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What in the world?
I quickly put the coffee down on my console table and unlock the door.
“Hey! Merry Christmas,” she says the moment I open. “Where do you want this? The kitchen?”
“Hey, uh, I think you have the wrong address. What street are you after? Maybe I can help with directions”
She frowns a little and readjusts the bag under her right arm, though she doesn’t lose her bright smile. “This is 220 Albert Street, right? Eve Compton?”
“Uh… yeah, that’s me,” I admit. “But I didn’t order—”
“No, he said it was a surprise.” She smiles even brighter at me and squeezes through my door, making me step back to make room for the filled-to-the-brim bags. “We usually don’t take last-minute orders on Christmas morning, for obvious reasons, but with a tip that big… Normally I’d have brought someone with me to help carry and set up, but I’m having to squeeze your delivery in between jobs as-in. Really sorry about that. Kitchen’s this way?”
“Yeah,” I reply, mostly out of ingrained politeness, because my brain’s taking its sweet time to catch up. “I’m sorry…whosent this?”
“Didn’t leave a name—was adamant it remain a ‘Christmas surprise.’ Real demanding fella, but aren’t they all?”
She barks a short laugh and elbows her way through to my kitchen, where she immediately starts unpacking the paper bags. Soon, my counter is covered in tinfoil trays of mashed potatoes, green beans, mac and cheese, cranberry sauce—made with real cranberries, from the looks of it—roasted and glazed carrots, a full-sized glossy-brown turkey, three whole pies—pecan, sweet potato, and cherry—tubs of gravy, bowls with stuffing, whipped cream and other assortments needed to dress a full Christmas dinner with all the trimmings.
It smells exactly like Christmas is supposed to, and I’m too busy salivating to care that I’ll be eating turkey leftovers for weeks.
“Oh, my God.”
“That’s usually the reaction we get,” the woman says with a grin. She pulls out a receipt and a pen from one pocket and hands it over. “Would you sign to confirm you’ve received your order, please?”
I do, still mostly stupefied at the sheer amount of food filling my tiny kitchen to the brim.
“Oh, and he asked me to pass on a message for you too.” She pats her other pocket and fishes out a folded note. “He said,‘Tell her a woman who takes care of her alpha so thoroughly will never eat a microwave dinner again.’So depending on how many alphas you’ve, ah,taken care ofrecently, it should narrow down the list of who’s decided to treat you today.”
She winks, probably to take the sting out of the most awkward message I’ve ever had relayed in my entire life, but there is no saving the flaming inferno rising in my cheeks.
“Oh,God.”
“Don’t worry about it; alphas are gonna alpha. But just, ya know, some friendly advice… If one of them’s this possessive, might be a good idea to limit your dating pool. Friend of mine was seeing two alphas at the same time. One of ‘em found out about the other, went straight to his workplace, put him in the hospital, then took a taxi to my friend’s place.
"Next day she had a claim on her neck and a baby in her belly. She says she’s happy now, but I’m not entirely sure she’s not just high on the constant baby-making—five years in, five kids in tow, and a new career as a ‘mommy blogger,’ whatever that is. She was studying for the bar before he came along.
“Anyway, yeah, sorry, I know you didn’t ask. Just… you seem a bit surprised that someone’s taking care of you, so… heads up, I guess? If he’s going hard on the surprises and presents, if you aren’t careful, you might have a husband soon.”
She thinks I take so many knots, I don’t know which alpha is sending me surprise catering. Mortifying doesn’t even begin to describe it.
“No, I... know who he is,” I manage to choke out. “I just didn’t realize he would…” My voice dies as I make a vague gesture toward the mountains of food.
“Ah. First alpha boyfriend, then? Well, at least he’s got excellent taste in courting gifts. If you like the food, think of us next time you have a catered event.” She slips me a business card and gives me a cheeky wink. “Perhaps a wedding, ha! Alright, I’ve gotta get back on the road. I’ve got eleven more drops before three. Happy Christmas, Miss Compton.”
I’m still in a half-stupor when the woman—Noelle Hall from Hall Events & Catering, according to her business card—gets back in her car and takes off down the icy streets.
My first alpha boyfriend.I snort to myself as I close my front door to shuffle back into the kitchen. I guess that’s a more PC explanation thanmy first alpha rapistpaying me for my services in food.
I frown at the overflowing countertops. I don’t like that word—not for him. It’s probably still the oxytocin messing with my ability to think straight, but I don’t feel raped. Ravaged, sure, and then some. But I also feel… cared-for. Treasured. No man’s ever been so hyperfocused on my pleasure or my needs. And no one’s gotten up and made me coffee before they split, nor ordered me a whole damn Christmas dinner as a thank-you for sex, that’s for damn sure.
I know I agreed to the arrangement, but it was far more intense than I had any idea was even possible. Maybe I should hate him for making me experience such complete and painful submission, but I don’t. I’m sure that means some part of me is broken, but right now, I don’t care. It’s Christmas, and I get to spend the day believing in magic and fairytales, and that I’m not fucked up beyond repair for wishing he was here, right now, to hold me and make me feel just as safe and protected as I did while I drifted off in his arms last night.
I pile a plate three layers deep, then cut a slice of each pie on a separate plate and spend a good forty minutes squeezing all the leftovers into my fridge and freezer. It’s past two before I finally sink into my sofa, carefully balancing my tray, flick on the Christmas tree and reach for the TV remote.Miracle on 34thStreet, here I come.
But before I can switch on my yearly cozy Christmas movie marathon, I catch a glimpse of something underneath the branches of my tree. It’s a small parcel wrapped in snowflake wrapping paper.
What the…?
