Chapter 12
Kimmie
Home sweet home, where nobody smells like sin in an expensive suit. I open the door of my apartment above the restaurant and inhale deeply. The familiar scents of yeast and coffee grounds waft up from below. No crazy-making pheromones here. Just the honest smell of a working restaurant.
I’m fine. Totally fine.
Whatever weird hormone surge I experienced at the Stanton mansion was clearly just a side effect of the flu.
But not that side effect!
And that situation with Gabriel after my shower? Fever induced temporary insanity. Has to be.
I inconveniently remember my fever was all but gone at that point. Whatever. It’s time to get back to normal life. Starting with checking on my restaurant.
I dial Suze’s number, and she picks up on the first ring.
“Well, if it isn’t the invalid herself. Done being nursed by the enemy?”
“I had the flu,” I say as I flop onto my ancient couch and wince at the spring that always pokes my left thigh. “And the pack was surprisingly decent about it.”
“Decent enough to let you escape without stealing your building?”
Instead of answering, I say, “How was service Friday?”
“Went fine. Jimmy covered your spot at the pass, Sarah handled prep, and I managed not to burn the place down. But you’re changing the subject. Was Gabriel Stanton really as awful as we thought?”
“He’s still trying to destroy the restaurant,” I remind her—and myself. “Though he did keep me out of the hospital. They all did.”
“My heroes,” she says dryly. “At least you sound better than the last time I talked to you. Coming back Monday?”
“Yeah. Got a doctor’s appointment first thing, but I’ll be in after.”
I tell her I have to go and hang up before she can ask more questions. The restaurant’s fine. My life is fine. Everything is absolutely, perfectly…
A gush of wetness between my thighs makes me groan.
Stupid body with its stupid…whatever this is.
Dr. Hilliard has to be wrong about the omega thing.
Sure, my sense of smell is still heightened, but it’s probably just lingering flu symptoms. And okay, maybe I’m a little more sensitive than usual, but that doesn’t mean…
I need a distraction. My laptop beckons from the coffee table. What better way to reassert my boring beta normality than some retail therapy? I’ve been meaning to replace these springs of torture anyway.
Two hours later, I’ve ordered a new couch (sensible, practical), some throw pillows (okay, maybe a few more than strictly necessary), three sets of Egyptian cotton sheets (they were on sale), four impossibly soft velvet blankets in different shades of cream and gold (they just looked cozy), and possibly every scented candle on (lavender promotes calm, right?).
My credit card is screaming for mercy, but I still spring for next-day delivery.
It seems very important I get everything as soon as possible.
This is fine. I’m fine.
I think about ways to distract myself. I can spend the day reorganizing my apartment. My humble abode always gets neglected in favor of restaurant responsibilities. Maybe I’ll organize my closet. Sort the linens by thread count. Deep clean the…
Oh damn!, I’m nesting, aren’t I?
No. I am Kimmie Carmichael, beta businesswoman and proud of it. I do not nest. I do not produce slick. And I absolutely do not fantasize about four sets of alpha hands on my…
Ugh!
Where are those velvet blankets when you need them to hide under?