Page 3 of Hot Knot Summer
One perfect eyebrow arches slightly, amusement flickering across his face. “Sorry to disappoint.” He gestures to the boarding pass in his hand. “Last-minute standby. They just called me.”
Every other passenger waiting in the standby queue must have mysteriously vanished for this particular Alpha specimen to be assigned the seat next to the emotional wreck that is me. The universe is clearly running a special on cosmic jokes today.
“Great,” I mutter, not even attempting to mask my sarcasm. I shift my bag from the spare seat next to me to allow him access to the row, pressing myself closer to the window like I might be able to phase through it if I try hard enough.
He settles beside me, and I’m immediately aware of three things. He smells even better up close, he’s absolutely massive in a way that makes economy seating a special kind of torture, and there’s something hanging from a leather cord around his neck, some kind of small wooden charm that disappears beneath his shirt before I can make it out. His broad shoulder and arm commandeer the armrest we’re meant to share, his long legs clearly uncomfortable in the limited space.
I lean against the window, creating as muchdistance as physically possible. The last thing I need is an Alpha distraction, especially one whose mere proximity has my traitorous Omega senses perking up like a dog hearing the wordwalk.
The flight attendants begin their safety demonstration, but I notice one blond attendant keeps directing her spiel specifically toward my seatmate, her smile wide and flirtatious.
“...and if you need anything during our flight today, just press the call button,” she concludes with a wink that’s about as subtle as a neon sign.
I roll my eyes so hard, I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. The attendant catches my expression and narrows her gaze slightly before moving on. Great. Now, I’ll probably getaccidentallyskipped during beverage service.
My row-mate shifts, his arm brushing mine in the process. A jolt of awareness zips through me, irritating in its intensity. I shove my earbuds in deeper and crank up myMen Are Trashplaylist, determined to maintain my emotional force field.
As we taxi toward the runway, I steal a glance at him. He’s reading something on his tablet, his profile unfairly perfect. A little frown of concentration creases his brow, and his full mouth is set in a serious line. He looks like he could be on the cover of Alpha Quarterly or whatever ridiculous magazines perpetuate the stereotype that all Alphas are brooding sex gods with superhuman abilities and zero emotional baggage.
My grandmother’s voice echoes in my head.
“The world will tell you that Omegas can’t run our lives alone, that we need Alpha guidance, that we should focus on finding mates and making pups instead of competing in a world that wasn’t built for us. Don’t you believe it for a second.” She’d lost her Alpha at thirty-five and never remated, building her own consulting firm from scratch instead. The business world still operates on the assumption that Omegas will eventually abandon their careers when the right Alpha comes along and biology takes over.
The thought makes my skin crawl. I’ve seen too many brilliant Omega colleagues reduced to shadows of themselves after being knotted and claimed. It’s not that I don’t understand the appeal, the biology is undeniable. That primal connection between Alphas and Omegas has shaped our society for millennia, leaving Betas to form the middle management of our social hierarchy. Betas date Alphas too, of course, for the status and intensity, but without the biological imperative of knotting, that final, unbreakable physical bond that drives Alphas to near madness if denied. It’s why so many Alphas treat us like walking possessions. Because obviously, that’s all we Omegas think about, finding mates, making babies, and being good little breeders.
At least more of us are venturing out on our own these days, carving paths through boardrooms instead of nurseries, even as society watches with its collective breath held, waiting for us to fail.
The plane accelerates down the runway, and I closemy eyes, partially because I’m not crazy about takeoffs but mostly to avoid acknowledging the living temptation beside me. I’ve sworn off Alphas. All Alphas. Forever. Or at least for the duration of this trip.
I will not be distracted by spectacular cheekbones and a scent that makes my inner Omega want to purr. I will not.
The plane levels off, and I force myself to relax. Two hours and forty-seven minutes. That’s all I have to endure before I can escape this flying metal tube and the disconcerting Alpha beside me. I can manage that. I’ve survived worse this week.
“First time flying?” his voice breaks through my music, which has apparently ended without me noticing.
I pull out an earbud. “What?”
“You seem nervous. I wondered if this was your first flight.”
“No,” I respond, more curtly than necessary. “I’ve flown plenty of times.”
He nods, and a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. It transforms his serious face, softening the hard edges and making him look younger, more approachable, and infinitely more dangerous to my emotional stability.
“I’m Atlas,” he adds, extending a hand that could probably engulf mine completely.
Of course, he’s named Atlas. Of course, the universe would put me next to an Alpha named after a literal titan who holds up the world.
I hesitate before placing my much smaller hand in his. “Emma.”
His large hand envelops mine, warm and calloused, and another jolt of awareness shoots up my arm. I withdraw quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the slight tremor in my fingers.
“Nice to meet you, Emma.” His voice sounds like he’s savoring having my name in his mouth, testing the feel of it on his tongue, and something warm and unwelcome flutters in my stomach. “Heading to Whispering Grove forvacation?”
I tense. “How did you know that?”
He nods toward the paperback peeking from my bag—a guidebook to things to do in Whispering Grove. “Lucky guess.”
“Oh.” I feel foolish for my defensive reaction. “Yeah. Supposed to be with my boyfriend, but that’s...” I trail off, not sure why I’m offering this information to a complete stranger. “Anyway. What about you? Business or pleasure?” The question comes out sounding unintentionally flirtatious, and I mentally kick myself.
