hannah traveled.

Mrs. Meadow makes that littlehmphsound that suggests she hasopinionsabout modern Omegas. I leave her standing there and head to the counter where, sure enough, I find a box markedMrs. M - 5 a.m. pickupin Hannah’s neat handwriting.

My sister, ever efficient, must have prepared it before leaving. She also apparently forgot to mention it to me. Though, given how distracted she’s been lately, constantly checking her phone and smiling at nothing, I’m not entirely surprised.

“Here you are, Mrs. Meadow. One special order coffee cake.” I slide the box across the counter.

She peers inside suspiciously. “It better not be burned this time.”

“Hannah made it herself yesterday.”

That seems to satisfy her, though she still sniffs dramatically before tucking the box under her arm. “Well. I suppose you’ll be managing alone until she returns?”

“I’ve got it covered.” I gesture to the kitchen, where my monster cake batter awaits. “Just working on a wedding cake.”

“Alone? Without help?” Her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline.

“I don’t need anyone to bake a cake, Mrs. Meadow.”

“That’s what’s wrong with young Omegas today. So independent. In my day...”

I tune out the familiar lecture, nodding at appropriate intervals while mentally calculating how much time I’m losing. The cake needs to be done before opening, and I still have all the morning baking to do.

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