Knotted and Betrayed By the Alphahole (Knotted by the Alphahole #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Star

Paula’s tuneless singing is doing its tuneless best. I picture Aretha spinning around in her grave. I let her finish the verse and send an apologetic prayer up so the Queen can get some rest.

"You’re going to scare the Harmon bride," I say, sliding behind the counter. "She's coming in at eleven. She is already reconsidering the whole thing. Don’t ambush her with Respect."

"All brides reconsider before the wedding. It's a purification ritual." Paula hands me a coffee without looking up from the tablet. "Your favorite fiancé client requested an appointment. He wants three o'clock. In person. No more emails with his assistant."

I take a long sip of the fresh brew. Close my eyes. Exhale. "He wrote 'no more emails'?"

"I am paraphrasing. He wrote, and I quote, I will arrive at three p.m. Friday.

Please be available and prompt. My time is valuable.

" Paula turns the tablet to face me. "Our favorite Prince Charming. Goes dark for six weeks, reappears, and then micromanages what should clearly be his assistant's job. Poor Julie, by the way. You couldn’t pay me enough to work for him. He’s an asshole. "

"He’s a boss. He’s used to running things his way."

"Maybe, but he doesn't run us." Paula smiles sweetly. "Shall I reply?"

"Reply with what, exactly?"

"I was thinking, Dear Mr. Vaughn, thank you for your continued patience. Star Brite Flowers charges by the hour for any private consultations that are not included in the original contract."

"We do not charge by the hour."

"He doesn't know that."

I laugh and lift my cup in a mock salute.

Paula has been with me since I opened the shop.

She is five years older than me, and has an artistic eye that would make Picasso jealous.

She’s also the only person I have never had to teach about inventory.

She also enjoys handling my worst clients the way other women love manicures.

"Confirm three o'clock," I say. "Professional only. No barbs."

"None?"

"Paula."

"Fine. I will put the claws away." She types, then looks up. "You look tired."

"I'm fine."

"You look tired and like your back is bothering you."

I wipe a hand over my face. "The truck from Howard’s finally arrived at seven. So I had a lovely evening sorting flowers and putting everything into the coolers."

“Why didn’t you call me? I would have come back and helped.”

“So, we could both sit here tired and cranky? No, you work too hard as it is.” She watches me one beat longer than necessary, then drops it. That’s the reason we have worked well together for four years.

I move through the morning on autopilot.

Buckets watered. The cooler swept. The wholesale order checked against the receiving slip, which is short on eucalyptus again, and I make a mental note to call the supplier.

My back carries that low ache I have been pretending all morning is not what it is.

My cycle is a Swiss clock, and I don't have time for it.

I have managed heats alone for years. I know the drill. Suppressants, water, a very tiring, unsexy weekend, using my favorite battery-operated toys to manage any heat that creeps past the hormone blockers. It’s not a pretty system, but it works. It has to work until I find my alpha.

The Harmon bride arrives at eleven, and I spend the first ninety minutes talking her off the ledge about peonies.

By the time she leaves, she has decided she doesn’t want peonies after all, which is great because I don’t have enough, and her fiancé's mother wants hydrangeas.

Everyone is happy. No bridezilla or monster-in-law drama, thank you, God.

At one p.m., Paula goes for lunch. The shop is quiet.

The afternoon light slides across the wood floor and lands on the little chalk sign by the register that reads Walk-ins welcome.

I pull out my phone while I fumble with the snack I forgot to eat for breakfast. One missed call.

My mother. I call her back immediately because if I don't, she'll call three more times and then text Aunt Niecy that I am being distant.

"Morning, Starry." Her voice is brighter than the sun. "You eat today?"

"I am eating yogurt right now."

"Yogurt is not lunch."

"Mama, it’s one o’clock, the shop is open, and I can’t eat a hot meal at the register."

"You can eat a hot meal anywhere if you’re the owner. You’re still the owner, right? Is there something you’re not telling me? How is business?"

"Busy," I answer, rolling my eyes and getting away with it, since she can’t see me.

"And your personal life? Anything new on that front?"

"My personal life is fine." And personal, I mutter… very, very quietly under my breath.

"You’re so alone. Your father and I worry."

"Really, my father is worried? Maybe I should call him and tell him to stop.

" She tuts, but drops it after I’ve called her bluff.

I picture his face creased with concern.

A step above worry, but still. Neither of them can help it; they met and mated at nineteen and have had nothing but bliss since.

"Mom, I promise you. When he shows up, I'll tell you. "

"When he shows up." She sighs. Four years of that sigh, and it still hits its target. "Star. Your aunts are asking."

"My aunts are always asking."

"Your Aunt Niecy told me she met a very nice beta for you. Very respectable. Works for—"

"Mom."

"—an excellent bank. She showed me a picture. He's handsome. I couldn't tell about his butt though, the picture was from the front."

"I'm so embarrassed to know you sometimes."

"Doesn't matter, the rest of the time you love me." A beat. "He looks good on paper, baby."

"I know." The words come out softer than I mean them to. I cover it. "I'm not interested in paper. I'll wait for my alpha."

She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, it's in her careful voice — the one she saves for things she knows I don't want to hear. "I know you're waiting. I just don't want you waiting alone when you could be living."

"I am living."

"I know you are." Softer still. "I had to try. Niecy will be disappointed."

"Send her my love."

"I will send her your regrets." A warmer pause. "You ate yogurt. Please eat something with iron."

"I love you."

"I love you. Eat beef."

She hangs up.

Paula comes back as I’m hanging up, unwraps a sandwich at the counter, takes one look at my face, and gives me the side-eye. "Your mother?"

"Yep. My aunt found me a beta. I should meet him, check out his butt."

"I love your mother."

"Everyone loves my mother."

I grab a quick bite of the salad Paula brought me as she goes out on delivery runs. She’s done for the day, but I still have work to do.

I don’t have to wait for our next customer to turn around to know he’s got a great butt.

How could he not, when everything from the front is so prettily perfect?

Except pretty is the wrong word. He is six-two, maybe six-three, with wide shoulders and a muscular chest. A chest his perfectly fitted, dark suit doesn't bother to camouflage.

His dark hair waves into an effortless precision cut that my fingers curl to keep from mussing.

He steps through the door and does not look around the shop with a mix of wonder or relief, the way people usually do.

Instead, he looks like a building inspector — taking inventory, reaching conclusions, already unimpressed.

His eyes find me. Do not soften.

"Are you the owner?"

“I am,” I answer, brushing my sweaty palms on my apron. I put on my breeziest smile, which he doesn’t bother to return. “How can I help you?”

His eyes skim my body from the top of my messy bun to my feet and back to my face.

He takes a step closer, and when his eyes lock with mine, I freeze.

They are not blue. They are a mix of ocean waves and a cloudless sky.

Beautiful. Framed by long charcoal-colored lashes, so thick he almost looks like he’s wearing liner.

I don’t need his scent to know he’s an alpha.

Alphas rarely visit florists, no my domain is too frilly and feminine for an alpha to ever truly relax in this space. But here he is; the question is why.

The ache in my belly picks up. Low. Slow.

It doesn’t care about his reasons. I try to ignore it.

It’s just the pre-heat cycle percolating at the most inconvenient time possible.

I glance at the clock; another demanding alpha arrives in an hour.

I can’t handle two. His business needs to be quick so he can leave.

He reads my name tag. "Star." His lip curls on the ‘r’ as if my name physically hurts him. I glare. I’ve known people like him my whole life. His voice has dropped a register. "I’m here to file a complaint. I ordered a bouquet and specifically requested no eucalyptus leaves. Guess what I received?"

My forehead furrows. I don’t recall the order he’s referring to.

But Mother’s Day was a few weeks ago, and we were swamped.

I walk over to the register and it's file of invoices. “I’m sorry for the mistake. We stand behind our deliveries. One hundred percent satisfaction is our promise. I’m happy to issue a refund. What was the account name…”

“I could have placed my order with any florist in the city."

There it is. Any florist in the city. I freeze, stop mid-stride to glare.

I’m five feet six inches and barely come up to his biceps, but I’m not going to let him stand inside my shop explaining my own replaceability to me.

“I understand that, and we appreciate your business and will make every effort to correct it.”

"And if you can’t."

"If you didn’t think there was a remedy, then you wouldn’t be here. So why don’t you just tell me what I can do, and we can both quit wasting each other’s time."