Page 71 of Knot So Sweet
"I've got maybe five dollars left. Got paid for three articles this week, sent every penny to Emma. Her utilities were getting shut off." Garrick's hands clench harder on the steering wheel.
"Why didn't you tell us? Any of us?"
"Because I don't want to be a charity case." My throat burns. "Emma's my cousin. A single mom with two kids about to lose her apartment. What was I supposed to do? Keep the money and let her freeze?"
"You're not a charity case." His voice is rough. "You're pack. There's a difference." "I'm not pack. Not really. Not yet."
The confession comes out small, scared. "I'm just... the omega you're all being nice to."
He doesn't argue. He just looks at me and it hurts, because I can feel how badly he wants me to believe him.
My throat closes up, my voice small. "I'm just so damn tired of being alone."
His hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes a tear from my cheek. The warmth of his touch makes my chest ache. For one breathless second, I think he's going to kiss me.
He leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the steady strength radiating off his body.
He stops just shy of touching, our foreheads almost brushing. His restraint slams into me hard because he's giving me the choice. Me, who hasn't had a real choice in forever.
My heart trips over itself, stupid and eager, but my brain won't shut up. This morning he made me feel invisible. And if I let him kiss me now, I'd hand him the power to break me again.
My eyes sting. God, I want it anyway. The comfort. The warmth. Him.
But wanting and trusting aren't the same thing.
I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing the ache in my chest. "Take me home," I whisper, because it's all I can give him tonight.
His exhale shudders out, rough with something I don't dare name. But he nods, pulls back, and puts the truck in gear.
"Your wish is my command."
18
GARRICK
The memory sticks like a thorn and I pull chocolate from the walk-in cooler, cold air hitting my overheated skin. My hands shake as I measure dark chocolate chips. When did I last make food for one specific person? Not a custom order. Not because someone paid me. Because I wanted to see them smile. Can't recall.
The dough comes together under my hands, soft and pliable. I roll it out on the floured marble surface, the pin making satisfying thunks. The kitchen's quiet except for refrigerator hums and distant traffic rumbling on Main Street. I spread chocolate filling, fold the dough, shape individual pastries. Each one perfect. Golden crescents destined to come out looking like little pieces of heaven.
For her.
The oven preheats with a whoosh of flame. I slide the pastries in, set the timer, then move to the espresso machine. Grinding beans, tamping grounds, pulling shots. Steam wand hissing as I froth milk to silky perfection. I even do the fancy foam art. A leaf pattern she complimented once when I made it for a customer. My hand's steady despite no caffeine yet, muscle memory guiding the pour.
She's probably still passed out. But the timer dings, and I'm pulling golden pastries from the oven. They smell like butter and chocolate and everything good in the world. I plate one carefully, dust it with powdered sugar, add a few raspberries from the container I keep for garnish.
The stairs to her apartment creak under my boots. Old building, older wood. Every step announces my presence. I balance the plate in one hand, mug in the other, trying not to think about why I care if she eats breakfast.
The walls need paint, and the hardwood floors show their age, but it's clean. Lemon cleaner and something floral. Lavender maybe.
I knock on her door. Nothing, so I scratch my head thinking I made a mistake and no one is inside. Then a sound rattles from the bathroom.
I draw closer. Then the door flies open.
"Oh God, oh God, I'm gonna..." Violet barrels straight into my chest, the impact makes the coffee spill everywhere. All over my flannel shirt, down my jeans, across the bedroom floor. The mug flies from my hand, hits the floor with a crash echoing off the narrow walls. Ceramic scatters in every direction.
"Fuck!" Sounds like she's dying in there.
Great. I stand dripping coffee, holding a plate of pastry like an idiot. Broken ceramic everywhere. Should leave. Let her be miserable in peace. Can't do it though.
