Page 4

REMI

I’m finally biting the bullet.

That flyer burned a hole in my purse long enough, and my curiosity got the best of me. So, here I am, filling out the questionnaire on the Select-A-Mate website to be paired with an alpha or pack of alphas. I’m not too picky about how many there are; the more the merrier.

I didn’t expect there to be so many questions. The only thing they’re not asking me for is my firstborn. But give it time; I’m sure it’s somewhere here.

Are you sexually active? I tilt my head to the side regarding the question. The answer to that is subjective. At the moment? No, I’m not. Ever? Yes, I’ve been railed every which way but Sunday, I’m just not getting any right now.

I want to get some, though. As long as they tap it right, I’m all for it.

Have you ever been serviced/or serviced someone through a heat? My eyes bulge out of my head. There’s no way that question is necessary to find someone to mate with. My parts still work like they’re supposed to.

Insert part one into part two, and you get an orgasm if you’re lucky. There’s no mistaking how things work, but it shouldn’t be a question on a mating website. That seems like something that should be discussed between the individuals while they get to know each other.

I don’t want to call Windy about this because I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing. Eventually, it will get out that I am on the website, but until then, I don’t want anyone to know. It’s too personal, even for a best friend to know about.

I have been serviced through a heat. Several heat dens are located throughout Cedar Hill, all of which are as professional as they come.

It’s as easy as going into their facility, picking out one of the available alphas at that moment, and then spending your heat with them. That’s it. It’s pretty cut and dry.

Yet, I’m tired of spending my heats with alphas that aren’t mine. It’s impersonal. Effective, but impersonal.

I want someone who looks at me like I’m their everything. It may be a long shot, but I want my scent match mate or mates. I want someone who is biologically my match and, as such, wants me as fiercely as I want them.

I want love—someone to hold me on cold nights and whisper that I’m the light of their life. I know it’s out there. My mother and fathers have that type of connection. They cherish her because she’s the center of their universe. She’s the very air they breathe.

I want that.

I want my mate and I to consume each other. Be the center of everything that we are. I won’t take anything less than a mate who is as obsessed with me as I am with them.

After completing the rest of the questionnaire, I hold my breath as I press submit. All the nerves drain from my body as I sag against the chair. The only other thing I can liken the questionnaire to is a trip to the gynecologist; it’s that evasive.

Glancing at the clock, a squeak flies out of me as I jump from my computer desk.

I race through my tiny home gathering my things for work.

At this rate, I’m going to be late for my shift.

I knew I should’ve done that damn questionnaire later tonight instead of before work.

I got lost in all the questions it asked and didn’t even think of glancing at the clock to make sure I was good on time.

My heart pounds in my chest as I dash through the narrow hallway, my bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder.

The hallway feels like an obstacle course—stacked books, stray shoes, and the laundry basket I swore I’d put away yesterday all seem to conspire against me.

Nearly tripping over a rogue pair of sneakers, I mutter a curse under my breath and fling the front door open.

The crisp morning air hits me like a wake-up call, sharp and bracing, and I fumble with my keys as I stumble down the front steps.

The gravel crunches under my hurried footsteps, and my bag keeps slipping down my shoulder, threatening to spill its contents as I shift it back into place with a frustrated huff.

My car, a slightly battered but reliable companion, is parked at the edge of my tiny driveway.

The sunlight gleams faintly on its hood, though I barely notice as I sprint toward it, my pulse racing.

I yank the door open, toss my bag onto the passenger seat without a second thought, and slide in behind the wheel, breathless and flustered but determined not to let time win this round.

Before I know it, I’m pulling into the parking lot of Sip-A-Brew with three minutes to spare. A couple calls out to me, but I’m in too much of a hurry to say hello, so I toss my hand up in greeting and keep running. I’m through the back door and into the break room when it hits nine o’clock.

“Miss. Chesterfield.” I see that Mr. Goodridge is already waiting for me in the breakroom. He gives me a disapproving look but doesn’t say anything else. He simply shakes his head and walks out of the break room.

This is the second time I’ve almost been late to work this week. The first time was totally not my fault, as a two-car pile-up was on 2nd Street. This time, however, it is my fault. I got caught up in that damn questionnaire.

During the entire shift, I’m constantly thinking about my profile on Select-A-Mate. My mind is a whirl of thoughts as I process everything I put on the questionnaire. I didn’t exaggerate … much.

Well, maybe I did a little bit.

I didn’t put down my size. I’m a plus-size girl, and most people don’t get past that to get to know me. They only see my size and write me off entirely because of it. I’m in no way hard on the eyes. I think I’m pretty. Maybe I am not beautiful in a traditional sense, but I’m pretty enough.

Yes, I wear my hair in a messy bun more times than I let it hang down my back. Yes, I would rather wear yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt than a form-fitting dress.

I’m really down to earth. I love classical rock, drinking coffee, and reading various romance books. I’d rather sit at home than go out and party. I don’t schmooze with the elite, and I don’t even know what I would do if put in that position.

I don’t know how to be anything other than myself.

Many times, people have tried to change me to fit their mold, but it hasn’t worked out for them. I cut them off quicker than shit because I am only going to be myself. Regardless of what they want me to be, I refuse to change for anyone. I think I’m a fucking delight.

The coffee shop is its own kind of mayhem, a whirlwind of bodies moving in a rhythm that feels choreographed and chaotic all at once.

Orders are shouted over the hum of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine punctuates the air, and the sharp aroma of freshly brewed coffee clings to everything.

My hands work on autopilot, reaching for cups, steaming milk, scribbling names on lids, all while my ears strain to catch the next request.

I barely have time to think, let alone dwell on the questionnaire or Mr. Goodridge’s disapproving look, as I dive headfirst into the stream of customers.

Each one has a story, though I only catch fragments in passing.

The student cramming for exams, the couple debating over pastries, the regular who nods at me like we share some unspoken camaraderie.

There's something comforting in the routine of it, the way the motions feel like second nature despite the frenetic pace.

But every so often, my mind drifts. I wonder if someone from Select-A-Mate is sitting at one of these tables, sipping a medium latte with two sugars while scrolling through profiles.

Would they stop at mine? Would they see beyond the messy bun, oversized shirts, and penchant for quiet evenings?

The thought lingers just long enough to leave a faint blush on my cheeks before I’m pulled back to reality by a shouted "Double-shot caramel macchiato, extra whip! "

By the end of the day, I’m dragging. My exhaustion hit exhausted three hours ago, and I’m ready to go home and get in bed with my book.

Saying goodbye to everyone, I leave the coffee shop to make my way home.

My car makes a funny sound when I start it, and I grimace when a man on the corner looks over.

After giving him a wave and tired smile, I head down 2nd Street.

My mind is whirling with thoughts about the day.

When I come to the corner of Elk and Central, I’m so lost in thought that I barely see the car in time.

It’s jet black and blends in with the scenery.

With a yell, I slam on my brakes and skid to a halt in the middle of the intersection.

“Watch where you’re going, lard ass!” The driver yells out their window, tossing me the bird. “You’ll get someone killed with your fat ass!”

Gasping for air, I close my eyes and try to orient myself. The sound of honking brings me back to the present. I watch as the car drives onward, the driver probably still cussing me, before I take my foot off the brake and press the gas. All too soon, I make it home without any more near-misses.

Pulling into the parking spot in front of my house, I shift the gear into park and let out a shaky breath.

My hands tremble as I turn off the ignition, the lingering echoes of the near miss on Elk and Central still vivid in my mind.

Leaning back against the headrest, I close my eyes and try to calm the storm within me.

The cool fabric of the seat presses against my neck, soothing in its firmness, while I focus on the steady rhythm of my breathing.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

My heart gradually slows its frantic pace, the adrenaline ebbing away like waves retreating into the sea.

I picture myself as a stone rooted in place, unmoving even as the tide comes and goes.

For a moment, the world outside the car ceases to exist. There’s no honking, no yelling, no black car roaring past in a blur of aggression.

Just me, the soft hum of silence, and the solid weight of my body against the seat.

I stay like this for a while, letting the tension seep away, grounding myself in the comfort of stillness before I gather the strength to face the rest of the evening.

I’m about to get my things and get out of the car when I hear a distant ding come from my phone.

Absentmindedly grabbing at my bag, I dig around for my phone.

Once I have it, I tap the screen to see a notification blaring out at me.

My heart slides up into my throat. There, in all its glory, is a notification from the app I downloaded earlier.

You have a match.