He swallows a few times and blinks rapidly. “But that’s ok, right? We got this.” He has to stretch up to pat me on the shoulder. “Anyway, Paul made soup for late lunch or early dinner…so come on out. You can tell me about the rice cooker on the counter…Or, oh, how did the parade go? Did you guys have fun?”
His voice is cheerful, but I can still see the shine in his eyes as he turns away and walks off. And I feel like an ass again for asking him to join our pack, though two single guys aren’t really a pack, so…making a pack with us? Semantics.
I follow Al out into the living room, and Paul is leaning on the kitchen side of the bar with a steaming bowl of some kinda soup sitting in front of him and half a grilled sandwich. He’s the only one of us who really cooks, and even that’s kind of a stretch. There’s an empty family-sized can that says chicken noodle soup on the counter by the sink behind him. And an open loaf of bread, some lunch meat, and cheese slices beside him. But he got us each out a bowl to cool, and the saucepan sits empty on the stove beside his elbow.
Al looks from Paul’s plate to the bowls of soup. “You didn’t fix me a sandwich?” Our oldest packmate just stares back.
“Fuck you, no I didn’t fix you a fucking sandwich. I made soup, fix your own damned sandwich. Fucker.” Paul cusses a lot sometimes. He doesn’t do it as an angry thing. He just has to not say bad words at work, so I think he gets them all out when he’s at home. Plus, he’s smirking at me and Al, so he’s not actuallyupset. He just likes to say “fuck” a lot. In retrospect, I’m not sure Kelly would have been a good fit for our pack.
I mumble out my thanks for the soup and dig in, giving myself a fuzzy tongue. But I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I love chicken soup; it’s so warm and cozy. And it can go with rice, too…though I don’t think you have to cook the rice before putting it in. Yeah…that could be gross. Still, I’m not taking back my rice cooker.
They’re both right, though. Wedoneed to save up more for a house because we can’t have four adults living in a two-bedroom cracker box-sized apartment.Butwe need nice stuff for when we get a bigger place. Still, once we have a home established, we can start looking for an omega for real. None of this halfway stuff. I wonder if Teddy knows anybody who might want to move to Mississippi.
Do they have an omega version of Tinder? Ugh, I don’t want to get any unsolicited dick pics. Kay said she gets those sometimes on dating apps. She still didn’t take me up on my offer to hunt the guy down and bludgeon him. But she’s one of my baby sisters, if I don’t stand up for her, who will?
Chapter 6
Iwake up cuddled against a warm chest, and for a split second I think it might be my alpha from last night. My fucking scent match,holy shit. How amazing is that? I burrow closer and the scent of a summer rain and warm earth fills my nose. That’s not my alpha…I don’t think it’s an alpha at all. It’s subtle, but so good. Whoever it is smells safe and mine too…but it can’t be mine, I found mine last night.
Well…shit.
Maybe I need my nose checked. I couldn’t have found two scent matches in less than two days. The odds of that are so slim as to be pretty much impossible. Shit, it took me twenty-nine years just to find one, so how the fuck would I find two that fast? Fuck me. Who the fuck would I even ask about that? A low guitar thrum and quiet singing filter into my muzzy brain as I take another deep breath, trying to draw in more of that fresh scent.Something vibrates against my back, and I try to push away from the solid wall of muscle I’m pressed against.
Which is super frustrating because it’s warm and cozy and I want to stay here and fall back to sleep. But I need to figure out what the hell’s going on, too. Shit. Finally forcing my eyes open, I stare up into the face of...I don’t know this person. He’s vaguely familiar, like I should know him—lord knows, if I’m huffing his chest, it’s rude that I don’t remember the guy.
He’s cute too, not that I can see much from this angle, but big and burly. His chestnut hair has spiky bangs falling across his forehead. Oh shit, he better not have shaved the sides. Seriously, what is with guys and that short on the sides, long on the top haircut? It’s like an immediate douchebag identifier. The dude might be sweet as pie, but that’ll automatically throw up a few red flags. That shit is too fucking high maintenance ’cause you can’t do that at home, and who the fuck wants to date a guy that has to go to the salon more than she does? Plus, it just looks pretentious as fuck.
Not that I’m one to talk. I let mine grow out to my chin then have it hacked off as short as they’ll go so I can avoid having to do it until it gets that long again. It’s hair, it’ll grow back.
I don’t even realize I’m staring until his blue eyes crinkle at the edges, and the vibrations against my back come to a somewhat jarring halt, along with the music. His lips stop moving to tip up lightly at the edges. “Hey, Sarah. Are you feeling any better? You’ve been pretty out of it.”
Without all the distractions, I finally notice how breezy it is. I stare down at where I’m pressed against him…on the couch…in my dorm?
How did I get here?
Why am I wearing a sheet?
Who the hell’s jacket is this?
I know I didn’t drink that much last night.
Shit, ok…think Sarah…what’s the last thing you remember?
Met a pack…sort of.
Met a scent match, I think…
Ok, that checks out.
Sat there and listened to him talk for a long time…
I don’t think I drank anything but water.
Fuck brain…WORK!!
Fuzzy images slide across my mind of waking up and feeling like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. I called Kimberly for help, and she sent someone down. Did I have a messed-up dream about Captain America? Was Doctor Terra there? Fuck, did I embarrass myself?Shit.
My gaze slides back up to the big beta holding me. His small smile is nowhere in sight now, and my voice is a rough croak when I try to talk to him. “Hey, um…Who are you again? Sorry, my head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and I’m having a few issues here.”
