Page 53 of Knot Baked Out For This
I spin around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
Rowan Cambridge stands in my kitchen doorway, all six-foot-six of him in full firefighter uniform, looking like he stepped out of a calendar and into my personal nightmare. The dark blue uniform fits him like sin, badge gleaming, radio crackling softly at his hip.
When did he—how long has he?—
"Where did you even come from?" I squeak, very aware that I probably have flour in my hair and frosting on my cheek and oh god, how much did he hear?
He smirks—that barely-there curve of lips that makes my stomach do things stomachs shouldn't do. "Door was open." He gestures to his uniform. "Lunch break. Heard an Omega was on the market."
On the market. ON THE MARKET?
"You heard everything?!" My voice hits a pitch only dogs and dolphins can properly appreciate.
He chuckles, actually chuckles, seeming completely at ease today in a way that makes him even more dangerous. "Not everything. Just the part about panic attacks and beverage throwing. Though I can personally attest to the accuracy of that last one."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"I'm going to start."
"You've been saying that for years."
Years. Because we have years. Because we have history that predates my disaster of a marriage, predates everything going wrong, when we were just two people who occasionally ended up at the same town events and maybe noticed each other more than we should have.
Reverie is watching us like we're her personal soap opera, eyes wide, phone probably recording.
"I need to... check... things," she says, backing toward the door with zero subtlety. "Urgent things. In places that aren't here."
"Subtle," I call after her.
"I don't do subtle!" she calls back. "Use protection!"
The bell chimes her exit, leaving me alone with Rowan and Levi, who's still crouched by Muffin but watching us with those keen green-gold eyes that miss nothing.
"I should go too," Levi says, standing slowly. "Ranch doesn't run itself."
He heads for the door, pausing to squeeze Rowan's shoulder. Some kind of Alpha communication passes between them—probably "don't fuck this up" or "remember she bites" or something equally mortifying.
Then it's just us. Me…Rowan…and the ghost of every word I just said about dating being uncomfortable.
"So," he says, moving closer with that predator grace all Alphas seem to possess. "On the market?"
"I'm going to murder Reverie."
"Get in line. Pretty sure Dottie James has first dibs after Reverie posted that photo of her at last year's Christmas party."
Wait…I remember seeing that in the woodworks of gossip during the holidays…a hole cakepop fiasco…
"The one with the?—"
"Yep."
"Oh god."
We share a moment of mutual horror at the memory, and it's almost like before. Like we're just Rowan and Hazel, occasionally orbiting each other, making small talk at town events, pretending we don't notice the way the air shifts when we're in the same room.
I turn back to my sourdough, needing something to do with my hands that isn't reaching for him.
