Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
MAX
Slam!
Kneading dough was therapeutic. It helped me exercise my pent-up anger, sort of like when Mom would ask me to get the ice ready on Thanksgiving by dropping the bag against the concrete driveway until it was all broken up.
Folding, throwing, and slamming dough down on the counter never solved my problems, but it always made me feel better. Plus, it made my shoulders look fantastic and resulted in hot carbs. Was there anything more delicious?
Don’t answer that, I inwardly growled at my omega as the Masked Man’s scent lingered, thick and heady, on the back of my tongue. That horny little shit was the reason we were in this predicament in the first place.
I threw the dough against the counter again. Slam!
Besides, I wasn’t angry. Not at all. Why would I be? This wasn’t ‘I’m upset’ bread; it was ‘we have too much butter’ bread.
There was a sale on the good French stuff; how was I supposed to resist?
Slam!
And so what if I hadn’t spoken to the Masked Man in three days? No more texting, flirting, or phone calls. Na-da. Zip. Zilch.
Slam!
It wasn’t like I expected it. I’d told him to leave. Popping up outside my window unannounced again would be psychotic. That kind of stalking behavior was a major red flag.
Yeah, because everything else about him is all ‘green means go.’
Whatever. In the end, staying away was what I wanted.
Slam!
How gentlemanly of him to listen.
Slam!
I imagined what his face would look like if he’d tried to pet Jeffrey’s belly. Maybe I’d tell him to give it a go next time we saw each other.
Whenever the fuck that was.
Slam!
Annoyingly, my heat symptoms dried up with his absence. It was beginning to give me a complex.
Maybe it was just a fluke. ‘Correlation doesn’t mean causation,’ and all that. Maybe my heat was coming back naturally, and it had nothing to do with the annoyingly good-smelling—murdering, stalking—alpha.
Slam!
I should text him and tell him not to worry about any of it, after all. It would be worse, though, to find out he hadn’t cared in the first place.
Slam!
Maybe he already had a mate. I hadn’t really given him a chance to explain himself. Maybe there wasn’t a host of other omegas, but just one—a hot, badass, black belt-carrying omega warming his bed every night that he was aching to get back to.
Someone who could eat silly, naive me for breakfast.
Slam!
My omega snarled. That was worse. So much worse.
His behavior didn’t really align with that, though, which I chose to let upset me even more. How dare he also be a hypothetical cheater? He didn’t deserve such a mate.
If he actually decided I was worth his time and texted me, I’d make sure to start a fight about it.
Slam!
Ugh. I was pathetic. And I refused to continue being pathetic over a man who crawled through people’s windows at night.
Slam!
What a loser.
Slam!
What did he even do all day, anyway? I couldn’t picture him with a regular nine-to-five. Was he a finance bro? Maybe an IT guy? Oh no, what if he’s one of those LinkedIn freaks?
Kill me. I refused to be hung up on someone who posted about the #grind three times a day. How humiliating for us both. Get help.
Slam!
I’d shoved my phone to the bottom of my bag an hour ago—because I had a lot of things to do, obviously—but maybe when I finally checked it later, I’d find a text he’d sent hours ago, unable to stand being away from me any longer.
I’d make him wait before replying, just so he’d squirm. Hell, maybe I wouldn’t even respond today at all. Would he go mad, wondering if I’d already gone into heat? Would he be jealous, obsessing over who I’d chosen to spend it with?
Slam!
Fuck. That only reminded me I hadn’t chosen anyone yet, and the prospect of doing so was so depressing I could cry. In my jealousy and hurt, I hadn’t really considered that there was literally no one else I wanted to touch me, let alone spend a heat with.
What was I going to do?
“Max? Max! Are you alright?”
Startled out of my Olympic-level spiral, I twisted to the open kitchen door just in time to see Mr. Marino storm in, wielding a bat over his head.
“What’s going on in here?” he yelled, frantically looking around. “What’s happening?”
I dropped the dough and held my hands up like I’d been caught stealing. “Uh, nothing? It’s just me. Is there something wrong?”
Wild-eyed, he cast around as if he didn’t believe me. He looked genuinely terrifying.
Once he’d taken in the whole room, his shoulders sagged, and he dropped the bat to his side. “What the hell was all that noise?”
I cringed. “I’m making bread. Er, kneading dough. I might’ve gotten a little overzealous. Sorry! I’ll be quiet; I know you’re in meetings all day.”
Scanning the counter behind me, he took in the scene. “You were… kneading dough? That loudly? It sounded like someone was breaking the door down.”
Clasping my hands behind my back, I cringed again. “No broken doors. Just bread.”
He looked over my shoulder, eyebrows raised. “That’s a lot of bread.”
I turned and took everything in. It felt a bit like waking from a fever dream. Yesterday, I’d started the homemade full puff pastry, and a batch of pains au chocolat was proofing on the counter alongside a dozen brioche buns.
Vaguely, I recalled a pan of sausage rolls chilling in the refrigerator.
I pursed my lips. “So… There was a sale on the good butter.”
He nodded cautiously, as if afraid to spook me. “Uh-huh. And all of this is for the four of us? Or are we expecting guests that I’ve forgotten about?”
“No guests.” I cleared my throat. “Just us. I didn’t realize how carried away I’d gotten. I’m sorry.”
His eyes softened. I rarely saw him outside of our brief interactions and casual small talk around mealtime, so it took me off guard. “No need to apologize. I was just worried. Are you feeling alright?”
Tears sprang to my eyes. Fuck. Why did he have to ask in such a nice way? My emotions were all over the place, but I refused to cry at work. With a deep breath to compose myself, I nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Gwen said you might need a few days off soon. Please take the time you need. We won’t starve.”
“Thank you,” I said, fighting back tears again. Sometimes I forgot how nice it was to work for someone who was actually a good person.
Mr. Marino stepped back, eyes wide in trepidation. “I’m going to get Gwen,” he mumbled. “She’ll know what to do.”
He exited as quickly as he’d come, taking the bat with him. Any other day I’d laugh at how spooked he was by demonstrations of emotion. Ugh, how embarrassing. So much for not crying at work.
I plopped the overworked dough back in a bowl to rise and jumped when the oven timer went off.
Oh, that’s right. I also made cookies.
Gwen found me a few minutes later, sliding a tray of chilled sausage rolls into the oven. Perfectly soft-centered, browned butter chocolate chunk cookies cooled on the counter, and the croissants were nearly ready to bake.
She took one look around the room, hands on her hips, and pointed at the small table in the corner of the kitchen. “Sit.”
I sighed. There was no point in arguing with her. I plated a few cookies while she closed the door and followed her over, setting them between us as an offering.
She stared at them with a raised eyebrow and then looked up at me. “Spill it.”
My mouth popped open. “You’re not even going to try one?”
“I know what you’re doing. You can’t carbo-load me out of this conversation. The last time you baked this much was the anniversary of your mother’s passing. So. Tell me what’s going on.”
I crossed my arms and pouted, like the mature adult I was. “Am I not allowed to have a bad day now and then?”
“Of course, you are. But you’re my best friend. I know you. This is more than a bad day. Is this about your heat coming back? Which would be completely understandable given the circumstances, by the way.”
Weepy all over again, I wiped at my cheeks. “I’m your best friend?”
I’d never been anyone’s best friend. I had friends, of course. I wasn’t a total social outcast growing up. But I’d always felt a bit like I was on the outside looking in, even before Mom died.
She smiled at me. “Duh. I thought you knew that.”
I knew she was my best friend. I’d just assumed she had other, better friends outside of work, and that was why we rarely hung out. “You’re mine, too.”
She winked at me and picked up a cookie. “Obviously. You don’t bake these for just anybody.” Breaking the treat in half, she took a bite.
Sighing in relief at dodging the bullet, I snagged a cookie of my own. It’d been an unintentional evasion, but I thanked my lucky stars anyway. I wasn’t ready to tell her just how pathetic I was over an alpha who didn’t want me.
Plus, there was the whole murder thing.
Before the cookie was even halfway to my mouth, however, Gwen continued, “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, tell me what’s really bothering you.”
I froze, eyes narrowed. That sneaky, sneaky—
“Don’t give me that look. Out with it.”
“Can I rescind my best friend status?”
She feigned insult. “Ouch. Are you divorcing me in front of the cookies? Really?”
“I don’t keep secrets from my cookies. It’s why they’re so good.”
She bit into the other half. “You can’t get out of telling me, but if you want to waste the day away being ridiculous, I’m happy to join you. I do have book club at six, though.”
I scrubbed my hands through my hair. Keeping everything to myself would only drive me more mad.
Plus, we weren't at the clinic anymore. There were no rules for mandatory reporting or loopholes to confidentiality to contend with. This was a conversation between friends.
Best friends.
“You have to swear you won't tell anyone,” I said, looking over my shoulder to make sure the door was closed.
“I can keep a secret.”
“I know. But this is big. You can’t come back from knowing.” Yikes. I was starting to sound like him. “Plus, you’ll probably think I’m going crazy. I think I’m going crazy.”
“Never,” she said, with feeling. “I might suggest a therapist again—”
I snorted.
“—but I’d never think you’re crazy, Max.”