Page 57 of Knot Baked Out For This
Muffin meows from her perch, and I swear she's judging me.
"I know," I tell her. "I'm probably going to regret this."
She slow-blinks at me—cat language for "I love you" or possibly "you're an idiot, but you're my idiot."
With cats, like with Alphas, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.
But maybe that's okay.
Maybe not knowing is part of the adventure.
God help me, I'm actually considering this.
The afternoon light slants through my windows, painting everything gold, and for the first time in years, I let myself imagine what it might be like to be courted.
To be wanted.
To be chosen not because I'm convenient or controllable, but because I'm worth the effort of getting to know.
Desperately wish to make yours.
The words echo in my chest, dangerous and warming, and I think maybe—just maybe—I desperately wish to be made theirs too.
All three of theirs.
Fuck, I'm definitely going to regret this.
But I'm going to do it anyway.
CHAPTER 10
Pies And Panic Attacks
~HAZEL~
Dating three Alphas at once should come with an instruction manual. Or at least a warning label: May cause insanity, social ostracization, and spontaneous combustion.
I stand in my bakery kitchen, mechanically wiping flour from my hands while my brain runs through every possible disaster scenario like it's training for the Overthinking Olympics. The afternoon light slants through the windows, turning flour dust into fairy sparkles, which would be magical if I wasn't having a complete mental breakdown.
How does this even work? Do we take turns? Is there a schedule? Do I need a color-coded calendar? "Monday: Panic over Rowan. Wednesday: Have anxiety about Levi. Friday: Existential crisis featuring Luca."
My hands won't stop moving—wiping, cleaning, straightening things that don't need straightening. It's been three hours since Rowan left with his sandwich declaration, two hours since Reverie texted me seventeen different emoji combinations that roughly translated to "GET IT GIRL," and approximately thirty-seven minutes since I started seriously considering faking my own death and moving to Peru.
Do they have Alphas in Peru? Probably. Alphas are everywhere. Like mosquitoes. Or tax collectors.
I count breaths the way my therapist taught me—in for four, hold for four, out for four, contemplate screaming for four. It's supposed to calm the nervous system. Instead, it just makes me lightheaded, which is probably not the goal but at least it's different from the chest-crushing anxiety.
What's the etiquette here? Emily Post definitely didn't cover "How to Date Your Ex-Husband's Former Best Friend and His Two Attractive Associates Without Causing a Scandal."
The logistics alone make my head spin. Three different men, three different personalities, three different sets of needs and wants and probably three different favorite restaurants where the entire town will watch us eat breadsticks while taking bets on who'll claim me first.
God, the claiming. What if they all want to claim? Is that even legal? Would I just walk around looking like I got attacked by a vampire convention?
The bell above my door chimes, and I freeze mid-spiral.
All three of them walk in together.
Of fucking course they do.
