Page 15 of Nursing the Alpha
Which was… odd.
I checked the address again, just to be sure. Double-checked the time on my phone.
This was definitely the place.
The neighborhood itself was the kind that made you feel like you should whisper. Every house looked like it had been included in a magazine. Private drives, security gates, silent electric cars gliding past. Not a single cracked sidewalk or overgrown hedge in sight.
Even the air smelled expensive. Cut grass, rain-polished stone, the crispness of cedar mulch, and something blooming. Lavender?
I adjusted my T-shirt again, wincing as the movement nudged my chest. My nipples were already damp, nursing pads straining slightly against the pressure. I’d worn a compression shirt underneath, just in case, but even that wasn’t enough.
God,I needed to feed soon. Or at least pump.
I rang the doorbell.
It chimed. Not a buzz, not a ding, but a delicate, four-note tone that sounded like a harp.
Of course.
I wouldn’t be surprised if a cherub opened the door.
As I waited, I looked around the yard, trying not to be too nervous. Everything had happened so fast. Two weeks ago, I’d applied to the Nourish Collective, and they’d responded. My reference at the hospital had been glowing, so everything had been fast-tracked. The paperwork. The milk testing. The dietary analysis. They even took samples to check nutrient quality, pH, caloric content. Seriously, it was more intense than applying to university.
And then, just like that, I got my first placement with a family who needed a wet nurse with an above-average supplyof milk. The contract came with an advance and a fat monthly retainer. I wouldn’t have to worry about bills for a long time, maybe could even tuck a little into savings for once.
The family remained anonymous, just as high-end clients preferred. All I knew was they requested on-site feeding. They wouldn’t accept milk pumped at home. Plus, I’d had to sign a strict NDA, but I wasn’t rushing to broadcast that I was renting out my chest for feeding. Sure, the hospital used to pay me a stipend, but the little money I received still amounted to charity work. Just enough to get by.
This was different. I was a high-priced commodity now, and all because I couldn’t stop lactating. I’d tried. I did everything by the book, just like the nurse advised, but the aching nipples, the inability to find a good sleeping position, and the upset stomach from the medication made me give up.
Eventually, my body would know it was time to quit, right?
The door finally swung open. A woman stood there, trim and serious in a slate-gray uniform that looked crisp enough to cut. Her hair was slicked back into a smooth twist, not a strand out of place, and she had that effortlessly polished look that only people working in homes like this ever seemed to have. She gave me a quick once-over, not unkind, just assessing.
“Welcome,” she said, voice warm. “I’m Faith. You must be Mr. Peterson.”
I nodded, shifting my weight as the fullness of my chest reminded me I was seconds away from making a mess. “Just Flynn is fine. Thanks, Faith.”
She stepped aside, holding the door open wider, and Imoved past her into what might as well have been a magazine spread.
The air inside was cool and lightly scented with something citrusy and clean. High ceilings, soft lighting, polished oak floors that probably cost more than I’d ever made in a year. Every piece of furniture looked like it had been curated for beauty and silence. Plush cream upholstery, a glass coffee table that didn’t have so much as a fingerprint on it, recessed shelves with actual art pieces instead of family photos.
Not a toy in sight.
Not a bottle. Not a stroller. Not a single indication that a baby lived here.
Strange, considering how much milk they were expecting me to produce. I’d guessed at least two babies, maybe even triplets.
“This place is…” I let out a low whistle, adjusting the strap of my tote again. “Wow. Fancy.”
The woman gave a tight smile. “We try to keep it peaceful.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant. Peaceful didn’t come to mind when I thought of babies.
“I can give you a quick tour,” she said. “Show you around the house?—”
“Oh.” I shifted uncomfortably as a hot twinge fired through my chest. “Maybe later, if that’s okay. I’m kind of…” I gestured loosely to my chest and offered an apologetic smile. “Full. Are the babies due for a feeding? I assumed there were twins, at least, with how much they want me to express.” I half laughed. “I’ve worked with two before, but that amount of milk?—”
She cleared her throat.
