Page 91 of Knot So Social

See? I knew you missed me.

A chuckle escapes me. He’s so confident, and it’s appealing. Oh, my fence capping got installed today. Well, part of it.

Nice! Is that the work Alexandro was asking about?

I trace my finger over his typo but decide against correcting him. Yes.

Awesome. Send me a photo, I can’t picture it.

I grimace. I didn’t take one. Maybe tomorrow. Not happening, but I could ask Alessandro to send me one.

Cool. Did you eat dinner yet?

I snap a photo of my plate and send it through. He answers in seconds. Salad cups? That’s a girl snack. Where’s the real food?

My laugh attracts Mr Shares, who wanders in from the other room and pops his snout on my knee, tail swishing like a flag in the breeze. I pat his head before turning back to my phone.

What’s wrong with girl dinner? I happen to like it.

He adds an emoji with a doubtful expression. Hot on its heels, my photo comes back with a wobbly red line around the egg muffins on the side.

At least I know you’re using up those muffins. If I was there, I’d cook something up for you.

I grin down at my phone. Oh yeah? Like what?

Hmm. Cannelloni. Or chicken pie. I make a pretty mean pizza too. Do you have a woodfire oven?

My pulse leaps, and not in a good way. Not sure, I type back. And those are all carbs.

For all I know there could be an oven around the side of the patio, but I’m not going out there to check. Not on my life.

Ooh, carb counting are we? he shoots back. In that case, I better add a Caesar salad.

And we’re back to salad, I write. Thus, girl dinner.

He goes silent a moment, and I can picture his easy smirk. Fine. You win.

Hot on the heels of his surrender comes a photo with a spoonful of mashed potato and some wilted-looking vegetables.

I burst out laughing. It looks so pitiful and unappetizing. Think you better make that cannelloni for yourself.

He sends me a gif of a kid celebrating and jumping in the air and my heart glows. This is wading deep into dangerous waters.

Thanks for letting me know you’re home. Send me a message before you plan to pick up your car.

Will do. Sleep well, darlin.

Well, shit. That one little word reminds me of all the ways he drawled it during my heat, encouraging me, telling me I was doing great. Promising to never hurt me.

I slump back in my chair and spin around. The warmth in my heart, coupled with the adrenaline dump from Jeremy asking things related to going outside has me worked up. I twitch one leg up and down, trying to drain out the nerves.

Best thing to do is get my mind off the handsome alpha.

I carry my food to the kitchen and refill the plate, wiping off any crumbs and arranging the pieces until everything looks good. Then I settle cross-legged on the couch in front of my tripod, straining until I get my bad leg under me. Once I’ve carefully curated a relaxed position with my tray balanced over my lap and clipped on my lapel mic, I click my remote to begin recording.

“What foods did your alphas say you couldn’t eat? Hey Omegalings! I’m Willow and this is the Boss Omega channel. Have your alphas ever dictated what you can and can’t eat? Maybe it starts out as jokes, playfully criticizing your food. But before you know it, those words turn darker.”

I pause for breath and rest one hand on my chest.