Page 22 of Knotted By my Pack

But God, she’s an addictive one.

Jonah gives me a look but doesn’t say anything. He gets back to the sign, and I walk into the office, scanning the interior again. There’s still a lot to do. Desks to be delivered, wiring to be upgraded, permits to be processed. But I’m on track.

If I don’t start actual site development soon, my father will start breathing down my neck. The man has no patience for delays, especially not when it involves prime oceanfront property and a ten-year projection.

But even with the clock ticking and pressure mounting, I find myself glancing through the glass again.

Right into Whisked.

Right at her.

7

NOAH

The door creaks open under my hand, but as I step inside, the sight stops me dead in my tracks.

Cora is in the middle of her living room, bent over on her yoga mat in a tight, powder-blue set that hugs her hips like a second skin. Downward dog. Perfect form. Her legs are long and the arch of her back… God.

I grit my teeth and force my gaze to the ceiling, but my body’s already reacting. I drag a breath in through my nose and let it out slow. Not the time. Not the place.

“Hey,” I manage, and head straight for the kitchen. I grip the edge of the counter for a beat longer than necessary. She’s behind me, still on that mat, completely unaware of what she’s doing to me just by existing.

I reach for the coffee tin out of habit, only to stop when the smell of pancakes hits me. There’s a plate stacked neatly under foil, still warm. I blink.

“You made breakfast?” I call out, trying to keep my voice even.

She hums like it’s no big deal. “I was up early.”

I grab a plate and serve myself two pancakes, sliding onto the barstool at her counter. She rolls up her mat, her tank top lifting just enough for a line of skin to peek out above her waistband.

A single drop of sweat trickles down the curve of her neck, disappearing under the fabric. I press my tongue into my teeth to stop the groan climbing up my throat.

Would taste so good right there, just to bury my face into the heat of her.

I look away.

“Hey,” she says, finally moving toward me.

I glance up. “Morning. Why were you up so early?”

That’s all it takes. She launches into a rant about Julian Vance, the arrogant prick who apparently thinks it’s cute to waltz into her bakery every morning with that smug attitude and an ego too big to fit through the door.

She’s pacing now, hand flying in the air, words sharp and fast. Apparently, he’s been getting her pastries. Every. Single. Day.

“And the worst part?” she adds, scowling. “He looks like he expects a medal for buying a damn croissant.”

I should be amused. Usually, I am. Her rants are a staple of our mornings, especially after a night shift or early training.

But today, something scratches the inside of my chest as I listen.

There’s heat in her voice. Not just annoyance. Emotion. She’s been talking about him all week, and not in the dismissive way she uses with other people she hates.

“Cora,” I cut in gently, “you’ve been obsessing over this guy.”

Her mouth opens like she’s ready to fire back, but then she pauses. “It’s not an obsession. He’s just… there. All the time.”

Something about that bugs me more than I’d like. She has a thing for Betas. I’ve picked her up from enough regret-filled one-night stands to know her type.