Page 13 of Knot So Social

Nails click on the floor and then Mr Shares bumps against my leg, feathery tail slapping the wall.

“Stop moping, right?” I murmur.

He looks up at me, big brown eyes glistening as if he understands. I fix the photo frames without looking at the weather spirals and then rub my dog’s head. “Think positive. That’s what all the therapists say.”

Mr Shares whuffs in agreement. It’s much easier to think good thoughts with him within reach.

So, what’s the positive in a situation where my perfect online identity could be compromised?

Mr Shares pads to the back door and stares at the rain a minute before crossing back to his bed. He turns around twice before settling, paws hanging out the front with his head resting on them. Honestly, it’s hard to stay down with such an adorable animal in the house.

“The upside?” I ask under my breath as I set a clean mug under the coffee machine and press the button. “I guess it’s that he didn’t recognize me, right?”

Sometimes that happens when workmen or delivery people come to my door. Oh, you’re that omega influencer, aren’t you? I’ve seen your reels.

No, Alessandro had no recognition sparking in his face at all. It was a handsome face though.

I go to the fridge for ingredients to make myself a turkey wrap. The visitor burns in my memory, more vivid because of how I embarrassed myself. All high cheekbones, olive skin, and pouty lips, especially when he smiled. He had a slight hook in the bridge of his nose, and a close-shaved beard. His black hair swept back from his forehead when I saw him, but would have been long enough to cover his eyes. Not super tall, but more of a slighter frame, for an alpha. With work-stained hands.

And a lovely, soothing scent like sea breeze, or sea salt. In fact, I assumed it was cologne, but now that I recall his old overalls and how quickly he brought Mr Shares, it’s likely he wasn’t wearing cologne at all. Another nose full, and I’d be able to tell.

“Willow!” I slam the fridge door shut in warning. “Enough thinking about one Alessandro.”

Mr Shares jerks upright, head twitching toward the door as if he expects someone to knock.

“He’s not coming,” I mutter, slapping the bag of wraps down onto the bench. “Not like we’ll ever see him again.”

The package’s corner lands right on top of the business card. My hands move of their own accord to flick the offending item away, but instead I pull it closer.

Alessandro Baccini. Restorative Lawns and Gardens.

Restorative? Sounds very therapeutic, for a garden service. And like something I dearly need a prescription for. Even with tons of therapy, I’m still a mess. I groan and drop my head into my hands, leaning way over the bench. The card has his phone number, but I wish it had his photo as well. Italian name, golden skin, slighter frame. Why’s he clinging to my mind so much?

So much that my little lady bits warm up just from reading his name. A trickle runs down my thigh.

I straighten, dropping the card from numb fingers.

“No,” I whisper. “Oh, no, no, no, no!”

I dig out my phone and click through to the omega app which measures my cycle. Five years. I haven’t gone into heat since the last accident which tore my nervous system apart. My body broke so badly, I had to relearn to walk, never mind any normal hormonal cycles. Haven’t felt desire, haven’t even considered taking care of my needs with a toy. And the heats before the accident? Well, I don’t even want to think about those.

I lunge for the medicine cabinet and flick bottles side-to-side, scanning all the labels. There must be some blockers here somewhere, right?

“Damn it!” I hiss when I come up short.

Don’t panic, Willow. Just breathe, and post a task on the FindIt app. Right. I waste ten minutes flicking through reviews to find the strongest brand of hormone blockers and then post the job. Within a minute, someone who needs the work snaps the errand up. Delivery estimated for half an hour.

Better book a phone consultation with my doctor too.

I make my wrap with passive aggressive speed, slapping down mayo, trimmed turkey, some cranberry preserve, lettuce, and grated cheese. A single tomato in the fridge looks sad, but today’s not the day to force myself to eat something I don’t love.

Work deadlines or not, I can’t fix my focus, so I eat my wrap while listening to the last few recordings from the other big influencers in my lane. #OmegaBaby has new clips, all orientated toward being cute and silly, embracing the omega stereotypes. #LeonieTells has more of a domestic and relationship pivot, telling omegas how to speak up and make sure their voices are heard among all the raging pheromones. Her shortest reel, on the topic of courage, irritates me.

I scoff under my breath, drumming a nail on the tabletop. “Easy to be courageous when you’ve got nothing more to talk about than why people aren’t helping with the laundry.”

But the advice lingers in my thoughts because it’d take a whole bunch of courage to contact Alessandro again.

My gaze drifts toward the windows, where the rain’s growing thinner. I wouldn’t have to necessarily talk to him, right? I could just contract him for the job and do all the instructions via text. Mr Shares needs the bigger space out the back to run around.