Page 2 of Knotting With A Stranger

“I may only be a Beta,” Mrs. Meadow sniffs, adjusting her coat. “But I’ve taught more young Omegas proper etiquette than you can count. My niece, bless her, followed every word of my advice and landed herself a wonderful Alpha husband.” She looks me up and down. “Never make direct eye contact with unmated Alphas, dear. And do tilt your head—just so—to show proper submission. Those scent-blocking patches aren’t optional during professional interactions, you know.” She purses her lips as I fail to suppress a laugh. “And please, dear, don’t laugh so loudly. It’s most unbecoming of an Omega.”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of unsolicited Omega etiquette lessons, I manage to usher her out into the snow. The moment the door locks behind her, I race back to the kitchenwhere my cake batter has, if anything, become even more menacing.

“Right,” I tell it, rolling up my sleeves. “Where were we?”

The mixer makes an ominous sound in response. I need help. Hannah would know exactly what to do, how to save this disaster. I collect my phone, remembering the new number she gave me yesterday before leaving. Something about her phone contract ending and number changing. Her new number is stuck to the fridge—hastily scrawled on a sticky note that’s already curling at the edges. I can’t help wondering if the change has something to do with that mystery guy she’s been seeing or her sudden plans to leave town. She’s been tight-lipped about both, which isn’t like her at all.

Squinting at her messy handwriting, I type the number in and start messaging.

Help! Need to hide this body. It’s bigger than expected, and I can’t lift it alone. Bringing in reinforcements didn’t help. May need to dissolve it in acid.

I set the phone down and return to battling the mixer when a response comes quickly.

Acid leaves evidence. Rookie mistake. I know a guy who specializes in these situations.

I snort, typing back while adding more flour to the mix.Very funny. But seriously, this thing is turning into cement. I’ve tried everything short of an exorcism.

Have you considered that maybe it WANTS to be cement? Follow your dreams.

I laugh, shaking my head at Hannah’s response.Since when are you this philosophical about baking disasters? Usually, you’re all about experimenting.

Sometimes, chaos is the best ingredient. Speaking of which, what’s your preferred method of body disposal? Asking for a friend.

I pause in my mixing. Since when does Hannah make criminal jokes? She’s usually the serious one.

What happened to murder is bad for business? You feeling okay?

Murder is excellent for business if you know how to market it. To die for takes on a whole new meaning.

Something feels... off. I grab my phone, really examining it for the first time. Check the number against the post-it.

Oh. Oh no. OH NO.

This isn’t Hannah. The last number should be six, not nine.

I’ve been casually discussing murder with a complete stranger. My heart pounds as I stare at the screen. Another message pops up.

Though, if you’re really struggling with disposal, I have some creative suggestions. Professional experience.

Professional experience?Oh God. I’ve accidentally contacted a hitman. I’m going to end up on a true crime podcast. Hannah will never let me live this down—assuming I live.

Should I just ignore it? Call the police? But before I can decide, another message appears.

Your silence is concerning. Did the body win?

Despite my panic, I find myself smiling. Whoever this is, they have a sense of humor. Maybe they’re not a hitman. Maybe they’re just someone who watches too many crime shows. Like me.

Um…. So, funny story. I think I have the wrong number. I was trying to text my sister about a cake disaster...

Three dots appear immediately.

A likely story. That’s what all murderers say. “Oh, I was just baking!” Meanwhile, there’s a body in the mixer.

I swear it’s just cake! Though, at this point, it might be classified as a weapon of mass destruction.

Pics, or it didn’t happen.

I laugh, then glance around guiltily, as if Mrs. Meadow might materialize to disapprove of me flirting with strangers. Not that I’m flirting. Am I flirting?

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