Chapter 22 Social Media And Temple Kisses
Social Media And Temple Kisses
~HAZEL~
Thanks to three Alphas who apparently think "helping" means completely reorganizing my entire life.
The new help has been a godsend—volunteers from the fire station who actually know how to follow recipes, ranch hands who can lift fifty-pound flour bags without breaking a sweat, and most surprisingly, two Omegas who showed up last week and basically saved my sanity.
Mila bounces through the kitchen like she's powered by espresso and optimism, her black curls escaping from under her bandana as she preps savory hand pies for the lunch rush. "These mushroom ones are going to sell out," she announces, sliding a tray into the oven. "I can feel it in my bones."
"Your bones are very optimistic," Rosemarie observes from where she's creating some sort of latte art that looks like actual art. Her platinum blonde hair is pulled into a perfect bun that never seems to move, no matter how many drinks she makes. "My bones just tell me when it's going to rain."
"That's because you're ancient," Mila teases.
"I'm twenty-eight!"
"Ancient in internet years."
They've been here exactly one week and already bicker like they've known each other forever. It's perfect.
Mila's only here for a few months—some kind of culinary externship that I don't fully understand but desperately appreciate. She's already talking about adding an early dinner menu, "Nothing fancy, just comfort food that makes people want to cry happy tears."
Rosemarie is even more temporary—on assignment from some corporate Starbucks think tank in Chicago where apparently they pay people to invent drinks that shouldn't exist but somehow do. She has a drink named after her—the Rosemarie Refresher, which sounds fake but isn't.
"We should do a Valentine's menu," Rosemarie says suddenly, steaming milk with the focus of a surgeon. "Something provocative. The Knotty Valentine or Cream Your Coffee."
I nearly drop my piping bag. "We cannot call it that!"
"We absolutely can," Mila chimes in. "Lean into the brand, boss."
Boss. They call me boss like I know what I'm doing instead of frantically googling "how to run a business" at 2 AM.
The thought of expanding, of having themed menus and special events and actual employees, makes my chest tight with equal parts excitement and terror. Last night, the guys brought it up over dinner—reviewing numbers, talking about growth, suggesting I could actually take days off.
Days off. Like I'm a real person with a real business instead of an omega playing pretend.
"A day off," I'd repeated, like the words were foreign. "To do what?"
"Rest," Rowan had said.
"Relax," Levi had added.
"Exist without flour in your hair," Luca had finished.
The bell chimes, and I head out front to find Reverie already at her unofficial desk—really just a commandeered corner table— laptop open, surrounded by color-coded notebooks that probably contain plans for world domination.
"HAZEL!" She springs up, waving her phone. "The photos from last night! They're GORGEOUS!"
She shows me the pictures from my impromptu fashion show—me in that burgundy dress, laughing as Levi directed ridiculous poses, Rowan trying to be serious about "lighting" while obviously just staring at my legs, Luca pretending to be artistic while taking approximately 400 photos of the same angle.
"You styled these yourself?" Reverie asks, eyes wide.
"I mean... yes? I just put clothes together."
"Put clothes together like you're a Pinterest board come to life! These are professional-level styling! You should have posted them!"
"Posted them where?"
Reverie freezes.
Actually freezes, like someone hit pause on her entire existence.
"What do you mean by where?"
"I don't have social media."
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the coffee machine's existential crisis in the back.
"You don't have ANY?" Her voice has reached a pitch only dogs can hear. "No Instagram? No TikTok? Not even Facebook like the elderly?"
"I mean, I had Facebook once, but Korrin made me delete—"
"EMERGENCY!" Reverie shouts, just as Mila and Rosemarie emerge from the kitchen for their shift. "CODE RED! DEFCON WHATEVER NUMBER IS THE WORST!"
"What happened?" Mila asks, immediately concerned. "Is someone hurt? Did we run out of coffee?"
"WORSE. Our fearless leader has NO SOCIAL MEDIA."
Rosemarie gasps, actually gasps, clutching her chest like she's been personally wounded.
"But... but how do you exist?"
"With difficulty," I mutter.
"You have to have something," Mila insists. "I have three accounts just for my Sims families! And another for my savory dishes! And one for my dog, even though I don't have a dog yet!"
"I have seven," Rosemarie adds. "Including the official Starbucks Chicago one, they still pay me to maintain even though I haven't been there in months."
They're all staring at me like I've announced I don't believe in electricity.
"My phone isn't even that new," I admit, pulling out my ancient iPhone that's held together with hope and a prayer. "It barely takes photos."
"UPGRADE," Reverie says firmly. "Immediately. Today. Right now. Also, you need accounts, but I'll manage them so you don't see the weird stuff. People are unhinged online."
"I'll think about—"
"Morning, sunshine."
The voice comes from directly behind me, followed by arms sliding around my waist and lips pressing against my temple in a kiss that's so casual, so domestic, so public that my brain short-circuits.
Luca. That's Luca. Kissing me. In front of people. Like it's normal. Like we're—
"Morning," I squeak, my face immediately going nuclear.
He's dressed for ranch work—worn jeans that fit unfairly well, a Henley that stretches across his shoulders, smelling like gingerbread and coffee, and that dark undertone that makes my knees weak.
His arms are still around me, like this is how we greet each other now, like the whole world should know I'm his.
Theirs. I'm theirs.
The silence in the bakery is deafening for exactly three seconds before—
"OH MY GOD!" Mila shrieks.
"FINALLY!" Rosemarie claps.
"I KNEW IT!" Reverie is actually bouncing.
"THE BOSS HAS A BOYFRIEND!"
"THREE boyfriends, technically," Reverie corrects gleefully.
"THREE?!" Mila and Rosemarie shriek in unison.
I try to hide my face in my hands, but Luca's still holding me, and he's chuckling against my hair, the bastard.
"Everyone back to work!" I try to sound authoritative, but it comes out more like a squeak. "We have customers!"
"We don't open for an hour," Mila points out.
"Then go...prep things!"
"I'm fully prepped," Rosemarie says. "I prepped so hard I invented a new drink. Want to hear about it? It's called the Alpha's Knot—"
"NOPE. No. Absolutely not."
"It has cinnamon," she continues, undeterred. "And cream—"
"I will fire you."
"You can't fire me, I'm basically a volunteer."
"I can ban you."
"You won't. I make your coffee perfect every time."
She's not wrong, which is infuriating.
Luca finally releases me, but not before pressing another kiss to my temple, and I can feel him smirking against my skin.
"I just came to check the books," he says innocently. "Very important number things."
"You came to cause chaos," I accuse.
"That too."
"I'm surrounded by chaos agents."
"You love it," Reverie says confidently.
I do. God help me, I actually do.
The morning continues with what can only be described as aggressive normalcy if normal included three women trying to explain TikTok to me while Luca pretends to work on spreadsheets but is obviously just watching me with that soft expression that makes my chest tight.
"So you just... film yourself?" I ask, frosting another cake while Reverie demonstrates something called a "transition."
"But with purpose," Mila explains. "Like, watch." She props up her phone and starts narrating. "POV: You work at the bakery that's going viral because your boss has three Alpha boyfriends and makes cookies that could end wars."
"That's not a POV, that's just facts," Rosemarie points out.
"The facts ARE the POV."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Your face doesn't make sense."
"Children," I interrupt, but I'm laughing. "Is this what work is like in normal places?"
"No," Luca says from his corner. "Normal places are boring. This is chaos."
"Good chaos though," Reverie adds, typing furiously. "Marketable chaos. We could make a fortune if you'd just let me—"
"No filming the Alphas," I say firmly.
"But they're so photogenic!" She gestures at Luca. "Look at him! He's sitting there all broody and attractive with his spreadsheets! The internet would eat that up!"
"The internet can starve."
"Mean!" Reverie pouts. "What if we just film your hands? People love watching decorating videos."
"Maybe—"
The kitchen door bursts open and Levi tumbles through, covered in what appears to be hay and... is that paint?
"Don't ask," he says immediately.
"I have to ask," I say. "You're green."
"Am not."
"Your face is literally green."
He checks his reflection in the coffee machine. "Huh. So it is."
"Explanation. Now."
"Theo bet me I couldn't paint the entire fence before lunch."
"It's 9 AM."
"I'm very fast."
"You're very green."
"That too."
Luca sighs the deep sigh of someone who's been dealing with this for years. "Did you at least win the bet?"
"Obviously. I'm not a quitter."
"You're not a painter either, apparently."
"Painting is just aggressive brushing. I'm excellent at aggression."
"You're excellent at making messes," I correct, grabbing towels. "Come here."
I wet the towels and start wiping paint from his face, and he grins down at me with that sunshine smile that should be illegal before noon.
"Domestic," he says happily. "You're taking care of me."
"I'm preventing you from contaminating my bakery."
"With love."
"With violence, if you don't stop moving."
He stops moving, but his grin gets wider. "Rowan's gonna be jealous. You're touching my face."
"I'm removing paint!"
"Lovingly removing paint."
"I'm going to lovingly remove your ability to speak if you don't—"
He kisses me. Quick, sweet, tasting like the cinnamon roll he definitely stole on his way in. When he pulls back, there's green paint on my nose.
"LEVI!"
"Oops?" But he's laughing, and then everyone's laughing, and Mila's filming despite my no-filming rule, and Rosemarie's making what she's calling "chaos coffee," and Reverie's documenting everything in her color-coded notebooks.
"My life used to be simple," I mutter, but I'm smiling.
"Boring," Luca corrects. "Your life used to be boring."
"I like boring!"
"No, you don't." Levi steals a freshly frosted cupcake. "You like us."
I do. Despite the chaos and the paint and the fact that my bakery has become some kind of reality show set, I really, really do.
"We still need to get you on social media," Reverie insists. "The people need to see this chaos!"
"The people can wait."
"The people are impatient!"
"The people can eat cookies and deal with it."
"That's actually a great slogan," Mila says. "Hazel's Bakery: Eat cookies and deal with it."
"I'm not using that."
"You should," Rosemarie agrees. "It's very authentic."
"Authentically unhinged."
"The best kind!"
My phone buzzes—my ancient, barely functional phone—with a text from Rowan:
ROWAN: Heard Levi's green. Need backup?
I text back:
ME: Always need backup with these two.
His response is immediate:
ROWAN: On my way.
ROWAN: With paint remover.
Of course he has paint remover.
Like this is a regular enough occurrence that he comes prepared.
"Rowan's coming," I announce.
"Excellent!" Reverie claps. "Full pack photo opportunity!"
"No photos!"
"Just one!"
"No!"
"What if I make you those fancy drinks you like?"
"...Maybe one photo."
"YES! Mila, get the ring light! Rosemarie, arrange them attractively! Hazel, stop looking like you're being held hostage!"
"I am being held hostage!"
"By love," Levi says sweetly, still dripping paint.
"By chaos," I correct.
"Same thing with us," Luca observes.
And he's right. With them, chaos and love are the same thing—messy, overwhelming, wonderful, and absolutely nothing like the simple life I thought I wanted.
But maybe simple was just another word for lonely.
The bell chimes, and Rowan walks in carrying industrial paint remover and looking like every firefighter calendar's wet dream in his uniform.
"Green's a good color on you," he tells Levi dryly.
"I'm starting a trend."
"You're starting a disaster."
"That too."
And as my bakery fills with bickering and laughter and the smell of coffee mixed with paint fumes, as Reverie directs us into increasingly ridiculous poses for her "one photo" that's definitely become a photo shoot, as my new employees cheer and suggest poses and threaten to start their own social media accounts just to document this chaos—
I think maybe I'm ready for social media after all.
But first, I need to get the paint out of Levi's hair before it dries.
And maybe kiss Luca again when no one's watching.
And definitely make sure Rowan gets the same temple kiss treatment because fair is fair.
And then probably make more cookies because stress baking is still my primary coping mechanism and this is a lot of feelings before noon.
My life is chaos now. Beautiful, paint-covered, Alpha-scented chaos.
And I wouldn't change a single thing.