Knotting with a Stranger (Whispering Grove, #1)

by Harley Knight

The irony of a Beta lecturing me about Omega biology is not lost on me.

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

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

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.

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.

Are you sure you want evidence of my crime? I type back. I’ll risk it. Show me your worst.

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

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

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

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

Now, a baker like you would have a starter, too... I won’t believe you if you say otherwise.

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

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.

Judge all you want, but that cake batter started it. Victim blaming. Tsk tsk.

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.

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...

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

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

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.

Though I’m still not convinced you’re not a serial killer. Says the woman who texted a stranger about hiding a body.

I should go. Places to be, cakes to salvage. The life of a baker-turned-criminal is never easy. Good luck with your victim.

Shouldn’t all good bakers be asleep by now? Says the chef messaging me at midnight.

Too scared to answer? More like too aware of what thinking about you in any position would do to me right now. ...oh. Yeah. Oh. Tell me anyway.

“Ten minutes,” Dad announces, checking his watch. “That’s my limit. Then I’m faking a stroke.” “Twenty minutes,”

“Remember,” I whisper. “If cousin Rebecca starts on about her Alpha husband’s latest promotion⁠—” “Sudden migraine,” Dad nods.

“If Patricia mentions her Omega support group⁠—” “Spontaneous combustion.”

“If Martha asks about grandchildren⁠—” “We ...

Oh God, I’m making it worse, but there’s a part of me delighted to see them stare at me with something other than pity for a change. Well, except for Hannah, who’s frowning in my direction.

“That went well,” Dad says as we settle by the fireplace on a leather couch. “Four minutes in and you’ve invented a boyfriend.” “To be fair, he’s real. Sort of.

“Don’t change the subject. And don’t look too closely at the meatloaf. Looking only makes it stronger.”

“Hey.” His voice turns serious. “You don’t need an Alpha to be complete. Your mom would be the first to tell you that. She chose me because she wanted to, not because she needed to. There’s a difference.”

“You once tried to mail Hannah to Canada.” “She deserved it! She told Bobby Miller I liked him!” “You were thirteen at the time.”

Between one heartbeat and the next, my world narrows to that scent—bergamot, old books, and autumn leaves, with an underlying sweetness that makes my insides flutter.

His hair glints in the morning light, turning it to burnished gold, and when he straightens up, I see a glimpse of an intricate rose tattoo peeking from beneath his rolled sleeve.

Then, I manage to find my words. “Most enticing thing all day? It’s barely nine in the morning. I’d hate to peak this early.” The words slip out before my brain can fully engage its filter, and fire slides up my neck.

“Ladies, our chocolate croissants are just as dreamy and far more attainable,” I quip, earning a few grudging laughs.

Now who’s getting cocky? I’ll have you know I just had a very charming customer who set a high bar for mysterious strangers. Sounds like I have some competition. I better bring my A-game and best murder alibi.

“You just want me out of the kitchen before I stress-bake three dozen chocolate chip cookies.” “The fact that we’re drowning in comfort cookies is purely coincidental.”

“Hi, big guy,” she says softly, and Thor responds by laying his head in her lap, looking up at me as if to say, Can we keep her?

“Usually takes him weeks to warm up to strangers.” “Clearly, he recognizes quality when he sees it.”

“I promise I’m not a serial killer.” “Exactly what a serial killer would say.” But she’s smiling, too. “Though I guess Thor’s a pretty good character reference.”

“Oh, I’m afraid of plenty.” She strokes Thor’s fur absently. “Heights. Spiders. My sister when someone messes up her kitchen organization system.

But this unexpected woman who talks to my dog and makes jokes about axe murderers... she trusts me after knowing me for less than an hour.

“Well,” he drawls. “If I’d known a little blizzard was all it took to get you to show up at my door, I’d have done a rain dance weeks ago.”

“So, what you’re saying is I managed to get myself rescued by the guy who makes other rescue teams look lazy?” “You got it!”

Though I have to admit, a man who gets this passionate about books is dangerously appealing to my inner literature nerd.

I almost laugh at my own ridiculous thoughts. Most murderers don’t bicker about books and climbing gear like an old married couple.