Page 20 of Knot So Sweet
He has a way of making me feel small all the time. I wonder if he does it on purpose or if it's just his character.
It's a sandwich. Thick slices of what looks like homemade bread filled with roasted turkey, cheese, and vegetables that smell like they came from someone's garden rather than a grocery store. There are also homemade chips on the side and what looks like a pickle spear. The man has just constructed what appears to be the Sistine Chapel of sandwiches, and he's glaring at me like I've personally offended his ancestors.
"I can't pay you for this," I say, even as I'm already moving toward the table like my feet have made the decision without consulting my brain.
"Did I ask you to?"
"No, but..."
"Then sit down and eat before you pass out on my floor. I don't need that kind of liability."
His tone is sharp, businesslike, but he made me food. From scratch. The bread is still warm.
I don't know what to make of that. Mark never made me anything except excuses and bruises. Now this grumpy alpha who clearly hates me is feeding me homemade bread?
Either he's secretly nice under all that scowling, or he's planning something. Honestly, both options seem equally weird.
I sit and take a bite.
“Hmm!”
Yes, I moaned. I'm not ashamed of it. This is incredible. It's been so long since I've had food that tastes like someone put actual thought into it instead of just opening a can or unwrapping something from a drive-through.
"Thank you," I manage around the lump in my throat. "This is really good."
“I’m glad..." But I don't get to finish because he grunts and disappears through the doorway.
I sit there, frozen, my lips still tingling. My face is on fire. My omega is doing victory laps while my brain is screaming about what a terrible idea that was.
I don't know who's more embarrassed, him or me.
He doesn't go far though. I can see him through the doorway, attacking bread dough like it personally offended him. His muscles flex under his t-shirt as he kneads, harder than necessary. Definitely working out some serious aggression on that poor dough.
I should stay put. Finish my food. Keep my distance after that mortifying kiss.
Instead, I find myself standing, carrying my plate, following him into the kitchen like my body has a mind of its own.
He's at the counter, hands buried in dough. Kneading with a force that's definitely more aggression than necessary. His forearms flex with each push, muscles moving under flour-dusted skin. The rhythm is hypnotic. Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn.
I lean against the doorframe, watching.
I shouldn't be turned on by a man kneading bread. That's ridiculous. But my omega has other ideas, purring low in my chest as I watch those strong hands work. The way his fingers dig into the dough, firm and sure. The way he controls it, shapes it, makes it submit to his will.
I close my eyes. Take a breath.
He's kneading dough, Violet. Not touching you. Those hands are on bread. Not on your body. Not sliding up your thighs or gripping your hips or...
I snap my eyes open because that train of thought is going nowhere good.
I shouldn't be thinking about starting anything new. Not after Mark, and barely escaping with my life. The last thing I need is another alpha, especially one who clearly doesn't even like me.
But I can't stop watching his hands.
"How long have you been baking?" I ask,
He glances up, surprised I followed him. For a second, something flashes in his eyes. Then it's gone, hidden behind that scowl.
"Since I was twelve. My grandmother taught me."
