How lucky am I to experience it twice.
I smile as I look back into the kitchen, surveying the scene unfolding. Knox hands Lia a glass of wine before his hand falls to the small of her back. He tosses me a wink as he leads Lia back to the couch where Amber and Pickles are, and Walker goes back to tending to his food.
I turn and watch the way Amber holds her hands out for Lia. The way Knox and Lia sink to the couch and curl around my daughter as if it’s second nature.
I imagine her growing up with three steady Alpha figures in her life.
I imagine her growing up with an Omega who bakes in the kitchen and laughs at my dumb jokes and guides her through things I can’t.
I imagine her living the rest of her life surrounded by a love I thought was lost when her mother died.
A slow smile spreads across my face and I grab the silverware to put the finishing touches on the kitchen table. Maybe I’m allowed to want this.
Even after what happened with Gloria, even after all the loss Amber and I have experienced, it’s okay for us to move on and claim another life for ourselves without disrespecting the memory of her mother and all she gave me.
“Dinner will be ready in ten,” Walker says.
And as I get the silverware set up, I send up a small prayer like I do every evening.
Thank you for sending them to me, Gloria. I love you.
Because here, at this moment, with them all filling my house, it’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s the only thing that feels right.
Gloria sent our pack to us.
Lia
The cinnamon rolls are supposed to be the only thing rising this morning.
I brace my palms against the stainless-steel table in Tansy’s back room and stare down at the glossy ribbon of cherry-rhubarb compote cooling in its pan. It’s the exact shade I want: deep ruby with a hint of pink and thick enough to cling to the back of a spoon.
I wish the back room of The Gilded Lady wasn’t so hot, though.
Out front, the bell above the bakery’s door jingles nonstop. I wipe my forehead with the back of my forearm, trying to keep the sweat on my face off the plastic gloves crinkling around my fingers.
Tansy’s voice carries through the wall, bright and poised as she rings up customers and wraps loaves of bread in parchment paper.
“Yes ma’am, those are fresh this morning,” she says as I slide the trays of cinnamon rolls into the oven, one regular and one cherry-rhubarb. She booms her voice over the growing crowd. “And don’t forget, we’ve got cinnamon rolls out in a few!”
My stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with pressure. This isn’t just a one-off order any longer. This is a reputation being built. This is consistency in the making, and people are expecting my baking to tickle all the right fancies.
If I can make this work, working with The Gilded Lady may give me enough business to begin putting a little money back toward opening my own place.
With two trays of cinnamon rolls already in the oven, I draw in a deep breath. I have to stay alert to how I’m feeling these days, since my heat could crash into me at any time.
I jump a little bit, making sure my faculties are all in alignment. Nothing tilts or swirls. Nothing feels weak.
Good.
I’m stable today.
So, I make the grand decision to grace Tansy’s bakery with another pan of cherry-rhubarb cinnamon rolls.
After mixing the dough, I roll it out onto a floured surface. My fingers press and stretch into the mixture, coaxing it into a rectangle like I’ve done so many times before.
It’s muscle memory by this point. My seasonal cinnamon rolls are, by far, one of the things that’s ordered from my menu by bakeries the most.
I could do this in my sleep.
