Page 23 of Her Knotty Alphas

His words echo in my mind as we eat our meal, and he pays. "We need to tell Laurent and Stanford that we found our match. They won't be looking for theirs."

"You're right." I nod. "We should set up a video chat or something."

We say our goodbyes and go our separate ways, and I play through the next steps in my mind. I can see if Hannah's working today. Talk to her about this whole scent match business where she can't run away.

After calling the salon and making a four o'clock appointment, I send a group text to the rest of my future pack.

Me

Alright pups. I've got my appointment at 4pm and I'm going to talk to Hannah. I'll let you know how it goes after.

Noah

FINALLY, old man. I was starting to think your dementia was getting to you

Austin

Quit it, Noah. Based on how he held me back last night, I'm pretty sure the "old man" could take you.

Thanks for letting us know, Enzo.

Golden Boy

Keep us updated. I have a hit on a house in the same neighborhood as the De Luccas.

My brows shoot up. Damn, he works fast. He's probably the most confident that he belongs with Hannah out of all of us.

Noah

Fuck man, I really hit the nail on the head with the whole stalker thing, huh?

Golden Boy

Fuck off. Takes one to know one.

Noah

Very mature. But oddly enough, you're not wrong.

Chuckling and rolling my eyes, I put my phone in my pocket and head to the store to buy my omega a courting present.

Chapter 12

Hannah

"There you go, Marie. I'll see you next week?" I smile at the older woman, Marie, who comes in to get her hair done by me every Thursday at two. She's not my usual clientele, but after Nana had moved into the retirement home and met her bridge group, she started sending her friends to me and I didn't have the heart to turn them down.

I mean, business is business right?

Sure, they have an onsite hairdresser at the home for residents with limited mobility, but some of them still want the experience of going into a "real" salon.

She turns and looks in the mirror, beaming at the blue streaks now running through her short gray hair. I've been trying to talk her out of it for weeks now, but today I thought "fuck it". She's pushing ninety but I have to give it to her—it looks good.

My co-workers working at the stations around me all lift their eyes briefly to check her out in the mirrors, little smiles on their faces.

"Looking good, Marie!" Lilah, another stylist in her thirties, calls over her shoulder.

Everyone loves Marie.

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