Her Knotty List (MVP: Most Valuable Pack Book 4)

People always ask me how I started cooking.

They’re not polite about it, either.

They don’t ask with innocent interest or admiration or even fascination. It’s usually more of a drawling, smirking sort of thing where they look me up and down and say, “How did you start cooking?”

Implying, I guess, that I should just be on a mattress somewhere? Fucking for a camera?

I mean, that sounds fun…

Normally, when I’m questioned, I make some sort of joke to that effect. I tell people I started cooking because I’m so hot, I didn’t even need an oven… or some other shit.

The real answer is too personal. I don’t even let myself think about it most days.

But today is different. It has been since I saw the smoke rising outside my window this morning.

While I stand over Knox’s fancy gas range, heating a cast-iron skillet, I stare down at the flame. A familiar squeeze grips my throat. I let my eyes fall shut and breathe, knowing it will pass. Hopefully, before Emma comes downstairs or Micah and Knox barrel back in here.

After the fireman called his station and confirmed where the road had washed out—whatever the fuck that means—Emma borrowed Hockey Boy’s phone to call her sister. She took McKinley upstairs with her while the two mountain-dwellers went to figure out exactly how stuck we are.

I hope we’re really fucking stuck.

I shake my head at myself for having the thought. Two days ago, if you’d told me I’d be entertaining the idea of a mate, let alone an entire pack of strangers, I would have fallen over laughing.

But I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I’m doing here.

I could have left a while ago. Knox said my glamping site is within walking distance. Granted, “walking distance” probably means something different to Grizzly Adams than it would to a normal person, but still. I work out. I could have hiked back there before this storm got so shitty.

I didn’t want to.

I’ve been traveling without a permanent address for three years, and canceling a flight has never felt so good. I made short work of it, returning my ticket and hovering my thumb over the button to rebook…

Only to tap out of the app entirely.

In the living room, Gunnar tries to stay awake, sitting on the portion of the sofa closest to the stairs like he’s the omega’s bodyguard. I roll my eyes and swipe over to Spotify for some jazz. I let it play while I scroll my socials, telling my followers I’ll be out of range for a couple days.

Hockey Boy is snoring within minutes, leaving me free to decide what to make as an afternoon meal. Easier said than done, since Knox apparently seasons all his food with the same five spices. Not to mention—I don’t know what any of these people like to eat.

When scouring Knox’s pantry doesn’t help quiet my mind, I know it’s bad. Food has always been the easiest way to shut off my mind. It’s connection, for me. To others, to all the things I never had and always wanted. The fact that moving through this luxury kitchen doesn’t get the image of Emma’s face out of my mind means something.

Restlessness prickles the back of my neck, and I glance up at the ceiling, wishing I could somehow develop x-ray eyes.

Stupid. She’s fine up there. I know that.

But I hated the way she looked when she shuffled upstairs earlier. So uncertain and confused. Her whole world has been flipped upside-down at least six times in the last twenty-four hours. I don’t blame her for not knowing which way is up anymore.

I’m just shocked at how much it’s killing me.

Pain pinches deep in my chest, the pang radiating into my stomach. My fingers curl around the wooden cabinet doors while I glance up again.

I can’t… go to her, can I?

And do what? Fuck her? How the hell would that help?

I’m angry at myself for even having the thought. That nonsense is the last thing she needs right now.

Plus, I already tried, remember? But then she looked me right in the eye with those big, trusting green beacons… and scent-marked me.

I can still feel the tingle along the underside of my cheekbone. The place where she left a swath of cinnamon sweetness seems especially warm, even now.

I don’t have a word for how it makes me feel. Awe comes close, but it doesn’t quite capture the deep, smoldering pride. The gratitude.

And fear.

Yeah, there’s a lot of that shit, too.

Because, in one moment, I knew my whole life had changed.

I battle my way through anxious hopes and squirming nerves while I pull a few things off the bare shelves. Knox has decent salt, at least, and some dried basil. A few cans of stewed tomatoes. I see a second onion and more bacon in the fridge.

Italian it is.

I’ll call it “Spaghetti alla Desperation.”

Once I have the bacon rendering in the skillet, I move on to dicing the onion, along with—score—the half-head of garlic I find at the back of the veggie crisper.

Spotify changes to a low house song. My body automatically rolls with the music, all-too used to flexing my abs and spinning my knife in time.

I’m about to add aromatics to the pan when I feel someone watching me. My insides seize as Emma’s curly head pokes around the corner. Before I can think about how to react, a grin stretches over my face.

“Hey, shona. How’s your sister?”

Damn. It’s the second time I’ve said that. I wonder what she would think if she found out I was calling her “precious treasure.”

Probably some form of chill all the way out, bro.

Fuck, but she’s so cute. Her front teeth press into her lower lip as she shuffles through the archway. Cinnamon-sugar warmth winds into my lungs, tickling them until I give in to the rusty purr that wants to rattle there.

The way Emma’s eyes round and gleam when she hears the sound… I instantly shove my skillet off the heat and open my arms.

How did I know that I should do that?

I have no clue, but the little omega flies at me. So fast that I chuckle as I catch her in my arms.

The humor is short-lived, though. When she nuzzles her cheek into my chest, another hard lump lodges in my throat. My head falls forward, curling my frame around her smaller body.

“This is crazy,” I whisper.

Cool fingers clutch my bare back, holding me tight as she breathes, “Good crazy or bad crazy?”

The instinct to comfort is every bit as strong as my need to protect her. Pleasure her. Make her happy. My biceps flex, hugging harder. “Best crazy,” I reply.

She leans back to grace me with a small smile. Spring green beams up at me. “Really?”

Fuck me.

How am I supposed to avoid falling in love with her when she looks at me like that?

Impossible, I realize. Even more impossible than somehow turning four strangers into a pack.

Which pretty much means I’m fucked.

I hate the disbelief in her expression. Why doesn’t she think that finding out she’s my mate is the best thing to ever happen to me?

Look at her! And the sweet way she’s stroking circles down my spine? The fuck else could a man want?!

“Really,” I promise, tucking her head under my chin. “Come here.”

She’s already pressed about as close as she can be with clothes on, but she doesn’t complain. Her rounded cheek rubs over my chest, leaving more cinnamon warmth on top of my spiciness.

A deep vein of contentment carves a canyon in my middle. The rush of fulfillment is enough to sap all the tension out of my muscles.

Until her scent starts to singe.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Emma mumbles, shyly skirting her gaze up to mine and then down to the floor. “I didn’t mean to use you or pressure you into anything.”

The swell in my throat expands while guilt floods my gut. “Baby, no,” I murmur, drawing her back into my arms. “It wasn’t like that. I just—when you scent-marked me, I could feel how real all of this is. And I lost my shit for a minute.”

Remembering the way her skin felt against mine, her mind-blowing taste… my body stiffens for her instantly. When I press my lower half into her soft belly, she gasps.

“Trust me,” I add, rumbling, “I fucking want you. More than I ever have with anyone. You’ll see when you let me have you.”

Her scent somehow warms and sweetens, until it’s so good, I could moan. When I look at Emma to see what emotion has caused this earth-shattering perfection, I find the smallest, most hopeful smile playing on her plump pink lips.

Happiness. That’s all it is.

And seeing the emotion on her face sends an answering echo right through me.

“So you’re… staying?” she asks.

Fuck, this is going to take some practice. Flirting and jokes and knowing my angles? Yeah, sure. But earnest, heart-felt conversations?

I’m way out of my depth.

Hell, I’m out of my pool altogether. Thrown right in the middle of the fucking ocean.

But then I look at her and—fuck it. Someone hand me some water wings.

I nod, my voice rasping a bit. “Yeah, I think I am.”

Beautiful light gilds her eyes. True, pure excitement. The innocent kind I haven’t felt in a long-ass time.

“Yay!” she chimes, glowing. “I—I know it sounds crazy, but I really feel like something important is happening here, and I just—I hope—I want everyone to get along.”

She’s so genuine; my heart hurts. When was the last time I met someone who told me anything real? Let alone everything they’re honestly feeling?

“I know you do,” I whisper, bending to rub my forehead against hers. Scent-marking—because I can’t not. The swell of masculine satisfaction that pours through me when I put my mark on her is enough to edge my voice in a rumble. “We’ll get these assholes in line, huh?”

I’m not exactly sure how. But, hell, I’ll figure it out. Though, there’s a chance Knox will make me sleep in the snow once he finds out what I do for a living.

Maybe we should start with getting the stick out of his ass. Hockey Boy needs a good branch-removal, too. Not sure what he has to be so bent out of shape about—he’s literally famous, rich, and he wasted an entire year to have Emma to himself.

So, yeah, all his moping seems pretty stupid to me. I don’t have much sympathy for the bastard, but we probably need to ask him what his problem is, at some point.

Should I do that before or after I show them the viral reels of me spanking sides of pork belly?

My phone buzzes on the counter. Emma glances at it, then widens her eyes when she sees hundreds of notifications stacked on the screen.

Oops.

I guess I’m doing this now?

With a not-quite casual shrug, I admit, “My phone is pretty much non-stop. I don’t usually look at it.”

Her sweet blend of curiosity and excitement swells in those green eyes. “Ooh! Are you on call? Like a doctor?”

HA. I chuckle awkwardly, running my hand through my hair. “Not quite, gorgeous.”

Her answer smile is kind and teasing. “Then, what? Are you, like, famous?”

I feel my features crease into a cringe. She clocks the expression, her mouth dropping open. I quickly backtrack. “I mean, not really. But… sorta? Maybe internet-famous? Depends on your definition.”

Emma blinks, but there’s no judgment or greed in her expression. “Well… do you have a lot of followers?”

Twenty-four million.

I nod, my stomach turning. It’s strange to be nervous. Ordinarily, this is my hook when I’m interested in someone. Hell, most of those people just slide into my DMs. I’m not used to wondering if I should hide my account.

Remembering the way Emma laid out every painful detail of her disastrous night, I know I can’t lie to her. The very thought takes me from queasy to full-on sick. Which means there’s only one option.

I swipe my screen, navigating to my Instagram account. She leans over the counter to squint at my handle. “The Knotty Chef,” she reads out loud.

And she giggles.

It isn’t a condescending sound at all. It’s just as bright and sweet as her scent. “That’s so cute!” she trills, scrolling down.

I brace myself, knowing she’s about to see a whole lot of my naked chest… and legs… and arms… and back…

Not to mention the comments.

Oof.

Didn’t think about those.

Mercifully, she taps one of my tamer reels. In it, I had an open white button-down on, along with a pair of gorgeous Armani slacks. I made a seafood risotto followed by homemade almond cookies and espresso gelato. I’d been going for a “fantasy date night” sort of vibe—and my followers went wild for it, despite me not having as much skin on display as usual.

Emma seems to like it, too.

Her eyes flicker wide when my body rolls for the camera. A close-up of my folded sleeves and forearms has her biting her lower lip. And when I lick a drop of white wine off my thumb? She perfumes.

Of the two reactions an omega could have—outraged disgust or carnal interest—I suppose this is the better option. So, why does my gut clench harder?

Regret trickles into my middle as I realize: I shouldn’t have shown her this. Not yet. Now, she’ll just think I’m a piece of meat. Or a slut.

I mean, traditionally, I am both of those things.

But the idea of Emma thinking so makes it hard to breathe.

Something incredible happens, though. Just when I think I’ve fucked this all to hell—within minutes, no less—she straightens. Her blonde brows fold into a befuddled look. Worry puts a sour edge on her perfume.

“Oh no!” she gasps. “Zane, you don’t have any of your equipment here to film, and we’re snowed in!”

I—

I don’t even know how to react. My mind trips and tumbles.

She’s… worried about me? Me?! Not how jealous she needs to be? Or what a hoe I am? Or how she’s going to pressure me into a respectable career so I can be worthy of her?

Guileless concern lines her pretty face. “Oh, this is all my fault, Zane. Is there something I can do to help? Could I hold the camera or—maybe one of the guys grabbed my suitcase and you can borrow my laptop? Or we can walk back to my car to get it?”

She really is worried about me.

My body moves, snatching her up into my chest and hugging her hard. “Fuck,” I whisper, afraid my normal volume will give away just how ragged my breathing is. “Gorgeous, you are so damn sweet. How did I get so lucky, huh?”

Her palms press into my pecs—soothing. Not even copping a feel. She laughs lightly. “What do you mean?! I’m the reason you’re in this mess! Please let me help. I feel terrible.”

She really does. I can scent it on her.

My purr revs to life, needing to comfort her. “It’s all good, baby. It’s about time I take a holiday break. I worked Thanksgiving.”

That’s true. I spent the holiday filming “stuffing v. fisting” videos at a vacation rental in Mesa, Arizona. By the end of the day, I was so grossed out by the sight of sage stuffing and roasted turkey that I wound up ordering Chinese. Hardly a festive vibe.

That’s the dark side of this career I fell into. Endless validation without any real connection.

But not this. Not now.

Because as this earnest, kind-hearted omega stares up at me, I feel a tether sprout between us. Binding the ache at the bottom of my heart straight to her.

I brush her lopsided curls back from her forehead, bending to put our faces inches apart. “What do you think, gorgeous?”

I don’t know what I’m even asking about. Me taking a break from my socials? Her being the reason why? The fact that our lips are about to touch? Or this whole fucked-up situation?

She wobbles a bit as she stretches onto her toes, settling her mouth against mine.

It’s graceless in the best way. Shy and so damn innocent, I feel a new lump fill my throat while I gather her close and take over, sliding my lips between hers while my purr ratchets up.

Her fingers twitch against my chest, scrabbling like she wants desperately to hold on to the sound there. She had a similar reaction to Micah when he purred for her; and it breaks my fucking heart to think she’s been needing this—us—and we weren’t there for her yet.

Tender pain pierces me while pleasure swirls down to pull at my base. God, she tastes incredible. It makes me hard and happy and so goddamn hopeful. Especially when she tentatively strokes her tongue along mine.

Fuck. I’m done for.

I’ve kissed hundreds of people, but I’ve never felt like this. So aroused, I swear I could come just from pressing my hard groin into her soft hip. So connected to her that it hurts. Never wanting to stop slicking my tongue against hers, or holding her, or making sure my purr sinks into both of her big, peaked breasts.

No surprise she’s the one who has to pull away first.

The timid smile she gives me eases the clutching sensation in my stomach. She nibbles on her lip, speaking slowly. “We’re all stuck here, anyway… maybe we could… try to see what this would be like? All of us?” She blinks up at me, her eyes beseeching. “W-would you be okay with that?”

Only if we all agree to spoil the absolute hell out of her.

But that’s a conversation for me to have with these other assholes.

For the moment, I love being her co-conspirator. It puts a wide grin on my face as I wink at her. “Great plan, gorgeous. Is Gunnar still snoring out there? You could work on him while I talk Scrooge into being a decent host.”

Her giggle hits like a bolt of lightning, electrifying my chest, chasing the lingering ache away. She leans back, her cheeks turning the cutest damn shade of pink. “Gunnar went upstairs to shower.”

Mm. She must like the idea of Hockey Boy in the shower, because the luscious sweetness in the air gets thicker. When I toss her a flirtatious smirk, she winces.

“I guess I’ll… go talk to him?”

If she came looking for me, smelling like that, we wouldn’t be talking. But I release her with a firm slap to her gorgeous ass. “Sure thing, baby. Tell him I said, ‘You’re welcome.’”