Page 103 of Knot So Social

I eyeball his lawn and put a couple of pegs down to mark my lines. On a rectangle lawn, this would be simpler, but on the far side of this manor we have curved terraces and garden beds. After finding my center point, I turn the mower away by forty-five degrees and pick my sight line. A pointed ornamental pine works just fine as a marker.

I push forward, cutting the straight swathes through the grass. Luckily these lawns are all well-watered, since I have to cut lower than I like. I explained the dangers of a low cut to Mr Monstead, but I can’t trust that he actually listened or understood. Expose the roots or get a heat wave and the grass dies off faster than I can say “low cut.”

Sweat pours down my back, combining with dust to make me itchy. But despite the hard work, the challenge of cutting neat strips keeps me going strong. Been awhile since I did a diamond cut and the satisfaction when it’s completed is nearly as good as holding my omega.

Nearly.

And my omega? Yeah, that’s exactly how I think about her. Mine. Like, something missing slotting into place. A wrongness filled with a rightness. I wasn’t messing around when I said I was sure we’d spent previous lifetimes together. That’s the only answer that makes sense for my love to bloom so fully almost overnight.

An hour later, completely soaked in sweat and lathered in grass stains, I pack up my equipment and take a last look at the lawn. The diamond patterns look fantastic. Mr Monstead’s reading a newspaper on the back terrace again, so I climb the steps.

“I’m all done, sir.”

He glances up and grunts. “All right then.”

“Do you like the diamond pattern?”

“Hm. It’s not as contrasted as I thought.”

“That’s because the grass is quite short now, since you said you needed it for an event. Next time, it will be longer and more defined.”

He nods once, an unhappy furrow digging between his brows. I’ve no doubt he won’t be satisfied whatever gets done; he’s just that kind of man. Makes me grateful for a small shed to live in and simple tastes.

Can’t feel good only seeing a world full of bitterness.

“I’ll get going then. Oh, please make sure the sprinkler system goes on tonight or tomorrow morning. We’re due for some hot days.

“It’s always hot here,” he grumbles, flapping his hand at me.

Well, I’ve done my best. Before hopping in my car, I snap a few photos for my webpage. So far, I’ve only managed to get my contact details and a basic price list up. Pretty hard to fiddle with that stuff when I only have my phone to work with.

I shoot Willow a text message as I climb into my truck. Thinking about you, cara mia. What are you up to?

She sends me back a smiley face, followed by: I’m filming my nest. Figured it would make a good topic, especially since it’s one I haven’t done before.

I stroke the side of my phone with my thumb, as if I could lean through the pixels to caress her.

Sounds wonderful, I shoot back. Can I have a private tour, or do I need to wait and see the video?

She posts a cute blushing emoji. Private, of course. The videos go up weeks later. When will you drop by?

I lean my head on the steering wheel and groan. I want to run around there right now and fold her into my arms, but I need to work. Today I’m making up for the jobs I didn’t do yesterday, so I can’t put them off again.

Tomorrow. Breakfast?

We can finish the eggs muffins.

I like the way you think. And everything else about you.

The chat goes quiet, and I can picture her, hunched over the phone, smiling. The men in her life let her down. I intend to take things slow, to let her know I’m here for the long run.

She’s worth waiting for.

That thought keeps me going through a grueling afternoon where I mow lawns like my life depends on it. The sun sets while I’m still working, the cooling air gluing my sweat-soaked shirt to my back. I push hard to finish before power tools shut-off-curfew and drag my weary body back home, certain I’m carrying an extra five pounds of dirt on me somewhere. Can’t even offload my grass clippings since the city green waste recycling center is closed.

Aching all over, I plod to my shed, too tired to clean the grass out of my blades. Tomorrow. I can get up early. Reluctantly I make myself shower, text Willow, and climb into bed. Thankfully I filled up my water bottle and hung my eye mask neatly on a nail overhead yesterday morning.

The omega appears in my dreams. Beautiful, soft, fitting perfectly between my hands. She comes to my bed, naked beneath her bathrobe, and slips under my sheets.