Page 115 of Knot Baked Out For This
And the printer won't. Stop. Printing. Orders.
Halloween is in less than two weeks and apparently, the entire internet has decided they need my spooky baked goods or they'll literally die.
The order system Levi installed—bless him and curse him simultaneously—spits out another receipt. Then another. The mechanical whir has become the soundtrack to my breakdown, each print a reminder that I'm popular now. Successful. Drowning.
I woke up at 3 AM instead of 4 because sleep is a luxury I can't afford when there are seventeen dozen ghost cookies to make before noon. Haven't told the guys how bad it's gottenbecause they've already done so much—the renovation that probably cost more zeros than I can comprehend, the security system, the way they've been sleeping on my ancient couch that has to be punishing their spines.
Should make a Pinterest board for new couches. Something that actually converts to a bed without sounding like it's dying. Maybe take out a loan.
The thought spirals into others—should I get a bigger bed? My bedroom's old-school spacious, could definitely fit a king. But that implies... things. Things we haven't done. Things that make my face burn even thinking about.
I slap my cheeks lightly, trying to focus. Something's been off lately—heat flashes, distraction, this weird restlessness under my skin. But I can't afford to get sick. Not when I'm finally successful. Not when?—
My phone buzzes. Reverie, because she apparently never sleeps either.
WAKE UP, SUNSHINE. You're about to be FAMOUS famous. That food blogger? Her article went live at midnight. You're trending. NATIONALLY.
The phone slips from my numb fingers.
Trending. Nationally. Me.
"#OakridgeAlphaWatch" has apparently become a thing. There are Instagram accounts dedicated to "sightings" of me and my Alphas. Dottie James turned her betting pool into an actual spreadsheet with odds and statistics. And now some blogger with two million followers has written about "The Small-Town Baker Who Tamed Three Alphas."
Tamed. Like they're wild animals. Like I'm some kind of Alpha whisperer instead of a disaster in flour-covered leggings.
The printer continues its relentless chorus. I stand in the middle of my beautiful kitchen, surrounded by success, and I can't breathe.
My chest tightens. Heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. Hands shaking violently enough to scatter flour if I were holding any.
Panic attack. This is a panic attack. Haven't had one since?—
Since leaving Korrin.
I close my eyes, try to count from ten like my therapist taught me.
Ten... nine... eight...
Can't make it past seven before the tears come.
Six... five... fi?—
Arms wrap around me from behind, solid and warm and smelling like honey butter and safety.
"Hey, hey, sunshine. I've got you."
Levi.
My knees buckle from sheer relief, but he's already scooping me up, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing. His flannel is soft against my cheek, his heartbeat steady where mine is chaos.
"Can't—" I gasp. "Can't breathe?—"
"Yes, you can. With me. In for four." His voice rumbles through his chest. "Hold for four. Out for four. Again."
We breathe together, him coaching me through each inhale and exhale until the vice around my lungs loosens. The tears don't stop, though, soaking his shirt while he rocks me gently.
"Talk to me," he murmurs. "Tell your Alpha what's wrong."
Your Alpha.
