One
Taylor
"Excuse me,young man. Does this fabric make my butt look fat?"
It took me a second to realize the older woman in the aisle was speaking to me. As the stranger's voice pulled me out of focus, I withheld a sigh. I’d been mentally cataloguing patterns and running calculations for my next quilt. Now all the information floated away like dandelion fluff. I'd have to do it all over again later.
"I'm sorry," I said, turning to the woman. "What was that?"
The woman held up a piece of blue cotton fabric against her rump. "I said, does it make my butt look fat? Sexy, even?"
I was not the best judge of what looked sexy on an older woman. Not because I was a gay omega, but because I was single—and had been for a very long time. The data was clear. I was undesirable, and therefore, not well-versed in the sexiness scale.
Still, the lady had asked me a question. Unfortunately, I was the only other person in the aisle, so it would be rude to ignore her.
"Does it make your buttocks look fat?" I repeated bluntly, wondering if she heard how ridiculous it sounded coming out of someone else's mouth.
But she was unflappable. "Yes, dear. That's the question."
"Do you...wantit to make your buttocks look fat?"
"Yes! Big butts are all the rage, you know. And I must look good for my date next week."
I felt like a deflated balloon. Even large-rumped older women at the quilting store had dates.
Good for her,I thought genuinely.
Other people might have been jealous. But not me. There was no point in being bitter about other people's lives.Nobody likes a sourpuss, my alpha father used to say.
Back when I actually spoke to him.
"Dear?"
The woman's voice pulled me out of my thoughts, except it was welcome this time. She watched me expectantly.
"Er, yes, ma'am," I said. "That fabric compliments your... behind quite nicely."
She brightened and laughed. "Oh, aren't you the sweetest! Then two yards of this blue fabric it is. Thank you."
She went to pick up the bolt of fabric, but struggled to carry the huge roll. It was a scene I'd witnessed time and time again at the quilting store—someone small tried to lift a bolt and dropped it, sending yards of fabric spilling all over the floor.
"Here, ma'am." I lifted the bolt easily over my shoulder.
She sighed in relief. "You're my superhero today, aren't you?"
"Not at all."
"Nonsense. Look at those big shoulders and strong muscles! A strong young alpha like you must get plenty of action."
I tried to hold back my wince, but the woman must've noticed. She frowned in concern. "Oh, sorry, dear. Did I say something wrong?"
"No." I placed the bolt on the cutting table. I caught the eye of a nearby employee and waved her over. "There you are, ma'am. Hope that helps."
The older woman opened her mouth to say something but I walked away quickly, hoping she'd get caught up chatting with the employee.
Once I was out of earshot, I was off the hook. I returned to the fabrics I'd been looking at.
Honestly, her assumption didn't upset me that much. At least, I tried to tell myself it didn't. Because of my powerful shoulders and stoic nature, I was frequently mistaken for an alpha. But the real reason my body looked the way it did was because I was a Siberian tiger shifter. Our animal forms were so muscular and strong that even omegas of our kind took on those traits. There was nothing I could do about it.
