Page 93 of Knot So Social

The phone quivers back and forth in in my unsteady hand. I drop my head and bite down on my forearm, using the pain to calm myself.

Breathe deep, don’t lose yourself, Alessandro. If I don’t calm down, I could get myself in trouble. I count each breath, letting the fury ebb away.

Gasoline and grass clippings permeate the air, a scent burned into my nose after two years of living amongst my work tools. Sometimes I miss the sea air and fish markets of my pre-immigration days, not to mention my mother’s cooking. And the near-intangible aroma of Italy’s earthen bricks and soil. Maybe the hands-on connection to the soil is why I went into landscaping.

Which brought me to live here and ultimately meet Willow.

I check the time, growling faintly when I see it’s still too early to go around and work on her fencing. Every minute of delay eats at me. Quickly I click the follow button, lingering over her profile image once more. Even her picture inspires a fresh rush of heat inside my body, and phantom memories of her blooming omega scent. My dick hardens.

With a huff under my breath, I set the phone down and roll off the bed. At times like this, it’s best to run off the energy. Usually I don’t need to because I walk around gardens all day, but today I’ll be in her yard, talking to her.

I slip on some running shoes and slink out through the early-morning haze, headed for the nearby parkland. The other joggers out this early keep their heads down as we pass, absorbed in their earphones or thoughts as much as I am.

My interest in this woman borders on obsession; it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I can admire a beautiful omega, or woman, in the usual way, but with Willow, I’m desperate to know what she’s thinking behind that calm expression.

Every step pounds on the pavement as I run, ringing out like a bell. The day warms as the light strengthens, just like my attachment to the omega. I can’t get Willow out of my head and the more I think about her, the more my desire grows.

Three miles later, sweat drips down my ribs as I pause on a grassy spot to catch my breath. I wipe my face on the bottom of my tank top, the summer heat already radiating up from the ground. But it’s nothing compared to the inner heat broiling my heart.

“Fuck,” I mutter, fisting my damp shirt. “Am I in love or something?”

The moment I say it, the truth distills into a single, clear realization. Yes, I am in love. I fell in love at first sight.

I spin in place, digging both hands through my hair as the knowledge hits me in the chest. Falling in love at first sight is supposed to be a joke, a way of making long-term couples giggle while remembering their early days. Or teasing one into revealing who fell for the other first.

But the reality is far from a joke. I fell in love at first glance—and the omega I love hates alphas.

I swallow down a groan and force my tingling legs back in the direction of home. The vacant, uphill incline in the Warkow street mirrors my love life. Willow doesn’t need an alpha; she even spends her days telling other omegas why they don’t need an alpha.

Which means she doesn’t need me.

But my heart begs to differ. That momentary episode, the fear poisoning her omega pheromones, all mean she hasn’t healed as much as she pretends in front of the camera. It’ll be my job to let her know it’s okay not to be perfect all the time. My job to be her friend.

My steps slow as I reach the Warkow house and turn into the driveway. The crunch of gravel underfoot sets my teeth on edge, each footfall too loud. I do not want to alert the cougar that I’m walking past. Well, I’ve never known any of the owners to be early risers, so if I get going quickly, I should be fine.

The yard remains quiet as I rush over to the pool’s toilet block for a shower. After getting out and drying off, I listen intently through the door before stepping out with my towel around my waist.

Merda, I’m becoming paranoid now. I shake my head at my own silliness and cross the path to the shed. Looks like the madam has given up on tormenting me.

Or so I thought.

Miranda Warkow stands in my shed, looking through the few personal belongings on my bedside table. Her cream trench coat catches on my bed with every movement, the wide dark belt and high heels making her look ready to go out to a luncheon.

The sliding door slips from my hands, slamming on its rails. As she turns, the walls shrink, closing us in a tiny space where I can’t possibly avoid her. My towel brushes my knees as I backpedal, and the woman’s gaze sweeps down to linger on the rolled edge sitting on my hips.

She smirks.

Why the hell didn’t I remember to take my clothes with me and come back fully dressed?

“Good morning, handsome,” she purrs.

I swallow around a lump in my throat. “Good morning, Mrs Warkow.”

“Miranda, remember? I insist.”

I shake my head but can’t bring myself to say the words. She’s my boss.

Her tongue darts between her lips. “Feeling shy today?”