Page 29 of Knot Baked Out For This
Sue me, I'm weak and he's...that. All controlled power and competent hands, fixing my oven like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he belongs in my kitchen, taking up space, making me notice things like the way his forearms flex when he turns a wrench.
"Pass me that smaller screwdriver," he says without looking back.
I grab it, lean forward to hand it to him, and that's when everything goes sideways.
My foot catches on a bag of flour I'd forgotten about. I pitch forward with all the grace of a drunk giraffe on roller skates. The screwdriver goes flying. My hands shoot out for balance and find?—
Oh no.
—Rowan's shoulders.
He rocks forward from my weight, his head colliding with the oven's upper panel with a metallicTHONGthat reverberates through the kitchen.
"Fuck!" He jerks back, which throws me further off balance.
I try to correct, overcorrect, and somehow end up sprawled across his back like the world's most embarrassing Alpha-climbing accident. My face is pressed against his shoulder blade,nose full of cedar smoke and laundry detergent andmale, and I want to die. Just spontaneously combust right here.
"Hazel," he says, very carefully, "are you okay?"
Am I okay? I'm literally draped over him like a flour-covered blanket.
"Peachy," I squeak into his shirt. "This is exactly where I planned to be."
"Good to know you're finally following a plan."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He shifts slightly, and I can feel him trying not to laugh. His back vibrates with suppressed amusement. "You going to get off me, or is this your new business model? Oven repair and Alpha jungle gym?"
Murder. I'm going to murder him.
I scramble backward, nearly taking out another bag of flour in my haste. My face burns hotter than my broken oven ever could. When I'm finally vertical and a safe distance away, I see the red mark forming on his forehead where he hit the oven.
"You're bleeding," I say, because apparently, I can't stop making things worse.
He touches his forehead, fingers coming away with a small smear of red. "It's fine."
"It's not fine. I just gave you a concussion via flour bag."
"Takes more than that to damage this thick skull." He grins—full, real, devastating. "Though explain this to the guys at the firehouse should be interesting."
"Don't you dare?—"
"'Hey Chief, how'd you get that mark?' 'Oh, you know, Hazel Holloway tackled me in her kitchen. Standard Tuesday.'"
I grab a clean towel, run it under cold water, and throw it at his stupid face. He catches it one-handed because of course he does.
"You're insufferable," I inform him.
"You're dangerous," he counters, pressing the towel to his forehead. "First coffee, now attempted murder by baking supplies."
"Maybe you should stay away from my shop then."
His expression shifts, becomes something more serious. "Maybe I should."
The words hang between us, heavy with three years of history, with things unsaid, with the ghost of a pack that broke and an Omega who ran.
"But I'm not going to," he adds quietly. "Not this time."
