Knox
This is a bad idea.
The thought repeats itself in my head like a mantra. I thought it was a bad idea three days ago when Eli brought up the proposal at the morning meeting.
I thought it was a bad idea yesterday when she spent two hours after closing laughing with Eli and Fallon while I hid in the office, pretending to balance the ledger when I was really just listening to the conversation drifting from the kitchen.
And I especially think it’s a bad idea right now, as she stands in the doorway of my office.
Amber Carter.
She’s wearing the standard uniform we issued her, black trousers and a crisp white button-down shirt, but the way she wears it should be illegal.
The sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, revealing forearms that are surprisingly strong. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck. A strand has escaped, curling against her cheek, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to tuck it behind her ear.
She’s hot.Fuck it.Fine. I’ll admit it, at least in the privacy of my own mind.
She’s stunning.
There’s a softness to her that’s typically Omega, but there’s a resilience in her eyes that suggests she’s seen things and survived them.
And I’m not a fool. I know Fallon thinks so too. I’ve seen the way he looks at her when he thinks no one is watching, a mix of appreciation and intrigue.
And Eli? Eli is already halfway in love with her. He looks at her like she’s the only thing that matters.
I’m the voice of reason in this pack. I’m the one who keeps the trains running on time, who ensures the health inspector doesn’t shut us down, who makes sure we don’t bleed money on bad ideas.
I’m the one who should have my head screwed on straight.
“Is there a problem?” I ask, keeping my voice flat and professional. I turn my attention back to the inventory spreadsheet on my screen. If I look at her, I might lose my train of thought.
“Knox?” Her voice is a little hesitant.
I look up then, against my better judgment. “Oui, Amber?”
“It’s the steaming machine,” she says, stepping fully into the office. “Fallon explained how to use it this morning, but I think I messed up the dials. It’s jammed. The water isn’t circulating.”
“I’ll take a look at it.”
I wait for her leave. This is a quick fix. I can get this done and then quickly retreat back to my sanctuary, but I must not have been clear enough, because she doesn’t move. She stands there, waiting.
“Are you coming?” she asks.
I blink. “I… yes.”
I follow her out of the office and into the kitchen. The dinner rush hasn’t started yet, so the space is relatively quiet, the stainless steel gleaming under the overhead lights.
We walk over to the commercial steamer. It’s a hulking piece of equipment used to heat up plates and melt butter for sauces.
“I pressed the ‘Start’ button,” she explains, pointing to the digital panel. “And then the ‘Steam’ button. And it just made this grinding noise and stopped.”
I nod, stepping in close to inspect the control panel. I can smell her now. It’s faint, but it’s there—jasmine and rain.
It’s incongruous in a kitchen that usually smells of bleach and roasted meat, but somehow, the scent of flowers has permeated the room. It’s subtle, like she’s walked through and left a trail of life in her wake.
“You have to press ‘Steam’ first,” I explain. “If you press ‘Start’ while it’s in standby mode, the locking mechanism engages because it thinks the cycle is complete. It confuses the sensors.”
“Oh,” she says, looking at the buttons with renewed interest. “So it’s locked?”
