Knotting With A Stranger (Whispering Grove #1)

Chapter 1

1

LILY

W edding cakes have a way of knowing when you fear them.

I’m standing in my kitchen at five in the morning, staring at what should have been a perfectly good vanilla sponge but has instead become some sort of concrete monster. The mixer whirs pathetically, the metal spoon bent at an angle speaks of defeat, and I swear the batter just growled at me.

“Listen here,” I tell it, brandishing my spatula like a weapon. “I’ve dealt with worse than you. Remember the Great Fruit Cake Disaster of 2024? Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The mixture remains stubbornly silent. Defiant.

Through the kitchen doorway, I glance into the darkened shopfront of Flour & Fable Bakery. Christmas lights from Main Street cast multicolored shadows through our festively decorated front windows, making the display cases shimmer. The snow falls in thick, lazy flakes outside, turning Whispering Grove into the inside of a snow globe. Somewhere, faintly, I can hear White Christmas playing from the speakers outside. The whole town plays festive tunes nonstop. I would feel enchanted on any other morning, but right now, I have bigger problems.

Like the fact that my sister Hannah is out of town for two days, allegedly picking up supplies, but more likely meeting the mystery man she thinks I don’t know about. And I have a wedding cake due at two p.m. that’s currently declaring war on my kitchen.

I blow a strand of dark hair from my face, blowing a puff of flour across my face, while the industrial kitchen gleams around me, all stainless steel and professional equipment. We’ve come far from the days when we baked in our dad’s tiny kitchen. He’s a chef, so we grew up in the kitchen, watching him cook, teaching us from a young age. And we’ve both dreamed of owning our own bakery.

The morning light catches on the copper pots hanging overhead, the specialty cake pans lining the walls, and the row of proofing drawers where tomorrow’s bread slowly rises. I breathe easily… the place always calms me.

This is my kingdom. My safe haven. The place Hannah and I built after we lost our mom. Dad did his best, working double shifts at the local diner to keep us fed and to keep Mom’s small catering business going. But watching him try to juggle everything—raising two girls, working himself to exhaustion, attempting to keep Mom’s recipes alive—left its mark on all of us.

A sharp knock at the front glass door startles me from my memories. Through the darkness of the shop, I can make out a familiar silhouette bundled in a thick coat, rapping impatiently on the glass.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter, wiping my hands on my apron. Mrs. Meadow. At five in the morning. Because, of course.

The knocking gets more insistent as I hurry toward the door. Is she in trouble? “Coming, coming!”

Mrs. Meadow practically pushes her way in the moment I unlock the door, bringing a swirl of snowflakes with her. “Really, Lily, making me wait in this weather?”

“Mrs. Meadow, we don’t open for another three hours...”

“Oh, pish posh. Hannah said I could pick up my order at five.” She stamps snow from her boots—on our clean floor—and peers around the dark shop. “Though I don’t know why she’d leave you alone like this. What if you went into heat?”

I bite back a sigh. “Then I’d close up shop and deal with it like any other modern Omega. But seeing as I haven’t experienced any heat in twenty-four years, I think we’re safe for now.” Especially since I haven’t had any inklings yet.

I stare at my countertop, counting backward from ten at her words. The irony of a Beta lecturing me about Omega biology is not lost on me. Society considers them the balanced ones, the peacekeepers between volatile Alphas and fragile Omegas. Ha. Mrs. Meadow has probably never had a single hormone-induced thought in her perfectly regulated life, yet here she is, treating me like I’m one whiff of Alpha musk away from throwing myself at the nearest knot. Because obviously, that’s all we Omegas think about—finding mates, making babies, and being good little breeders. Never mind that I’ve kept this bakery thriving many times on my own when my sister Hannah traveled.

Mrs. Meadow makes that little hmph sound that suggests she has opinions about modern Omegas. I leave her standing there and head to the counter where, sure enough, I find a box marked Mrs. M - 5 a.m. pickup in Hannah’s neat handwriting.

My sister, ever efficient, must have prepared it before leaving. She also apparently forgot to mention it to me. Though, given how distracted she’s been lately, constantly checking her phone and smiling at nothing, I’m not entirely surprised.

“Here you are, Mrs. Meadow. One special order coffee cake.” I slide the box across the counter.

She peers inside suspiciously. “It better not be burned this time.”

“Hannah made it herself yesterday.”

That seems to satisfy her, though she still sniffs dramatically before tucking the box under her arm. “Well. I suppose you’ll be managing alone until she returns?”

“I’ve got it covered.” I gesture to the kitchen, where my monster cake batter awaits. “Just working on a wedding cake.”

“Alone? Without help?” Her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline.

“I don’t need anyone to bake a cake, Mrs. Meadow.”

“That’s what’s wrong with young Omegas today. So independent. In my day...”

I tune out the familiar lecture, nodding at appropriate intervals while mentally calculating how much time I’m losing. The cake needs to be done before opening, and I still have all the morning baking to do.

“I may only be a Beta,” Mrs. Meadow sniffs, adjusting her coat. “But I’ve taught more young Omegas proper etiquette than you can count. My niece, bless her, followed every word of my advice and landed herself a wonderful Alpha husband.” She looks me up and down. “Never make direct eye contact with unmated Alphas, dear. And do tilt your head—just so—to show proper submission. Those scent-blocking patches aren’t optional during professional interactions, you know.” She purses her lips as I fail to suppress a laugh. “And please, dear, don’t laugh so loudly. It’s most unbecoming of an Omega.”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of unsolicited Omega etiquette lessons, I manage to usher her out into the snow. The moment the door locks behind her, I race back to the kitchen where my cake batter has, if anything, become even more menacing.

“Right,” I tell it, rolling up my sleeves. “Where were we?”

The mixer makes an ominous sound in response. I need help. Hannah would know exactly what to do, how to save this disaster. I collect my phone, remembering the new number she gave me yesterday before leaving. Something about her phone contract ending and number changing. Her new number is stuck to the fridge—hastily scrawled on a sticky note that’s already curling at the edges. I can’t help wondering if the change has something to do with that mystery guy she’s been seeing or her sudden plans to leave town. She’s been tight-lipped about both, which isn’t like her at all.

Squinting at her messy handwriting, I type the number in and start messaging.

Help! Need to hide this body. It’s bigger than expected, and I can’t lift it alone. Bringing in reinforcements didn’t help. May need to dissolve it in acid.

I set the phone down and return to battling the mixer when a response comes quickly.

Acid leaves evidence. Rookie mistake. I know a guy who specializes in these situations.

I snort, typing back while adding more flour to the mix. Very funny. But seriously, this thing is turning into cement. I’ve tried everything short of an exorcism.

Have you considered that maybe it WANTS to be cement? Follow your dreams.

I laugh, shaking my head at Hannah’s response. Since when are you this philosophical about baking disasters? Usually, you’re all about experimenting.

Sometimes, chaos is the best ingredient. Speaking of which, what’s your preferred method of body disposal? Asking for a friend.

I pause in my mixing. Since when does Hannah make criminal jokes? She’s usually the serious one.

What happened to murder is bad for business? You feeling okay?

Murder is excellent for business if you know how to market it. To die for takes on a whole new meaning.

Something feels... off. I grab my phone, really examining it for the first time. Check the number against the post-it.

Oh. Oh no. OH NO.

This isn’t Hannah. The last number should be six, not nine.

I’ve been casually discussing murder with a complete stranger. My heart pounds as I stare at the screen. Another message pops up.

Though, if you’re really struggling with disposal, I have some creative suggestions. Professional experience.

Professional experience? Oh God . I’ve accidentally contacted a hitman. I’m going to end up on a true crime podcast. Hannah will never let me live this down—assuming I live.

Should I just ignore it? Call the police? But before I can decide, another message appears.

Your silence is concerning. Did the body win?

Despite my panic, I find myself smiling. Whoever this is, they have a sense of humor. Maybe they’re not a hitman. Maybe they’re just someone who watches too many crime shows. Like me.

Um…. So, funny story. I think I have the wrong number. I was trying to text my sister about a cake disaster...

Three dots appear immediately.

A likely story. That’s what all murderers say. “Oh, I was just baking!” Meanwhile, there’s a body in the mixer.

I swear it’s just cake! Though, at this point, it might be classified as a weapon of mass destruction.

Pics, or it didn’t happen.

I laugh, then glance around guiltily, as if Mrs. Meadow might materialize to disapprove of me flirting with strangers. Not that I’m flirting. Am I flirting?

Are you sure you want evidence of my crime? I type back.

I’ll risk it. Show me your worst.

Heart racing—from panic or excitement, I’m not sure—I snap a quick photo of the kitchen disaster. Flour everywhere, bent mixer attachment, and the concrete-like batter in all its glory. I even make sure to get my flour-covered hands with pink nail polish in the shot just to prove I’m really baking.

Behold, the scene of the crime, I send.

The response is immediate. This is the most beautiful crime scene I’ve ever witnessed. Though your murder weapon needs work. Too obvious. Cake is amateur hour.

His next message comes with a photo—firm hand wrapped around a coffee mug, sleeve rolled up to reveal a muscular forearm that makes my breath catch. In front of him, just a plain white wall gives nothing away.

Can’t all be professional destroyers of kitchens, he sends.

I bite my lip, studying that arm—not too hairy, but enough to tell me he’s a man. Definitely works out.

A man with muscles who can also banter? Now that’s dangerous.

Dangerous is my middle name, he replies . Right after secretly plotting something.

Oh? And here I thought you were just another pretty forearm in a mystery office.

I’ll never tell. Though, I will say my sourdough starter has seen things.

The mixer grunts as it churns, reminding me that I’m supposed to be fixing a crisis, not chatting with a stranger about murderous baking. But I can’t seem to stop.

Your sourdough starter sounds dangerous. Does it have a name?

Bertha. She’s beautiful and terrifying. Now, a baker like you would have a starter, too... I won’t believe you if you say otherwise.

I giggle, surprising myself. It’s been a while since anyone’s made me laugh so early in the morning.

Name?

I roll my eyes but find myself typing. Chonky. He’s my dad’s legacy - three years strong and still terrorizing health inspectors.

You let your starter commit crimes against public officials? I’m shocked and impressed.

I find myself giggling. Hey, those rashes were purely coincidental. Probably.

Probably?

What Chonky does in his free time is his business. I just provide the flour and turn a blind eye.

A criminal mastermind AND her accomplice. I’m talking to a dangerous woman here.

I catch myself grinning at my phone like an idiot. Says the man having an existential crisis over cake batter at 5 AM.

Fair point. I maintain the batter started it.

I should be worried that this conversation feels so natural. Instead, I perch on a kitchen stool, cake temporarily forgotten.

Judge all you want, but that cake batter started it.

Victim blaming. Tsk tsk.

The sky outside is lightning, snow still falling in thick flakes. Time is running out until opening time, a wedding cake to save, and morning baking to start. Instead, I’m sitting in my flour-dusted kitchen, having the strangest conversation of my life.

So, the mystery texter continues. Do you often assault innocent baked goods this early?

Only on days ending in Y. Do you often give murder advice to wrong numbers?

The interesting ones. Most people just say sorry, wrong number and disappear. You’re the first to confess to a crime.

Technical point… I was asking for help with disposal. The crime was already committed.

Ah, so you’re saying you need an accomplice?

Heat creeps into my cheeks. Am I really doing this? Flirting with a complete stranger about fictional murder?

Depends. Are you offering?

The three dots appear and disappear several times, making my heart race. Finally.

I might be. Though I should warn you, I have very specific standards for my criminal partnerships.

Oh? Do tell.

Well, first, they have to have a sense of humor about homicide. Check. Second, they need to be creative with disposal methods. Check. Third...

I wait, breath caught in my throat.

They have to be willing to share their baking disasters with complete strangers at ungodly hours.

My cheeks hurt from smiling. Check, check, and check. Though I should warn you, I have standards, too.

I’m all ears.

First, they have to appreciate the criminal potential of baked goods. Second, they need to name their sourdough starter something appropriately dramatic.

And third?

I bite my lip, typing before I can second-guess myself: Third... they have to keep me entertained while I try to save this wedding cake from itself.

Challenge accepted. Though, I have to ask… is this cake for an enemy? Because if so, you’re doing great.

I chuckle loudly, the sound echoing through the quiet kitchen. The morning light is growing stronger, the snow creating a cozy bubble around the bakery. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, something feels like it’s beginning.

I should probably actually try to fix this cake, I type reluctantly.

Probably. Though I have to say, this is the most fun I’ve had before dawn in a long time.

My heart does a little flip. Same. Though I’m still not convinced you’re not a serial killer.

Says the woman who texted a stranger about hiding a body.

Fair point. For all you know, I could be the serial killer.

A risk I’m willing to take. After all, you seem pretty busy with that cake. No time for murder on the side.

I glance at the clock and wince. He’s right, I really need to focus, but something makes me hesitate before putting the phone down.

I should go. Places to be, cakes to salvage.

The life of a baker-turned-criminal is never easy. Good luck with your victim.

I start to set the phone down, then quickly type one more message.

Thanks for being an unexpectedly fun accomplice.

The response comes fast. And hey... if you need help hiding any other bodies...

My heart stutters as I read the implied invitation. Before I can respond, another message appears.

Or you know, if you just want to talk about non-homicidal things sometime...

The mixer chooses that moment to make a sound like a dying elephant, and reality crashes back in. I have a cake to save, a bakery to open, and a very real life to deal with. This was fun, but...

But what? The practical part of my brain says to end it here. The Omega part of me, the part that’s been dormant for so long, whispers something else entirely. My fingers hover over the phone keyboard, torn between sensible and spontaneous. The next message I send could change everything—or end it before it begins.

Through the kitchen doorway, the snow continues to fall, and somewhere in the distance, church bells chime the hour. Time to decide.

I snatch my phone and begin to type.

Shame. I only date people who can handle a little murder and mayhem with their morning coffee.

Setting my phone down, I turn back to my kitchen nemesis with renewed determination.

In moments, the phone dings again, and I glance over at the message.

True, non-homicidal is overrated. But I might be persuaded to lower my body count...

My laugh bounces off the kitchen walls, surprising me. Shaking my head, I return to the wedding cake, unable to wipe the smile from my face. Who knew disaster could lead to something so unexpectedly delightful?