Knot on the Menu (Omega Flu #1)

Chapter 1

Kimmie

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon when I finally untie my limp apron. I’m tired as hell, but it’s a good kind of tired. The kind that comes from keeping a seventy-year legacy alive in downtown’s beating heart.

It’s Thursday. Almost the weekend. While other restaurants chase the weekend crowd, Waffles Cafe operates on my grandfather’s old school philosophy, work hard Monday through Friday, rest on weekends.

It works because our location is prime real estate.

The historical building is perfectly positioned to catch the tide of suits and pencil skirts flowing between gleaming office towers.

When Saturday rolls around and downtown transforms into a concrete ghost town, my staff and I get to actually live our lives.

I snort, wiping down the ancient marble counter one last time before I grab my purse.

For me, “living my life” mostly means reinvesting every spare penny into keeping this place running.

Thank God the apartment upstairs came with my inheritance, or I’d be sleeping on a pallet in the employee break room.

“Hot date?” Suze’s voice carries from behind the register. The hostess and waitstaff have all clocked out and aside from us, the restaurant is empty. My assistant manager’s raised eyebrow tells me she already knows exactly where I’m headed.

“Oh yeah,” I say, “just me and a relentless alpha who wants to demolish our livelihood.”

Suze’s face scrunches like she’s bitten into a lemon. “Ugh, that’s today? I still don’t get why you’re bothering to meet with him.”

“Because I’m tired of the Stanton lawyers leaving pretentious business cards on my counter. Time to tell His Highness ‘no’ to his face.”

“Tell me you’re not wearing that.” Suze gestures at my faded jeans with a flour handprint on the thigh topped by my grandfather’s faded blue “Kiss the Cook” t-shirt.

“What, this isn’t boardroom chic?” I twirl so the oversized shirt billows around my hips. “Gabriel Stanton can take his Italian suits and shove them right in his—”

“Kimmie!”

“—designer briefcase.” I push open the heavy oak door and breathe in the afternoon air, thick with exhaust fumes. “I’ve got some errands to run before I head to the lion’s den. Lock up for me?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Suze says. “Give ‘em hell!”

The red brick exterior of Waffles rises three stories above the ground, its weathered facade a counterpoint to the glass and steel surrounding it. Gabriel Stanton might see prime real estate, but I see family in every worn floorboard and cast iron skillet.

Screw his millions. Some things aren’t for sale.

***

My afternoon devolves into a comedy of errors that would be funny if I weren’t living it.

The bank teller takes an eternity processing my deposit while sharing her life story.

The dry cleaner has lost my only blazer.

And now I’m crawling through traffic that’s backed up for miles because some genius jackknifed a semi across three lanes.

I’m almost twenty minutes late, and my ancient Civic feels like a mobile sauna.

The broken AC mocks me with impotent wheezing, forcing me to drive with all four windows down.

Of course, that doesn’t help much since the accident has freeway speed down to about three miles an hour.

When traffic finally clears enough to allow for cruising speed, the wind whips my auburn hair into a feral mess while the humidity works its evil magic.

I can feel my t-shirt molding itself to my skin as the cotton fabric darkens to embarrassing patches under my pits.

The Stanton estate looms ahead like something out of a gothic novel, all manicured hedges and imposing stonework.

My Civic, with its intermittent patches of rust and duct-taped side mirror, looks like a junkyard dog trotting into a Westminster show.

The guard at the gate gives me the kind of look usually reserved for something scraped off the bottom of a shoe.

“Miss Carmichael?”

I nod, too overheated and irritated to trust my voice. He waves me through with obvious reluctance, as if afraid my car might pollute the pristine cobblestone driveway.

I park in front of the sprawling mansion and catch my reflection in the car window as I close the door.

It confirms my worst fears. My hair has reached full lion’s mane status, and there’s a smudge of flour on my cheek I somehow missed earlier.

I swipe at it, then muster up a fresh wave of the bravado I felt when I left the restaurant.

Gabriel Stanton may be rich and powerful, but he’s nobody to me.

I don’t care enough about his opinion to bother with primping.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

The massive wooden door swings open before I can even reach for the brass knocker, revealing a butler straight out of central casting—complete with perfectly pressed uniform and a full head of stiffly coiffed silver hair.

His expression remains professionally neutral as he takes in my disheveled appearance.

“Miss Carmichael, I presume? Right this way, please.”

I follow him across gleaming marble floors. He leads me to what I assume is the parlor, though it’s bigger than my entire apartment.

“Would you care for a beverage while you wait?” The butler’s eyes carefully avoid the sweat stains on my shirt that’ll probably form salt rings when they dry.

“Ice water, please,” I sigh, flopping onto the couch with the grace of one of the flour sacks I hauled this morning. I’m exhausted, and despite the conditioned air, still burning up.

The butler reappears with a frosty glass, and I gulp greedily. The water is pure heaven, but it can’t wash away the nerves churning in my gut. Even in my best outfit, I’d be out of place here.

The doors swing open again, and I shoot to my feet, nearly dropping the crystal water glass. Should I curtsy? Genuflect? High five? My etiquette lessons never covered what to do when meeting an obscenely wealthy alpha while one is a sweaty mess.

I settle for standing awkwardly as not one, but four alphas file in, and immediately my beta senses go haywire.

Alpha scents typically register as subtle background notes to me if I notice them at all—like catching a whiff of cologne from across a room.

But these, they hit me like a punch to the solar plexus.

I recognize Gabriel Stanton from news coverage and business magazines.

The photos don’t do justice to his commanding presence.

His scent hits me first—it’s like lightning striking a pine tree, dangerous and elemental.

When his large hand engulfs mine, I feel the calluses that hint he’s more than just a corporate king.

“Miss Carmichael,” he says. His nearly black eyes flick over my attire, and one dark eyebrow arches slightly. “I trust you had a pleasant drive?”

The hint of amusement in his voice makes my cheeks burn.

But I return the favor and take in his bespoke suit, gleaming leather shoes, and the crisp white shirt that probably has his initials monogrammed on it somewhere.

The whole ensemble looks too fresh for someone who’s probably had as long a day as I have. “Traffic was horrible.”

“Ah, yes. The accident on the interstate. I hope it didn’t overly inconvenience you.” He turns slightly, gesturing to the other alphas. “Allow me to introduce my pack. This is Dr. Elliot Stanton, PhD. He’s the head of research and development at Stanton Industries.”

A tall man with striking green eyes and curly dark hair steps forward.

His nearness brings the crisp scent of something medicinal—not antiseptic, but clean like crushed herbs.

His expression is curious as he studies me.

“Your establishment’s reputation precedes you, Miss Carmichael.

I particularly enjoy your cardamom orange waffles. ”

I blink in surprise. I wouldn’t have pegged him as someone who frequents a casual eatery like Waffles, but before I can respond, Gabriel continues.

“Tanner Stanton. If you follow boxing, you may have heard of him. Now he runs a chain of athletic studios.”

I don’t follow the sport, but the sight of Tanner is almost enough to make me start. He’s not handsome. He looks…rough. In the sexiest, most delicious way possible.

Conversely, his smell is sweeter than the first two.

It’s woodsy, like Gabriel’s, but instead of pine, it’s reminiscent of the trunk of a split cedar.

His dark blond hair is cropped close, and his handshake is firm enough to make me wonder if he’s trying to prove something.

Then I realize his hands are just hard. Gabriel Stanton has calluses, but each of Tanner’s meaty paws is one big callus.

He’s the only one without a suit jacket, and his button-down is straining over biceps that must be responsible for a few knock-outs.

“Nice shirt,” he says, lips twitching. But he softens the statement with a wink.

Heat creeps up my neck.

Gabriel continues with the introductions. “And Leo Stanton. Perhaps you’ve seen his sculpture downtown in front of the Formier building?”

The last alpha’s scent catches me completely off guard—pure dark chocolate, both bitter and sweet.

He’s the shortest of the four, though I still have to tilt my head up to meet those soft blue eyes set in a face that belongs on a Renaissance painting.

His rich brown hair falls in perfect waves half-covering one eye, and his lean fingers are cool against my overheated palm, and I’m even more acutely aware of how disheveled I am.

Those beautiful eyes hold mine a beat too long.

“We’re so pleased to have you for dinner. ”

“I’m sorry, what?” I don’t know what’s causing more confusion in my brain, that they expect me to stay for dinner or the double meaning of his words.

Gabriel frowns. “Did Ms. Peters not mention my dinner invitation?”

“Uh, no.” I glance down at my outfit, mortification setting in. “She just said you wanted to meet at six to discuss business.”