Page 5 of The Knotheads Next Door
I sigh, set down my screwdriver with deliberate care on the marble countertop we'd splurged on (Wells's idea—"It'll add value to the house," he'd said), and finally turn around.
Theo is leaning against the fridge, arms crossed over his chest. His scrubs have little cartoon dogs on them today, which wouldbe ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow works on him. The man smells like sandalwood and clean cotton, his alpha scent a counterpoint to my own more aggressive one. Across from him, Wells stands with his tablet in hand, looking like he's about to present a corporate fiscal report. Which, knowing him, he probably is.
"I heard," I say. "But I don't see what's changed since yesterday. Or the day before that. Or the entire month we've been having this same conversation."
Wells adjusts his glasses, a nervous habit he's had since college. "What's changed is the deadline. We have exactly forty-five days to make the balloon payment, or we default."
My jaw tightens. I'm well aware of the deadline. I'm the one who signed us up for this mess in the first place.
"I'm picking up extra shifts at the clinic," Theo offers. "But it's not going to be enough."
"And I've gone through our budget three times," Wells adds, his normally controlled scent spiking with stress pheromones. "We've cut everything nonessential."
I rub a hand over my face, feeling the stubble I haven't bothered to shave in days. "I can take on another renovation project—"
"In addition to the Henderson job and Mayor Tillie's deck?" Theo interrupts, eyebrows raised
"When exactly would you sleep?"
"I don't need that much sleep," I growl, though we all know that's a lie. I'm a grouchy bastard on less than six hours.
Wells clears his throat. "I've run the numbers, and I think we need to consider... alternative income sources."
Something in his tone makes my hackles rise. "What kind of 'alternative sources'? I'm not stripping."
Theo and Wells exchange a look. One of those looks that means they've already discussed this without me.
"We should rent out the one of the spare rooms," Theo says, with the blunt directness that makes him both an excellent veterinarian and a constant pain in my ass.
I stare at them, waiting for the punchline. When none comes, I bark out a laugh that even to my own ears sounds more like a wounded animal than anything humorous.
"No. Absolutely not."
"Jasper—" Wells starts.
"No," I repeat, shaking my head. "This is our home. Our territory. We're not bringing in some random stranger."
"It wouldn't be random," Theo argues. "We'd vet them carefully."
"Oh, great. So we'll have a carefully selected stranger instead of a random one. Much better," I snap.
Wells sighs and sets his tablet on the kitchen island. The screen shows a spreadsheet with numbers highlighted in alarming shades of red. "The math doesn't lie, Jasper. If we rent the room at less than market rate, we can meet the balloon payment. Without it..." He trails off, but we all know what's at stake.
The house. My great-aunt Vivian's house. The place I spent every summer as a kid. The only good memories I have from a childhood mostly spent alone.
I turn back to the cabinet, snapping the door open and closed. The hinge works perfectly now. At least I can fix some things.
"Fine," I finally say, my back still to them. "But they have to be an alpha."
"Or a beta," Theo adds quickly.
I turn, narrowing my eyes at him. "What's wrong with an alpha?"
"Nothing," he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture that makes me want to growl.
"But limiting ourselves to just alphas reduces our options by like, seventy percent of potential renters."
"Fine. Alpha or beta," I concede. "But absolutely no omegas."
