Page 83 of In Knots

I take another sip of my drink.

“Easy,” my mother says, moving my glass a tad away from me. “It’s hot, Alexa. It’ll go straight to your head.”

“Oh,” Simon’s mother says again. “We should have had some nibbles set out. How silly of me. Marcus, ask the chef to bring some nibbles.” He nods and disappears inside. And I can see my father and Simon are now in deep conversation.

He is charming. I can see it. I can see how he’s winning my father over, wowing him with his bright smile, his easy laugh, and the way he listens to my father intently. But it’s all an act. Why can’t my father see that? Or maybe he doesn’t care. As long as the act is convincing, what does it matter what lies underneath? I reach for my drink, but it’s not there. My hands slip under the table and I rake my nails deep into my thigh.

The sky darkens above us, turning a deep purple, and I tip my head back to look at the swirling clouds.

“Gosh that does look threatening,” Mrs. Stanford says. “We may have to move inside.”

“No,” I say.

“No?” Simon’s deep laugh sounds out behind me. “Do you like getting wet?”

There’s a double meaning in those words, I can sense them, but the others seem not to notice.

“It’s not raining yet,” I tell his mother.

“Well, that’s true. We’ll wait a bit then.”

Simon’s father returns, followed by a waiter with a tray of all sorts of nibbles, olives, bruschetta, and melon wrapped in parma ham. All arranged beautifully over white china plates. He lays them out on the table, and the men come to sit with us; Simon choosing the seat next to me. As he slides into his seat, his thigh rubs against mine and I dash my leg away.

“What would you like to try, sweetheart?” he asks, turning to me and placing his arm on the back of my chair, leaning in and taking a deep breath of my scent.

I don’t answer, reaching across the table, and taking a piece of melon. I bite through the flesh and the soft fruit melts on my tongue.

“She’s always very quiet with me,” he announces to the table, " … has hardly anything to say.”

Simon’s father chuckles. “I’d say that’s a good way for an omega to be, son.”

I glance at my mother, but she’s smiling, seeming to enjoy the joke.

“It’s like Marina said,” my father says, “she’s a little nervous. A little shy. I’m sure she warms up when it’s just the two of you.”

Simon smiles. I think I might vomit.

Maybe my mother senses this, because she pulls the plate of bruschetta close to us and lifts a piece onto her plate and then mine.

“Eat up, Alexa. You’ll feel less nervous with something in your stomach,” she whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear.

They think it’s charming.

They think the quiet, scared omega is charming.

They don’t care.

They don’t care that I am not happy.

They just assume I am.

Why wouldn’t I be with a man like Simon Stanford?

Light crackles across the clouds above us and the sky thunders.

We look up and the first raindrop falls from the heavens, landing on the table and bouncing high into the air.

And then another. And another.

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