Page 117 of Knot Baked Out For This
Pets, Packages, And Fashion Disasters
~HAZEL~
My apartment has become Grand Central Station for chaos, and apparently, everyone got the memo except me.
The security team arrived at 7 AM sharp, three burly men who look like they moonlight as bouncers when they're not installing cameras designed to catch every angle of potential disaster. They're currently drilling holes in my walls with the kind of efficiency that suggests they've done this for paranoid people before.
"Camera here covers the front entry," the lead guy—Tank, because of course that's his name—explains to Rowan, who's supervising like this is a military operation. "Motion-activated, night vision, sends alerts directly to all registered phones."
"Good. What about the back entrance?"
"Two cameras, overlapping fields. Nothing gets past without being seen from multiple angles."
Nothing gets past. Like I'm Fort Knox instead of a bakery run by an emotionally unstable Omega who cried over burnt cookies yesterday.
I'm stress-cleaning my already clean kitchen when I hear carriers being hauled up the stairs. Not just packages—pet carriers, from the distinctive yowling coming from within.
Levi and Luca appear in my doorway, each holding a carrier and looking far too pleased with themselves.
"Surprise!" Levi announces, setting his carrier down gently. "Since we're staying here and the ranch is down to essential staff only, we figured the cats should meet!"
"Cats?" I stare at the carriers. "Plural?"
"This is Biscuit," Levi says proudly, opening his carrier to reveal an orange tabby who immediately bounds out like he's been shot from a cannon. "He has my enthusiasm for life."
The cat proves this by immediately launching himself onto my counter, knocking over a jar of flour that explodes in a white cloud.
"And this," Luca says, releasing a sleek black cat who emerges with careful dignity, "is Whiskey. He's more... observant."
Whiskey surveys my apartment like he's cataloguing exits and calculating the value of everything for resale. His yellow eyes find Muffin, who's been watching from her perch with the kind of disdain usually reserved for tax auditors.
"You brought your cats to meet my cat without warning?"
"Surprise pet playdate!" Levi says, like this explains everything.
Before I can respond, Rowan arrives with?—
"Is that Ember?"
The golden retriever bounds in, tail wagging with enough force to be classified as a weapon. She spots the cats and freezes, entire body quivering with the desire to either play or eat them—with dogs, it's hard to tell.
"Figured if we're doing pet introductions..." Rowan shrugs, but he's watching Muffin carefully.
What follows is fifteen minutes of complete animal chaos.
Biscuit, living up to Levi's legacy, immediately tries to make friends with everyone by aggressively rubbing against them. Whiskey finds the highest point in the room—my kitchen cabinets—and surveys his new kingdom with imperial disdain. Muffin hisses at everyone on principle. And Ember runs circles around them all, barking with joy because FRIENDS! NEW FRIENDS! CAT FRIENDS!
"This is a disaster," I mutter, flour still settling in my hair from Biscuit's counter adventure.
"This is bonding," Levi corrects, filming the chaos on his phone. "Look, Whiskey's already claimed territory. That's trust!"
"That's my spice rack he's sitting on."
"Trustfully sitting on your spice rack."
A knock interrupts whatever argument we're about to have.
"IT'S ME! OPEN UP BEFORE I DROP EVERYTHING!"
