Page 14 of Knotted their Beauty

A loud knock at my bedroom door makes me stiffen, and I can’t unlock my muscles to move. Mr. March never comes by my bedroom. In the three weeks I’ve lived here, he typically grunts his responses to me, gives Calista his sweet words, and then stalks away to his very important FBI job.

I only know as much as I do about the omega because his daughter enjoys spilling tea. She’s told me all about how many nannies her father has gone through, and how “difficult” people think he is. However, she almost sounds amused by it, which is interesting.

If he was as terrible as others say he is, then Calista would agree with them, right? Instead, she acts as if it’s because everyone else is the problem.

Pushing myself up off the bed, I walk over to the door and open it. Mr. March already has his fist up to knock his knuckles on the door again and I raise my brows at him. While I’m wearing a t-shirt with my sweatpants, he has a lot of skin showing.

His button down shirt is hanging open over his dress pants, and he’s barefoot. His phone is in his other hand as it always is unless he’s speaking to Calista, and he seems distracted as I raise my brow.

“Can I help you?” I ask, before immediately feeling dumb. This is his apartment, of course I can fucking help him.

“Yeah…” Mr. March looks over my shoulder before he immediately begins to frown. “Are my linens not up to your standards, Arlo?”

“What, no? I mean, I’m sleeping fine, thank you,” I say, stumbling over my words. “I doubt that’s why you’re knocking on my door, sir.”

“No, no it isn’t. I just realized I haven’t paid you yet,” he says. “Where is your banking information so I can transfer your last three weeks of pay?”

“I’m locked out of my account,” I sigh. “I have to get to the bank, and the nearest branch is a forty minute bus ride.”

The frown pinches between his eyebrows as he tries to understand my predicament. Mr. March has a car and I’ve noticed he doesn’t like to walk anywhere unless Calista suggests it. He enjoys his air conditioning and the ease of travel.

“Why can’t you take a ride share?” he asks slowly.

“I’m at work,” I snort. “I’m not taking Calista to the bank and I don’t have money for a ride share because I haven’t been paid yet.”

“Shit. I can see the problem,” he mutters. “We’re opening a new bank account for you that’s online to pay you immediately. They’ll issue you a card through the app and then mail the physical one here. What have you been eating?”

“Whatever is left over after I make meals for you or Calista.” My shoulders are tightening up and I can feel them rising toward my ears. I’m starting to get embarrassed that he solved the issue I’ve been agonizing over so easily.

“Arlo.” I take a deep breath as I stare resolutely over his shoulder. “You need to eat.”

“I do eat. I just told you that.”

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” he asks.

“Is that a requirement for this conversation? What do you need from me to open this account?” I plan to be stubborn as fuck about this.

I didn’t exactly tell Mr. March I was homeless before taking this job, and I don't want to have to confess to it. People get odd about it, and the last thing I want is for him to think I’m going to steal from him.

I only use what I absolutely need, and then I make up for it by making myself useful.

“I’m not done with the other thing we’re discussing. I need you to look at me when I say this. I do not enjoy repeating myself. It pisses me the fuck off.”

“You’re always pissed off,” I grumble under my breath before freezing. “Shit.”

“No, you’re right. Don’t backpeddle about it. Now look at me.”

I no longer feel the warmth behind my eyes that tells me I’m dangerously close to crying. I think I would need to crawl under a rock and die if Mr. Sylvester Fucking March saw me cry.

“Happy now?” I ask, lips twisting as I glare at him.

“Not even a tiny bit,” he growls. “While you’re in my employ, you are part of this family. Eat the food in the fridge, or have a fucking snack. Calista has you running all over the place with activities. Don’t you think it’ll scare her if you pass out because you’re not eating?”

“I…umm… what?” I ask, trying to process why he’s upset.

“I’m not a frat kid who is going to bitch about who drank the last of the milk. If you finish something, add it to the list on the fridge.”

“There’s a list?” I am really having a hard time with this.