Page 25 of Knot Baked Out For This
Every word carries, pumpkin-spiced and poisonous, straight to my hiding spot.
My knuckles go white on the cookie tray.
It's an out-of-body experience—half humiliation, half PTSD flashback. I've spent three years trying to disappear, to never be the story, never catch an Alpha's attention. Now I'm center stage with three of them lined up for the show.
Should have stayed broken. Should have stayed gone.
I try not to listen, but the bookstore has paper walls and selective hearing isn't in my skill set.
A teenager at the kids' table: "Do you think she likes the firefighter or the ranch guys?"
Grandmother by "Haunted Home & Garden": "Always thought she and Rowan had history. You know,before. But Omega girls, they keep their options open."
History. If only they knew what kind.
I arrange pumpkin cookies into obsessive rows. My fingers shake—little earthquakes threatening to scatter everything.
The room buzzes, but nothing covers the weight of Rowan's stare—a brand across my shoulder blades.
Background orchestra: pages turning, nervous giggles, pens scratching sign-ups for next month's Book & Bake. Spoonsagainst pottery, October wind tapping windows like it wants in on the gossip.
The walls pulse with opinion. Some discuss cookies and early pumpkin season, but most dissect the "show"—who'll walk me home, who'll win, whether new pack dynamics mean fresh opportunities for claiming.
They're talking about me like I'm territory. Like I'm something to be won.
I flatten my palms against the table. Force breath into my lungs.Don't let them see. Never let them see.
But it's sensory overload, system failure, complete omega breakdown barely contained.
The Alphas are the problem. The solution. The problem again.
Rowan doesn't break eye contact even when Levi nudges him. Levi's collected three phone numbers already—I don't ask how. Luca gets handed a spooky latte that he inspects like it might be poisoned.
But Rowan? Just me and the line between us—cut with regret, longing, the muscle memory of an Omega who survived and an Alpha who let it happen.
I straighten a ghost cookie.
It immediately falls.
Even inanimate objects know I'm a disaster.
Another explosion of laughter from the front: "—and then she said, 'Nobody takes down an Alpha like Hazel Holloway!'"
Dottie's cackle goes off like a warning siren. I make myself invisible behind truffle samples, praying for spontaneous combustion.
The universe isn't done with me. It never is.
Candlelight softens nothing—it's a spotlight picking out every flaw, every shake, every skipped heartbeat for public consumption.
The only thing less stable than me is this entire situation.
At least with cookies, the worst that happens is calories.
Reverie materializes beside me with a frosted muffin and misplaced optimism.
"They're jealous," she whispers, conspiratorial. "Also, you looked cute spilling coffee. Adorable even."
"You're lying," I hiss, then freeze—a grandmother and Beta accountant are absolutely within earshot.
