Page 14 of Knotting With A Stranger

Rebecca joins us, wine glass dangling from manicured fingers. “How ambitious. Though I suppose a big step up the bakery’s... scale.”

The way she says it makes our thriving business sound like a lemonade stand. Before I can respond, a burst of laughter draws my attention to the window seat, where cousin Michael sits with his new Omega mate. They’re lost in their own world, his fingers trailing absently through her hair while she leans into his touch. The contentment in their closeness makes something in my chest ache. What I wouldn’t give to have someone stare at me like that.

“Excuse me.” Dad stands suddenly. “Lily, would you help me find Martha’s library? I need to check something about... books.”

“Yes!” I practically leap up. “Books. Very important. Sorry, ladies. Family emergency. Book emergency. Emergency books.”

We escape down the hallway, dodging the worst of the mingling, when Cousin Roger thrusts a plate of grey meatloaf and a fork into my hands, shoving a steaming cup of coffee at Dad with a harried, “You both need something!” Dad clutches the coffee like a lifeline as he leads the way to the one room that’s always been a sanctuary in this house.

The heavy oak door closes behind us, sealing us into the familiar comfort of leather-bound books and mahogany shelves that stretch to the coffered ceiling. A fire crackles in the massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across the worn rug where we spent countless rainy afternoons as kids. The room still smells of lemon polish and old paper, exactly as it did when Grandma would read to us here, though Martha hasn’t touched a single volume in the decade since she inherited the house. But she must use it more often, seeing the fireplace is now blazing.

“That went well,” Dad says as we settle by the fireplace on a leather couch. “Four minutes in and you’ve invented a boyfriend.”

“To be fair, he’s real. Sort of. Was real? Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.”

He grins and studies me. “Everything okay?”

I poke at the meatloaf. “Is this thing moving?”

“Don’t change the subject. And don’t look too closely at the meatloaf. Looking only makes it stronger.”

“I just...” I struggle to find the words. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re right. If I’m broken somehow. Every other Omega I know has had at least one heat by now and found their mate. I think even Hannah has met someone, even if she won’t tell me about him yet, and she already had her first heat when she was twenty-one. Me? I still haven’t figured out what they want.”

“Hey.” He sets aside his cup on the nearby coffee table, turning to face me fully. “You’re not broken. You’re like your mom—you do things in your own time, your own way. She didn’t have her first heat until she met me, you know.”

That surprises me. “Really?”

“Really. Doctor said some Omegas need the right connection first. The right timing.” He smiles softly. “She used to say her heart had to be ready before her body could follow.”

“I miss her,” I whisper.

“Me too, kiddo.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “But she’d be so proud of you. Both of you. Running that bakery, building something real.”

“Even if I’m a sad, single Omega?”

“Hey.” His voice turns serious. “You don’t need an Alpha to be complete. Your mom would be the first to tell you that. She chose me because she wanted to, not because she needed to. There’s a difference.”

“Is that why you never...” I trail off, not sure how to ask.

“Never remarried?” He smiles sadly. “Hard to settle for less than perfect once you’ve had it. Besides, I had my hands full with two stubborn daughters.”

“We weren’t that bad.”

“You once tried to mail Hannah to Canada.”

“She deserved it! She told Bobby Miller I liked him!”

“You were thirteen at the time.”

The library door opens, and Hannah slips in, carrying three plates of something that looks significantly more edible than the meatloaf.

“Thought I’d find you here.” She settles on the couch near me. “Brought reinforcements. Dumplings made with Mom’s recipe.”

“You’re forgiven for dragging us here,” Dad announces, grabbing his plate, already wolfing one down.

“Mostly forgiven,” I amend, setting down my meatloaf and taking a plate of dumplings. “Seventy-five percent.”

“I’ll take it.” She leans against my side. “Remember how Mom used to sneak us in here during these parties?”

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