Hot Knot Summer (Whispering Grove #2)

Chapter 1

Crying in an airport bathroom is a special kind of pathetic.

The harsh fluorescent lighting highlights every puffy feature, the automatic paper towel dispensers keep whirring judgmentally, and the parade of strangers giving sympathetic-but-please-don’t-talk-to-me smiles is just the cherry on top of the humiliation sundae.

Yet here I am, Emma Collins, bestselling fantasy romance author and officially discarded Omega, doing exactly that.

I splash cold water on my face for the third time, willing the redness around my eyes to subside.

The bathroom mirror doesn’t sugarcoat things.

I look like I’ve been hit by the sad train and dragged for several emotional miles.

“Get it together, Emma,” I mutter, yanking another paper towel as the dispenser whirs to life.

“You’ve written heroines who overcome way worse than some Alpha asshole with the emotional depth of a kiddie pool.”

My phone buzzes.

Jess, of course.

Did you make it through security without committing justifiable homicide?

I manage a faint smile.

My best friend since college had practically shoved me out the door this morning, insisting I take this trip.

No casualties yet. Saving my energy for when I get back and burn all his stuff.

That’s my girl. Remember, this vacation is officially a Fuck Chad holiday, and I don’t mean literally.

You’ve had enough of his mess.

.. and Megan’s.

Despite everything, I snort-laugh, earning a concerned glance from a woman applying lipstick nearby.

Boarding soon. Will text when I land.

You’d better. And Emma?

He’s the loser who couldn’t recognize what he had.

Not you.

I pocket my phone, grab my carry-on, and straighten my shoulders.

Two weeks in Whispering Grove, the picturesque mountain town Chad and I had booked for what I’d stupidly thought might be where he’d finally mark me as his.

Two weeks of cozy cabin solitude I now get to enjoy alone.

Two weeks to lick my wounds and maybe, just maybe, find the writing spark that’s been missing since my fourth book hit the bestseller lists.

Two weeks to forget how completely, spectacularly wrong I’d been about everything .

The woman joins me and applies lipstick, catching my eye in the mirror.

“You’re too pretty to look so sad, honey,” she says, capping her lipstick.

“Whatever he did, he’s not worth those tears.”

I blink, startled by the unexpected kindness from a stranger.

“That obvious, huh?”

She steps nearer, and her delicate Omega scent carries notes of cinnamon and aged paper.

“Honey, I know the ‘my Alpha is trash’ face when I see it.” She glances around to make sure we’re alone.

“Listen, can I give you some advice? Not all of us Omegas need to fall into the perfect expected role of submitting to any Alpha who pays us attention. Our bodies betray us to them, that’s biology, but it doesn’t mean we should stop fighting until we find the right Alphas for us. The ones worth surrendering to.” She tucks a stray hair behind my ear in a motherly gesture that nearly makes me tear up again.

“Took me forty-seven years and three bad marriages to figure that out. Don’t waste your youth like I did. Wait for the ones who earn your submission, not the ones who demand it.”

“Thank you. Really appreciate it.” My throat tightens up.

She gives me a wink and picks up her bag.

“Now, go show him what he’s missing.”

With a final glance at my reflection, I wipe away the last tears, gather my bags, and force myself toward the boarding area.

The concourse stretches before me, a gauntlet of overpriced food kiosks and duty-free shops I have to navigate while looking like the poster child for Omegas with Abandonment Issues .

People move in streams around me, couples holding hands, families corraling children, business travelers striding purposefully toward their gates.

Normal people living normal lives who didn’t have their partners suddenly decide their scent was wrong .

Chad had seemed so different at first. I’d met him at a book signing event for my second novel, where he’d been working security.

He’d approached afterward with my book in hand, asking for an autograph with that easy, charming smile.

Said he’d bought it for his niece but ended up reading it himself.

I’d been flattered. An Alpha who wasn’t embarrassed to read fantasy romance literature.

He’d been attentive and protective, everything an Omega is supposed to want from an Alpha.

Brought me soup when I was sick.

Remembered my favorite coffee order.

Listened to me ramble about plot points and character arcs.

For the first few months, I’d walked around in a daze, wondering how I’d gotten so lucky.

Even when my friends pointed out little things like how he’d check my location a bit too often, how he’d dismiss my career as cute , how he’d subtly put down my friends, I’d made excuses for him.

What a cliché I’d been.

The naive Omega so desperate for an Alpha’s approval, she’d ignored every red flag waving frantically in her face.

Stupid!

The boarding area comes into view, and I focus on the logistics of finding my gate, checking my boarding pass, and making sure I have my ID ready, anything to keep my mind off the humiliating train wreck of my love life.

I’d rather think about the soul-crushing discomfort of economy seating than dwell on how spectacularly I’d misread everything about my relationship.

“Now boarding Zone 3 for Flight 1526 to Mistcrest Mountains,” the gate agent announces.

I shuffle forward with my fellow travelers, feeling like I’m moving through molasses.

The tiny Mistcrest airfield is barely more than a glorified landing strip, with a log cabin pretending to be a terminal.

It’s the only way in or out of this corner of nowhere unless you’re up for a six-hour drive on winding mountain roads.

Whispering Grove is pretty much it as far as civilization goes around there—just a little town tucked into the valley, about thirty minutes from the airfield by car.

On the plane, I scan the row numbers.

I settle into the window seat, immediately popping in earbuds and turning to stare out at the tarmac.

My mind circles back to three days ago, the moment everything imploded.

“Your scent is wrong,” Chad had said.

I’d been standing in our kitchen, well, Chad’s kitchen, but after a year together, it had felt like ours, chopping vegetables for dinner when he’d walked in and dropped the bomb with all the ceremony of commenting on the weather .

“What?” I’d turned, knife still in hand, something that would seem almost prophetic in retrospect.

“Your scent. It’s wrong.” Chad hadn’t even bothered looking up from his phone as he’d said it, thumbs tapping away at some message.

“Nothing draws me to you anymore.”

The carrots lay forgotten as I’d stood there, stupidly mute with shock.

“Is this... are you breaking up with me?”

“Look, Emma.” He finally pocketed his phone, his handsome face arranged in that patronizing expression I’d somehow never noticed before.

“We had fun, but let’s be real. You knew this wasn’t forever.”

“I... what? We’re leaving for Whispering Grove in three days! We’ve been planning this trip for months!” My voice had risen with each word, disbelief turning quickly to anger.

“You said... you literally said last week that maybe this trip would be ‘the one’.”

Chad had shrugged, actually shrugged, like we were discussing a canceled dinner reservation.

“I was trying to let you down easy. You Omegas get so emotionally attached.” His tone suggested this was somehow my biological failing rather than his colossal dick move.

“I paid for the cabin already. You can still go if you want.”

“Wow. So generous.” The knife in my hand had suddenly seemed very relevant to my interests.

“Look, you’ll find someone else.” He’d glanced at his watch.

“I need to head out. Can we skip the dramatic Omega meltdown? You can get your stuff later this week while I’m at work.”

And then he’d walked out.

Just like that.

I’d stood frozen until his car pulled away, then sank to the kitchen floor, vegetables abandoned on the cutting board.

An hour later, his iPad had chimed with a message.

Something in me, call it writer’s intuition or just garden-variety suspicion, had made me pick it up.

The text preview from Megan Sloane glowed on the screen.

Did you tell her yet?

Can’t wait to see you tonight, Alpha.

Megan. My so-called friend from Omega Academy.

The woman who’d hugged me last month and said Chad was so lucky to have you .

That’s when I started throwing things.

The memory makes my chest tighten all over again.

A pathetic whimper escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth.

God, I hate that he still has this power over me.

This wasn’t even my first Alpha rejection.

There was Jason in college who said I was too opinionated for an Omega after three months of dating.

Then Michael last year, who ghosted me after meeting my successful Beta friends at a dinner party.

Now Chad, with his ‘your scent is wrong’ crap.

Maybe there is something fundamentally broken in me, some Omega defect that makes me untouchable, unmarked, unwanted.

Maybe I’m cursed to always be almost enough but never quite right .

I hiccup a heavy breath, fighting back tears.

Three strikes. That’s what my grandmother would call it.

Three strikes and you’re out, Emma: F.O.E.

Failed Omega Extraordinaire.

“Excuse me. I believe this is my seat,” a deep male’s voice says, instantly rising delicious goosebumps down my arms.

Reluctantly, I glance up.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Standing in the aisle is six-plus feet of what can only be described as walking Alpha fantasy.

Dark brown hair with a perfect hint of dishevelment and sides cut shorter than the top.

A jaw that could cut glass, sporting a meticulously maintained five o’clock shadow.

Shoulders that make the economy seat look like doll furniture housed in a body that’s clearly been forged through years of physical exertion, not pretentious gym sessions.

And eyes… good lord, they’re not gray as I first thought, but the deepest midnight blue, so dark they’re almost black, like the ocean at its most fathomless point.

But what collides into me hardest is his scent.

Woodsmoke that makes me think of controlled bonfires on autumn nights, toasted sugar with caramel and rich maple that reminds me of Sunday mornings.

It wraps around me with such intensity that my Omega hindbrain short-circuits momentarily, neurons firing in every direction while synapses melt like candle wax.

This is what a scent match is supposed to feel like.

This is what I’ve read about, what I’ve written about in my books.

This is what I never felt with Chad, despite trying to convince myself otherwise for a whole damn year.

“That seat was supposed to be empty,” I blurt out.

One perfect eyebrow arches slightly, amusement flickering across his face.

“Sorry to disappoint.” He gestures to the boarding pass in his hand.

“Last-minute standby. They just called me.”

Every other passenger waiting in the standby queue must have mysteriously vanished for this particular Alpha specimen to be assigned the seat next to the emotional wreck that is me.

The universe is clearly running a special on cosmic jokes today.

“Great,” I mutter, not even attempting to mask my sarcasm.

I shift my bag from the spare seat next to me to allow him access to the row, pressing myself closer to the window like I might be able to phase through it if I try hard enough.

He settles beside me, and I’m immediately aware of three things.

He smells even better up close, he’s absolutely massive in a way that makes economy seating a special kind of torture, and there’s something hanging from a leather cord around his neck, some kind of small wooden charm that disappears beneath his shirt before I can make it out.

His broad shoulder and arm commandeer the armrest we’re meant to share, his long legs clearly uncomfortable in the limited space.

I lean against the window, creating as much distance as physically possible.

The last thing I need is an Alpha distraction, especially one whose mere proximity has my traitorous Omega senses perking up like a dog hearing the word walk .

The flight attendants begin their safety demonstration, but I notice one blond attendant keeps directing her spiel specifically toward my seatmate, her smile wide and flirtatious.

“...and if you need anything during our flight today, just press the call button,” she concludes with a wink that’s about as subtle as a neon sign.

I roll my eyes so hard, I’m surprised they don’t get stuck.

The attendant catches my expression and narrows her gaze slightly before moving on.

Great. Now, I’ll probably get accidentally skipped during beverage service.

My row-mate shifts, his arm brushing mine in the process.

A jolt of awareness zips through me, irritating in its intensity.

I shove my earbuds in deeper and crank up my Men Are Trash playlist, determined to maintain my emotional force field.

As we taxi toward the runway, I steal a glance at him.

He’s reading something on his tablet, his profile unfairly perfect.

A little frown of concentration creases his brow, and his full mouth is set in a serious line.

He looks like he could be on the cover of Alpha Quarterly or whatever ridiculous magazines perpetuate the stereotype that all Alphas are brooding sex gods with superhuman abilities and zero emotional baggage.

My grandmother’s voice echoes in my head .

“The world will tell you that Omegas can’t run our lives alone, that we need Alpha guidance, that we should focus on finding mates and making pups instead of competing in a world that wasn’t built for us. Don’t you believe it for a second.” She’d lost her Alpha at thirty-five and never remated, building her own consulting firm from scratch instead.

The business world still operates on the assumption that Omegas will eventually abandon their careers when the right Alpha comes along and biology takes over.

The thought makes my skin crawl.

I’ve seen too many brilliant Omega colleagues reduced to shadows of themselves after being knotted and claimed.

It’s not that I don’t understand the appeal, the biology is undeniable.

That primal connection between Alphas and Omegas has shaped our society for millennia, leaving Betas to form the middle management of our social hierarchy.

Betas date Alphas too, of course, for the status and intensity, but without the biological imperative of knotting, that final, unbreakable physical bond that drives Alphas to near madness if denied.

It’s why so many Alphas treat us like walking possessions.

Because obviously, that’s all we Omegas think about, finding mates, making babies, and being good little breeders.

At least more of us are venturing out on our own these days, carving paths through boardrooms instead of nurseries, even as society watches with its collective breath held, waiting for us to fail.

The plane accelerates down the runway, and I close my eyes, partially because I’m not crazy about takeoffs but mostly to avoid acknowledging the living temptation beside me.

I’ve sworn off Alphas.

All Alphas. Forever.

Or at least for the duration of this trip.

I will not be distracted by spectacular cheekbones and a scent that makes my inner Omega want to purr.

I will not.

The plane levels off, and I force myself to relax.

Two hours and forty-seven minutes.

That’s all I have to endure before I can escape this flying metal tube and the disconcerting Alpha beside me.

I can manage that. I’ve survived worse this week.

“First time flying?” his voice breaks through my music, which has apparently ended without me noticing.

I pull out an earbud.

“What?”

“You seem nervous. I wondered if this was your first flight.”

“No,” I respond, more curtly than necessary.

“I’ve flown plenty of times.”

He nods, and a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

It transforms his serious face, softening the hard edges and making him look younger, more approachable, and infinitely more dangerous to my emotional stability.

“I’m Atlas,” he adds, extending a hand that could probably engulf mine completely.

Of course, he’s named Atlas.

Of course, the universe would put me next to an Alpha named after a literal titan who holds up the world .

I hesitate before placing my much smaller hand in his.

“Emma.”

His large hand envelops mine, warm and calloused, and another jolt of awareness shoots up my arm.

I withdraw quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the slight tremor in my fingers.

“Nice to meet you, Emma.” His voice sounds like he’s savoring having my name in his mouth, testing the feel of it on his tongue, and something warm and unwelcome flutters in my stomach.

“Heading to Whispering Grove for vacation ?”

I tense.

“How did you know that?”

He nods toward the paperback peeking from my bag—a guidebook to things to do in Whispering Grove.

“Lucky guess.”

“Oh.” I feel foolish for my defensive reaction.

“Yeah. Supposed to be with my boyfriend, but that’s...” I trail off, not sure why I’m offering this information to a complete stranger.