Page 40 of Knot Baked Out For This
Flowers And Other Bad Decisions
~HAZEL~
Morning rush at a bakery is its own special circle of hell, and today Satan decided to add Alphas to the mix.
The bell above my door hasn't stopped chiming for forty minutes straight. A line of caffeine-deprived townspeople snakes from my register to the door, each one radiating that particular brand of pre-coffee murderous intent. Mrs. Peterson wants her usual—bran muffin, no nuts, extra fiber, as if that'll fix forty years of emotional constipation. Tommy Chen needs six bear claws for his construction crew, all while eyeing my cinnamon rolls like they hold the secrets to the universe.
My hands move on autopilot—bag, twist, smile, change, next—while my brain calculates inventory.Three dozen cookies left, maybe twenty muffins if I stretch the definition of "fresh," and please God let the coffee hold out until I can brew more.
The October morning presses against my windows, all golden light and dying leaves, mocking my indoor chaos with its pastoral bullshit. The bakery smells like yeast and cinnamon, and the faint desperation of a woman who's been up since 4 AM.
Then the bell chimes again, and everything goes sideways.
Levi Maddox walks in carrying sunshine.
No, wait—flowers?
Autumn wildflowers that look like someone murdered a craft store and arranged the corpse artistically. Burgundy dahlias, orange cosmos, yellow something-or-others that probably have names but might as well be called "aggressive cheerfulness." He's holding them like a man who knows exactly what he's doing, which is the most dangerous kind of Alpha there is.
Nope. Not today. Not any day.
"Morning, sunshine," he says, and his voice carries over the coffee-starved masses like honey poured over broken glass—sweet but still capable of cutting.
Every head in my bakery swivels toward him. Mrs. Peterson's mouth actually falls open, revealing coffee-stained dentures. Tommy Chen drops a bear claw.
Levi doesn't notice—or pretends not to.He navigates the crowd with the fluid grace of someone used to moving through space like he owns it, which he probably does. Six-foot-one of calculated country charm wrapped in worn flannel and jeans that fit like they were sewn onto him by angels with impure thoughts.
His honey-butter scent rolls through my bakery like August afternoons, coating everything in warmth and want. Vanilla chai and orange peel dance underneath, but there's that spike of clove that saysdangereven while the rest of him screamssafety.
Don't trust it. Never trust it.
He sets the flowers on my counter like he's laying down weapons in a surrender, but his grin says this is anything but retreat.
"Delivery for the prettiest baker in Oakridge," he announces, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The audacity of this fucking Alpha.
"I'm the only baker in Oakridge," I point out, hands still moving—bag, twist, ring up Mrs. Henderson's sourdough while she gawks at Levi like he's the second coming.
"Doesn't make it less true," he says, and winks.
Actually winks.
In front of God, Mrs. Peterson, and my entire morning rush.
"Those'll be six-fifty, Mrs. Henderson," I say, ignoring him with the dedication of someone who's perfected avoidance as an art form. My spine stays rigid, professional smile locked in place like armor. "Would you like your receipt?"
"Is this your boyfriend, dear?" Mrs. Henderson asks, because subtlety died in this town around the same time as privacy.
"No," I say.
"Not yet," Levi adds cheerfully.
I'm going to murder him with a baguette.
"He's delusional," I tell Mrs. Henderson. "Probably all the time he spends around cattle. Cow fumes. Very dangerous."
"Cows don't have fumes," Levi protests.
