#kitcore

“We could have left right after dessert,” Luna whispered, part scolding, part empathically, while Kit shepherded her from his mother’s dining room to the kitchen. 

He hated being around his family. He didn’t need to tell her that, but he had, and they both quickly figured out that she made the best shield against his mom and sisters in particular. Compared to Anders, who didn’t get it, and Rhode, who would mouth off given half a chance, Luna was…

She had a complicated parent relationship, too. She was a veteran at this kind of thing, if you only took out the multi-million-dollar house and dozens-long guest list for Christmas Eve dinner.

She spun around once the island was in reach, then lifted herself up to sit on the acrylic barstool. She felt better that way, with her back facing the all-white kitchen bigger than her apartment in Atlanta before all this. “Are you okay?”

He tried and failed to look impassive. “Perfectly normal.”

Uh-huh. Normal, not-nervous men definitely ate three slices of pie to “look busy” and avoid probing family questions around a stuffy, don’t-touch-anything dining table. Biting her lip, she glanced over her shoulder, where her gaze snagged on the picked-over appetizers from before dinner. They weren’t in perfect shape, but they were serviceable, and who was she to say Kit couldn’t eat his feelings this one time?

Besides, one plate had tiny, round, fancy flatbreads. Those were basically just cold pizza, and she reached to drag the dish close. “C’mere.”

Although she was literally talking to the flatbreads, Kit shifted closer, too. His arm sank down to cradle her shoulders; he stood over her in his sexy, protective alpha way, and when she looked up?

His eyes were intense and clear—pleading for her to fix whatever knot he found himself in.

“Let’s just take a minute,” she whispered before gently bringing a flatbread to his mouth, “and finish these. Cool off.”

Board meetings weren’t bad, generally. It was a forced day in the office? Fine. He had to sit next to his father and agree with even the most conservative, business-killing ideas in the name of solidarity? Sure.

Beckett didn’t usually show up to board meetings overflowing his own suit, however.

He’d been fine. At least, he’d been telling himself he was fine. Over the holidays, the new collection of suits he ordered arrived, and he had them altered right after the new year—after the Christmas binge he knowingly let himself indulge in, because who was he to say no to big brown eyes and cinnamon rolls? Luna was everything to him, and if his omega needed a fattened-up alpha—three fattened-up alphas—in her nest, Beckett was going to open his mouth until she needed it closed for kisses instead.

Hence, the current problem he was facing on January 5th. 

Beckett was the fattest person in the board room.

Beckett had also been a solid thirty pounds lighter at the last quarterly board meeting.

Being around Anders and Rhode, he really managed to convince himself that gaining ten pounds in a month really wasn’t much. Being around the likes of marathoners, juice-cleansers, and intermittent-fasters, however?

And with one of Luna’s cinnamon rolls happily digesting behind his navel?

He was ridiculously turned on, and his father was on the other side of the room.

Cool.

Taking a too-big gulp of too-hot, perfectly sweet coffee, he let the professional mask slip on. He had every right to be here, no matter how one of the board members had been warily eyeing him since he walked in.

“Of course I’m dieting for the new year,” she laughed to one of their colleagues right before noticing Beckett. Her face paled, and her eyes darted away while she continued in a softer tone, “You know… Beach body, and… Stuff…”

She felt ashamed, then. Was Beckett supposed to, he wondered?

Because he didn’t. He was big, yes. Stupidly big, he sometimes felt—but he was also happy, whole, loved by three of the most spectacular people in the world. He worked a desk job. He was paid hundreds of dollars a minute to take phone calls, answer emails, and exist in expensive suits.

Setting his coffee down at the left side of the table’s head, beside his father’s seat, he noticed the catering boxes—and noticed how every single donut had quarters, even fifths, cut out of them, since everyone else was apparently terrified of a little sugar sticking to them.

“Beckett,” his father said beside him, miming professional grace with the ease of forty years’ experience, but even he—even Beckett’s own father—paused to cast a curious, disapproving look at his son’s stomach. “How was your holiday?”

Because his father didn’t even call on Christmas.

His mom did. His sisters did.

Dad? Never.

Feeling the rush of self-satisfaction, Beckett crossed his arms and pointedly rested them atop his belly. He breathed in, letting it fill his diaphragm to make him look—feel—impossibly larger. Powerful. Strong, because he was happy and no one else in the room was. “Fantastic. We unplugged for about a week.”

His father nodded only slightly, eyes unreadable. Beckett, of all people, knew that meant he wasn’t pleased. “Well, I hope you’re recharged.”