28. Willow
Chapter twenty-eight
Willow
I keep smiling for no reason as I feed my dog and wander into the kitchen to make myself something. A few of Jeremy’s delicious muffins chase away my munchies as I prepare lettuce cups with some cheese and crackers.
It’s just food, but he may as well have left a piece of himself here in my home.
Feels like my heat unlocked something else in me. Or maybe it was less the heat and more the alphas who’ve walked into my life at the same time. Both men displayed a tenderness I haven’t felt in over a decade. Or maybe ever.
Although I can’t let my guard down. Never again will I fall back to being dependent on an alpha. I’d rather die.
I carry everything back to my desk and settle down. Between Jeremy going to hospital and Alessandro’s visit, I haven’t achieved much in my business. Investing can wait until I’m ready, but the online courses and social media content can’t.
If heats will be a regular disturbance now, I need to line up more content in advance.
The idea brings my thoughts full circle back to Jeremy.
Can I request him for next time? Dare I?
That’s assuming he wants to see me again after his horrendous injury.
Any more time spent together, and my resolve might weaken.
The strength of the feelings formed in the space of half a week intimidates me, and I think he felt the same way.
And now Alessandro’s confessed the same. I haven’t met an alpha who wasn’t a security guard in years, but suddenly I have two of them looking at me like I’m someone special.
“Don’t fall for it,” I whisper.
My voice echoes in the silent house, and I shake my head. I’ve got work to do.
Online, a dumpster fire waits for me. My personal assistant is panicking, my video editor has sent three emails about some sort of codex problem, and I have 3,000 comments piled up.
“Good grief,” I mutter, clicking through my social media notifications. “This is why you don’t take a break, Willow.”
I work my way through five hundred comments, mostly from female profiles thanking me for various tips or asking for more information about my courses. Their messages help me lock into work mode.
You’re so perfect! I want to be you when I grow up!
Inspirational! Keep doing what you’re doing *clapping hands*
You saved my life. Literally. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I pause and close my eyes. These are the moments I live for, the ones that make this life all worth it. Not because someone’s praising me, but because my effort’s making a difference.
Even if what I’m offering is a semi-lie, it’s helping someone.
I send the last commenter a personal message with a coffee voucher attached, thanking her for getting in touch and praising her for staying strong. From personal experience, I understand too well the temptation to quit, to wish you’d never been born.
Earmarking the topic, I note it down in my list of media ideas to circle back to. I haven’t done a positivity post in a couple of weeks. Probably because I had so many ups and downs with my body.
Then I keep reading.
Of course, mixed in with the grateful responses are the a few dozen comments from angry men demanding I stop putting ideas in their omegas’ heads.
They don’t need this bullshit, they have us!
“That’s precisely the problem.” I click over to my list of professional but firm responses and select an appropriate one that politely suggests they keep scrolling. Next comment.
You’re doing more harm than good.
Hmm. Not according to the percentage of comments from omegas and others claiming I’m helping them.
Just because you couldn’t please any alphas, don’t expect everyone to be like you.
That stings, a little, but I’m used to it by now. Many alphas out there want an obedient little pet who never talks back.
Just stop sucking everyone into your own daddy issues.
This one makes me pause. Do I have daddy issues? Maybe. I mean, it’s possible, since I never knew him. Mom was a junkie who couldn’t remember who’d siphoned through her bedroom. So long as they fed her addictions, she was happy. Right up until she died and I got sent into foster care.
I pop a note in my digital journal to discuss it with my therapist and move right along.
My PA sends a note through with a link, which takes me right into the center of a scandal blowing up in real time.
Ginger’s Girl Code, an account focused on beauty tips and self-presentation, is under fire for the creator allegedly getting plastic surgery.
I wince as I skim the comments, finding leaked photos of the woman coming out of surgery, with half her face covered.
I mean, a girl should be able to get whatever surgery she wants, but the cancel culture is real.
It’s the main reason I’m so fanatical about my brand.
Ginger and I have done a few stitches with each other.
Mostly friendly, but there was one where I stitched something she said about how to attract a guy with, adding my own take suggesting omegas find their independence first.
My girl instinct says to reach out and offer her my support, but it would only take one screenshot of the message shared online for the outraged fans to come after me instead.
Suppressing a sigh, I go through my accounts and hide half the videos I’ve done with her.
It’s heartless, I know, but the first rule of influencing is self-preservation.
My omegas need me to keep on teaching, not get dragged into a fan war.
It’s a cruel world, online. Well, not just online, when I think about it.
I check my phone and pause at the sight of a message from Jeremy. He’s sent a photo of a pair of crutches along with the caption, I got new legs! And of course, an emoji of a leg.
I chuckle under my breath as I type back Ooh! Are they fast? I hold my breath as I wait for the three dots to finish flashing.
They’re fast, but we’re having lack of coordination issues with the operator.
I blow a raspberry through my lips. He’s so silly. Does this mean you’re going home?
Yep, in the morning. But it will be a few days before I can collect my truck. Is that okay?
That’s fine.
If he’s going home already, that means his injury isn’t too serious. My heart pounded for a long time after the ambulance took him away, and I couldn’t get the feeling of falling onto his hand out of my head.
How’s your hand?
Missing you.
I scoff under my breath. In the few texts we’ve exchanged, he’s never missed a chance to flirt but I can’t let myself believe it’s anything more than charm acquired for his job.
A little voice in the back of my head says I’m wrong.
But it doesn’t matter; it’s not like I plan to start a relationship with the man.
Even if he is sweet, a great cook, and knows how to meet my every need. And built like a work horse.
I lean my elbows on the desk, resting the phone between them as I decide how to answer.
It sure is quiet without you here, I type.
See? I knew you missed me.
A chuckle escapes me. He’s so confident, and it’s appealing. Oh, my fence capping got installed today. Well, part of it.
Nice! Is that the work Alexandro was asking about?
I trace my finger over his typo but decide against correcting him. Yes.
Awesome. Send me a photo, I can’t picture it.
I grimace. I didn’t take one. Maybe tomorrow. Not happening, but I could ask Alessandro to send me one.
Cool. Did you eat dinner yet?
I snap a photo of my plate and send it through. He answers in seconds. Salad cups? That’s a girl snack. Where’s the real food?
My laugh attracts Mr Shares, who wanders in from the other room and pops his snout on my knee, tail swishing like a flag in the breeze. I pat his head before turning back to my phone.
What’s wrong with girl dinner? I happen to like it.
He adds an emoji with a doubtful expression. Hot on its heels, my photo comes back with a wobbly red line around the egg muffins on the side.
At least I know you’re using up those muffins. If I was there, I’d cook something up for you.
I grin down at my phone. Oh yeah? Like what?
Hmm. Cannelloni. Or chicken pie. I make a pretty mean pizza too. Do you have a woodfire oven?
My pulse leaps, and not in a good way. Not sure, I type back. And those are all carbs.
For all I know there could be an oven around the side of the patio, but I’m not going out there to check. Not on my life.
Ooh, carb counting are we? he shoots back. In that case, I better add a Caesar salad.
And we’re back to salad, I write. Thus, girl dinner.
He goes silent a moment, and I can picture his easy smirk. Fine. You win.
Hot on the heels of his surrender comes a photo with a spoonful of mashed potato and some wilted-looking vegetables.
I burst out laughing. It looks so pitiful and unappetizing. Think you better make that cannelloni for yourself.
He sends me a gif of a kid celebrating and jumping in the air and my heart glows. This is wading deep into dangerous waters.
Thanks for letting me know you’re home. Send me a message before you plan to pick up your car.
Will do. Sleep well, darlin.
Well, shit. That one little word reminds me of all the ways he drawled it during my heat, encouraging me, telling me I was doing great. Promising to never hurt me.
I slump back in my chair and spin around. The warmth in my heart, coupled with the adrenaline dump from Jeremy asking things related to going outside has me worked up. I twitch one leg up and down, trying to drain out the nerves.
Best thing to do is get my mind off the handsome alpha.
I carry my food to the kitchen and refill the plate, wiping off any crumbs and arranging the pieces until everything looks good.
Then I settle cross-legged on the couch in front of my tripod, straining until I get my bad leg under me.
Once I’ve carefully curated a relaxed position with my tray balanced over my lap and clipped on my lapel mic, I click my remote to begin recording.
“What foods did your alphas say you couldn’t eat? Hey Omegalings! I’m Willow and this is the Boss Omega channel. Have your alphas ever dictated what you can and can’t eat? Maybe it starts out as jokes, playfully criticizing your food. But before you know it, those words turn darker.”
I pause for breath and rest one hand on my chest.
“If you’re resonating with what I’m saying, you’re not alone.
In fact, eating and being fed are a huge part of pack culture, and so many omegas I hear from say that while they sometimes get spoiled with their favorite takeaway, the alphas generally control what gets served at regular meals.
And hey, I get it, they’re big eaters and often doing more physical jobs.
But if you’re going along with what they want and pretending your appetites don’t matter, that’s a slippery slope. ”
I tilt the tray toward the camera. “This is girl dinner, and I’m here to tell you to eat what you want.”
I scoop a piece of cheese onto a cracker and bite into it, confident the crunch will translate nicely through the audio.
“Here’s a fun fact they don’t want you to know.
Alphas are perfectly capable of making their own food, if this is all you want to eat.
And if they aren’t, honeys, you’ve created a monster.
There’s no rule that says the omega must be the homemaker.
I talk about that so much on this channel.
Omancy doesn’t mean you can’t be the one who keeps house and does all the cooking.
No, boss girl. It means you have the option to stay home, or go out and work, or do whatever the heck you want. ”
I pick up a lettuce cup and toast the camera. “So, eat what you like and don’t feel guilty. Stay bossy out there, omegas.”
With a hum I take a bite, careful not to let the aioli drip, chewing and smiling for a minute before stopping the recording.
The food sits heavy in my stomach as I take the next bite. I shouldn’t have turned my conversation with Jeremy into content ideas, and he certainly wasn’t trying to dictate what I eat. It was fun, and nice, and his way of saying he wanted to cook for me.
But I need to make up time and get more videos out after four days offline.
I work my way off the couch and carry my food back to the office. I’ve got a ton to catch up on, and some hyperfocus will help take my mind off the two kind alphas who want to get to know me better.
I’m a boss omega, and nothing else matters.