14. Willow
Chapter fourteen
Willow
My heart sinks as I step into the bare room that’s supposed to be my nest. The emptiness and lack of personality smacks into my soul as if to say: You don’t deserve a nest, stupid Willow.
Not only is the space shadowed, but it’s devoid of furniture, life, and all pretty things.
Mr Shares trots into the room, sniffing at the new territory.
A spider’s moved into one corner, weaving himself a webby artwork.
Dust bunnies collect along the skirting boards, and the whole room is dark and empty of anything inspiring romance.
Not that I’m expecting romance. No, just a man to come and do the deed, feed me his knot a few times until the fever breaks, and then leave. No feelings, strings, or obligations. I know it’s a common thing. Alphas have ruts, omegas have heats.
But this will be the first time I pay for sex.
Well, assuming the clinic can fit me in. If not, I’m up the creek without a paddle. I don’t want to even think about what happens if they can’t help with my heat. Is this the thing you put on local ad pages? Help required: thirty-two-year-old omega needing a trustworthy alpha for heat relief?
The idea makes me nauseous.
And the whole situation reminds me all too clearly of another empty nest—one that cuts my omega heart to even think about.
“I’m not the same girl,” I tell myself, setting my hands on my hips.
This isn’t the same house either. No, this space belongs only to me, and I get to choose what comes, and goes, in here. I spend all day telling other omegas to take charge of their lives, so a little nest building shouldn’t be a hard task.
And the room isn’t going to clean or furnish itself while I stand around staring.
I drag out the broom, vacuum, and mop and work my way around, even sugar soaping the walls when my nerves get the better of me.
Mr Shares idles around the cleaning tools, sticking his nose in everything and sneezing at the dust. I work up a sweat pretty fast, heat lingering in the room and sticking to my body.
Nothing the aircon can’t fix, but a flush still pervades my skin.
Each hour feels like a month with the lurking heat threat.
Flightiness dances through my body, and I twitch at every unknown sound, nearly jumping out of my skin when Mr Shares knocks the mop over.
I hate things not being certain. Unlike my team of staff around the globe, I can’t order my omega nature away.
Can’t ignore it and pick a different, less difficult topic to address.
Can’t delete the hushed commentary running through my brain, mocking my efforts.
My phone rings from the other end of the house.
“Dammit!” I mutter, dropping my cleaning rags and hobbling to the kitchen. I don’t make it in time, because I’m too darn slow. The contact shows up as the heat service. Clutching at the phone, I immediately dial the number. What if they’ve closed for the day already?
“Heat Wave services, my name is Debbie, how may I help you?”
Relief pours through me. “Hi, this is Willow. I just missed your call.”
“Oh, Willow! Thanks for returning my call. I was phoning to let you know that we can send you an alpha on Friday.”
I grip the phone, my tummy flip-flopping. The way she phrases it makes me think of a mail-delivered package.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m . . . that’s good news.”
“Great,” Debbie continues. “I’m afraid we can’t offer you a choice of alpha profiles, however we do have a service officer who meets your requirements. I’ll send you an information pack via email with everything you need to know. Does that sound okay?”
“Yes. And thank you for fitting me in.”
“Our pleasure.”
I drop onto a bar stool, my legs weak. “Oh, one more thing. I don’t know how long my heat will last. They used to be three days but now . . . Well, I don’t know anymore.”
“That’s no problem, ma’am. The alpha will be available for as long as you need. They usually work one week on, one week off, just in case the heats run longer.”
“Okay. Yeah, that’s good news.” I clear my throat.
The idea of a man being available for as long as I need seems foreign. Drives home the fact he’s a hundred percent coming for my benefit and not for his own needs.
“And he’ll definitely come to my home?” I ask.
“Yes, he will. And I’ve sent the invoice through to your email separately. Please know the booking isn’t confirmed until it’s been paid for, but if you are experiencing financial difficulty—”
“That’s not a problem.” Now that I have my answer, I’m antsy to get off the phone. We finish up and I huff out a big gust of air.
“Phew.” I drop into the closest chair. “I have a heat partner.”
Mr Shares nudges my limp hand with his wet nose and yips, as if he understands this is big news.
The screen still glows with the open phone app, and I change the contact to Dial-a-Man. Just as a joke, to ease my nerves. Better pay that invoice—the last thing I need is some painful mix up where no one comes to my door.
I drag my tablet over from the coffee table and flick to my emails.
When I open the invoice, I get a nice surprise.
Thanks to government subsidies, the service charges a bit under $1000, and most of that cost is because I asked for a house call.
Heat Wave has even more funding offsets and grants available for omegas finding themselves in trouble, or payment plans for those who need them.
Well, damn.
If only I knew about a place like this back when I was living on my own, I wouldn’t have suffered so much. Maybe I’ll do a shout out on my channel in the future, to make sure my audience knows about options like this.
I log into my banking app and check my main account, habit driving me to count the digits in the balance. Once, where there were only cents, I now have hundreds of thousands in liquid money, but the anxiety around finance still lingers.
“Money flows to you, Willow,” I whisper under my breath. “You live in abundance; the resources you need are always within reach.”
No alpha can cut up my cards or spend it on car parts for projects sitting dead in the garage. And even when I pay a bill, my income streams will flow in to fill the dent. Just yesterday, one of the stocks in my portfolio paid out seven grand in dividends.
A Heat Wave service officer coming to my house is a non-negotiable expense. Plus, it’s a sign of how well that I’m doing that I can pay this bill without needing the funding offsets—let the struggling omegas benefit from those options.
Only after the bill’s paid do I relax.
I spend a moment being grateful for my circumstances and even thanking myself and for all the hard work it took to build my current financial situation. It required so much effort to overcome my fears—most of them.
Now what? Friday is four days away. I still need to clean the nest, but I can take care of that tomorrow. More urgently, I need a bed to put in there, plus something to make the room look less abandoned.
I search the web for an omega store in Dallas that can do overnight delivery and then scroll through their nest options. Pretty curtains, fluffy cushions, diffusers. It’s a world I haven’t stepped into for so long; my omega soul quivers with uncertainty.
Then I spy a cute woven basket that speaks to me.
And a set of cushions with an elegant scroll pattern.
Both get added to the shopping cart. Now for the bed.
Before I know it, Mr Shares shoves his wet nose into my knee and I jump, looking up to discover it’s completely dark outside and I have a crick in my neck.
My cart has a hundred and four items in it.
“Huh?” I massage my neck as I click over. The total comes to $3000.
“Whoa,” I whisper to myself. That’s a lot.
I scroll through the items, pausing at the thumbnail of a pretty sequin blanket. I’ve never had my own nest, for real. Compared to the backseat of my car, the empty room down the hall is already a luxury.
And the one nest I did have—I force down the choking sensation.
“You’re allowed to have a nest,” I mumble. “A nice one that’s all yours.”
Mr Shares senses my anxiety. He jumps up on the couch and wiggles his way under my elbow, nudging my arm until I cuddle him.
“What do you think, Mr Shares? I’m allowed to have a beautiful nest, aren’t I?”
I grasp his head with both hands and nod it up and down. When I speak, I adopt a playful, deeper voice. “Why, yes, Willow. Omegas need nests for their mental and physical health. Relaxation and comfort is vital to managing the heat fever.”
“Thank you for that advice Mr Shares. If my therapy dog says so, it must be true.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and then I laugh and ruffle his golden fur.
I take another peek at my cart balance, this time with less emotion. My little spree won’t even put a dent in my daily account, let alone my emergency fund.
“What’s it for, if not this?” I ask my dog. It’s not like I’ll ever travel or go out to concerts.
He wags his tail, batting it against the sofa.
If I must go through this heat, then I might as well treat myself—and hopefully make the process a little fun. I smash the buy button before I can talk myself out of getting all the pretties.
I go to bed with a speck of weight lifting from my shoulders. Things aren’t ideal, but I can bear them.
The delivery truck backs up to my front door. The young worker swings out of the truck and checks his hand-held device before getting a trolley out and loading it up with boxes.
I heave the front door open as he maneuvers the load up the step. “Hello. Could you bring them inside, please?” I ask.
He glances through the doorway, eyes narrowing. We both know he’s not supposed to, but I’m a harmless omega. One with a panic button remote in her hand, but he doesn’t know that.
He scratches his head and angles the trolley. “Sure. Just inside the door?”
“Go past the foyer so we don’t trip on them, please.”
He brushes past me and unloads the boxes.
“There’s another load. Or two.” He disappears back to his truck.